The other night I was lonely, and even though it is my lot, being crazy and unfit to marry, I decided to walk and find myself a woman, and went down to the restaurant to see Rae-Anne. It was late and there was nobody else there except two old women who mop and work in the back, and I ordered some food from Rae-Anne and stood and ate it at the counter, as is my custom when it is that late and nobody else is through. And we talked and laughed and I was enjoying myself so much, so happy not to be alone that I narrowed my eyes at some point, and said, “I would like to take you out somewhere and what do you think of that?”
“That is very flattering,” she said, bubbling nervously. “And you are a good enough looking man, but I am a Buddhist and I think that I only want to be with other Buddhists, so you can see how this would be a problem.”
“I am a Buddhist too,” I said. “Or at least, I am more Buddhist than I am anything else. At least I can believe in the Void.”
And this, I think, shocked her just enough.
What do you know about the Void?” she said.
“It is the obsidian wall. It is all-consuming,” I said. “And once the shades are drawn, we are cast into it and there is nothing.”
“But how would you know this,” she said. “You are not from the East.”
And I laughed, and said, “Perhaps you have never reached satori. Buddha would not have minded if I were from the West. He would have said, ‘Of course he is from the West, of course he can understand the Void. How would he not? I am Buddha and I have taught him. He has read my teachings and has become Buddha. We are the same, and because I know the Void, he also knows the Void. So it is, perfectly.'”
“You are not Buddhist,” she said. “You have just picked up some lines from the movies. You don’t know anything about the Zen way of thinking.”
“Oh no?” I said. “Perhaps you do not see it, because perhaps you are like a schoolgirl, reaching for her childhood teachings without proper contemplation, while I am a foreign adept who has come to master them.
“Listen,” I said.
And I looked outside at the sky. And I looked at the snow coming down, and I noticed how it settled on the budding trees and I said, gently:
winter sky in spring
but even with falling snow
the birch trees blossom
And I turned back to her, to her open mouth, and said, “As it is, perfectly.” And then she was mine.
I took her home when she was finished her shift and we did not speak much and it was obvious what would happen and when we were through the door we pressed up against each other and pulled off each other’s shoes and jackets and fell down and got up and walked to the bedroom and fell on each other and at some stage the moon shone through the window and we were taken in by its beauty and we turned over to look at it, and she lay in bed, not sure what to do after a certain point. And we kissed, gently, and maybe she wanted to fall asleep, maybe not, but we kissed some more and her tongue darted in and out of my mouth and soon enough her breathing was fast enough and I was hard enough that I pulled off her pants and mine and kissed her legs, licked her thighs up and down and lapped up the cream on her sweet, eggy nub. And then, when she was about to lose herself, I lifted her up by the legs and threw them over my shoulder and lay it into her deep and she gasped because she hadn’t had it for a long time and her ass was tight and solid and it felt so fucking incandescent that I had to slow down the fucking or come so I slowed it down and we fucked and fucked and we were pressed tight and we rolled over each other like that for an endless time and at some point she rolled over me and slid her body back and forth on me and pushed herself up until our hips were clenched together and her breasts were dripping and her ass was trembling and I was inside of her so deep and we pulled the sheets over our heads and sweated and moved and breathed our own air until nothing made sense in the darkness and we bit and gripped our hands and gasped as we were cast into the Void.
And then we lay there together in darkness, smiling Buddhas, luminous and radiating.
Mingus Tourette is a writer whose business card reads: “Mingus Tourette
Purveyor of Fine Apostasy
Notorious Drunkard, Esquire.” He is also the author of the cult poetry book, Nunt.