The American

I live in a flat across the street from the Votiva hotel.

I stood at the glass railing talking with Garçom’s number seven and nine. They brought me a caipirinha and introduced me to Bruno. He talked about the girls.

I looked at the American. The girls around him wore white jumpers and daisy dukes and swimsuits and bent their knees and looked back while dancing.

I descended to my flat for a shower. In my robe at my writing table I saw the American come out of the iron door into the narrow street in a group of eight. There was a bottle of cachaça on the trunk of the car and an older woman next to the car on the other side poured the American a drink. She dropped a plastic cup on the ground near his feet and he picked it up and gave it back to her and she kissed him. Then the Uber arrived and the American and the two other girls got in and went up the street towards the favela and out the other side towards Copacabana.

By carsonmulligan

Art, horses, samba

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