Sometimes, i went in my closet and got the blue VHS that i’d recorded with her mother’s camcorder. the tape had me and Carry awkwardly fucking in the basement where i used to live. she was nude except her purple fishnets. i was real tan and had a beard back then. people sometimes asked me if i was Portuguese. they’d ask Carry if she needed a ride anywhere. she always looked like she needed a lift. she said, “i’d love you more if you were from somewhere exotic.”
there was a neon green fishtank in my room beneath a clockwork orange poster. we did it doggy style, so high. as a joke, she kept moaning, “João! Oh João!” we laughed wildly. The tape came out stupid, all we could mostly see was my hairy ass, the fish tank glowing, the curled edge of the poster. afterwards, as we laid, drinking bitter boxed wine we’d stolen from Food Universe, she criticized my cinematography, “you should have put the camera on the dresser, not the night stand.” i said, “there’ll be a million more tapes. you direct the next one.”
there weren’t any more though. things disintegrated. the summer got more humid. there was a fire in the boiler room across the mildewed hall. i would have burnt up on my bare mattress but i got drunk and fell asleep at a party i wasn’t even invited to. everything melted. the fish tank burst. the poster became ash. Carry got a ride to a college i didn’t even wanna know the name of. as the sweat rolled off of me, and i added more limestone to the concrete in the overbearing sun, i only became more and more Portuguese. i started saying i was from Azeitão. but no one ever asked me why.