Monkey Boy by Francisco Goldman (best self help books to read .TXT) 📕

and deliberate. I wanted to show that I could be a good and supportive listener and that she could trust me not to pry. Lulú told me more stories about how she grew up. Country-girl stories about stealing peaches from an orchard and getting caught by the farmer or about how during a certain time of year, you’d see coralillo snakes along all the paths, a dozen or so male snakes at a time trying to mount a female coralillo in heat, massing into writhing horrible mounds of snakes. The snakes weren’t poisonous but she’d hurry past with a shudder, fuchi. Other stories were about her adolescence in Mexico State, when she wore her Ramones and Queen T-shirts practically every day, jeans with more holes than denim, and parts of her hair—she drew out the same long locks of hair that she now likes to fasten behind her head—were dyed peacock blue-green. She used to wear a metal stud in her tongue. You can’t see anything there now, she said, and stuck out her bright-pink tongue. Lulú never mentions a father in any of her stories. She speaks of her mother with little affection. Obviously there are things in her past, probably in her present, too, that are off-limits. I sense a reserve in Lulú that’s like her finely attuned twin, who steps smoothly to the fore whenever she needs her to.

Finally I asked Lulú out to dinner. It was the night of the snowstorm a couple of weeks ago, when Lulú decided to stay over, though she knew she might have to deal with her cousin’s fury later. Even before we reached my apartment, on the walk from the pizza restaurant on Court Street—she’d never been to a pizza restaurant, either, as opposed to an ordinary pizza parlor—I knew I’d fallen a little in love with her. Clinton Street in the snow looked like a long, straight logging road through a frozen forest, snow-piled branches, blanketed parked cars and trash cans, the occasional taxi rumbling past like a Red Army tank; behind the trees, lamplight-filled brownstone windows; all this seen through a gossamer streetlight glare caused by snowflakes splashing into watering eyes, mine and surely Lulú’s too. In both directions, men were riding bicycles, some with bike lamps, the clacking and clinking of pedals and chains, wheels softly hissing through snow, hoods up, stocking hats pulled low over dark eyes peering steadily ahead, scarves tied over faces, freezing cheeks exposed, leather pizza satchels balanced atop handle bars and other food containers and bags in the baskets, the deliverymen and boys of Brooklyn, mostly mexicanos, surely some chapines, guanacos, catrachos too, bringing dinners to the people living in all those warmly lit brownstones. Mira los pelícanos! Lulú exclaimed as we stopped on a corner, los pelícanos flying through the snow. She laughed as if delighted by her own wordplay. Pelícanos? I asked. She looked at me with a grin and said, They fly in straight lines through the snow, bringing food like pelícanos. Haven’t you ever seen how pelícanos fly, Panchito? Lulú, I love that, los pelícanos. Bringing food, she went on, to the rich people in their warm houses. Imitating a baby pelican opening its beak wide for food, she looked straight up and opened her mouth to the snow. Within seconds, we were kissing.

In our shared lexicon mexicanos are now pelícanos. Marisela and the other girls in my workshop are pelicanitas. The next week, when I came out after class to meet her, she was standing on the sidewalk with her back to me and I overheard her saying into her phone: Le encantan sus elotes con mayonesa y queso, qué pelicanita es!

No matter what happens, I’ll never forget los pelícanos or our lovemaking later that night, the most joyful I’ve felt in years. But the second time she slept over, Lulú discovered that her period was starting. We kissed, fondled, made each other come; that was lovemaking too. Burying my nose in her soft wild hair and neck, kissing her incredibly smooth skin, up and down her long country-girl legs, kissing her as if we were both young and passionate and hungry for each other’s beauty—I know that she can’t possibly find me beautiful in that way, but hopefully, maybe, in other ways—I felt that same incredulous joy that I had during our first time. While it’s true that we’re just getting to know each other, we’ve had meaningful conversations. We’ve revealed parts of ourselves that maybe we ordinarily don’t share so easily, I know I don’t. Yet that second morning, for no reason I could identify, I had the feeling she felt disappointed or was having second thoughts or was feeling ashamed, as if maybe our age difference had inevitably and viscerally kicked in. I even sensed I was like a stranger to her, as if she didn’t give our “good conversations” the importance I did. I felt wounded and confused, guilty and worried. What did I do or say wrong? That was the weekend before last.

Last night we didn’t go to the Dunkin’ Donuts on Wyckoff near the L train stop like we’ve been doing every Wednesday night since January. She doesn’t feel the same excitement and urgency to go to Dunkin’ Donuts anymore, I thought glumly. After all, we’re fucking now, so who needs Dunkin’ Donuts, I told myself. Lulú said she was feeling tired and was worried she was coming down with something. The lower rims of her eyes were a little reddened. We kissed each other just on the cheeks, like we always do when Marisela is there, and I gave Marisela the usual vigorous handshake goodbye, bending forward like an old-fashioned gentleman.

A depressing subway ride on the L to the G. Already over with Lulú. Well, you knew that was going to happen. You promised that you’d feel grateful for what Lulú has already given you. I’m grateful. Finding true love, loving, and being truly loved back—dismissing for the moment questions