| 31 |
A few years ago, all of my friends said I had changed. Not in some superficial
way, they said, but as if the original me had died and then a new soul
reincarnated in my same body. And they liked me still, but they weren't sure
who I was. I couldn't argue. It was as good a way to put it as any.
I rationalized it as the old every seven years your cells renew idea. It makes
sense, if you want it to. And when everyone in your life seems perplexed
suddenly by the words you say and the choices you make, you need something to
make sense again. To me, I am still me. Perhaps like gaining or losing weight
gradually, or like the growth of hair over time, you can't notice changes in
yourself. Until you see an old acquaintance and they tell you how different you
look. Until you see an old friend or a relative you always loved to talk to, and
you can't think of a thing to say to them. Such is life...but not for everyone, it
seems. Only some of us, who lose ourselves from one minute to the next.
And so it happens that once in every seven years I fall in love. Just when I have
become certain I never will again, that I have bred it out of myself effectively,
there arrives that person who makes me feel alive again. Makes me feel almost
recognizable to myself. I desire them passionately. I abhor them violently. I
wish every moment to have them, and I wish every moment they didn't exist to be
had. There is nothing so awful as wanting, except gaining access to that which
you most want. You can starve for a long time and control your body, convince
it that you monitor its functions and control its needs. But one bite of something
delicious, and your mouth fills with saliva, your stomach opens up to receive
more, more. The heart is the same. The heart is a vestigial organ, and
sometimes, like the appendix, it asserts itself by exploding.
"Hello?"
Go away.
"Jo? Are you here?"
Jo isn't here. Jo isn't anywhere. Why do you have a key to my house?
"Yes," I say finally, quietly, making no effort to be heard.
My mother finds me, sitting in my office, staring at the window.
"You should open the blinds," she says and proceeds to do so.
"Thanks," I say, feeling the opposite. It is useless to argue with my mother about
what I want or need.
Mom leans, half-sitting, against my low file cabinet. I keep it to look important—
there is nothing in there anyone is likely to ask to see. She smiles unnaturally, the
smile of someone with a favor to ask or unwanted advice to impart.
"To what do I owe the honor?"
She widens her nervous grin. "I just wanted to see how everything was going.
You didn't come to our barbecue last weekend. I wondered if everything was all
right."
"I was busy last weekend."
"Well, yes, I know you're busy. Were you with Mark?" she says hopefully.
"No." There is a lot more to this answer. There are words lurking behind all
other words. There is the answer I would have given Robin, the answer I would
have given Candace, the composite answer I would have given if both were
present, the answer I repeat over and over to myself. The answer I give my
mother is just no.
"Well, is there someone new?"
"No. No someone new, no someone old. Not even any no ones. Just me."
Her smile flickers like a candle before disappearing completely. "Did you and
Mark have a fight?"
I stand and walk out of the room, wanting my face to be invisible to her as I
speak. Knowing she will follow, I rant as I go, "Why do people have to have
fights? Why can't people just see each other or not because they feel like it or
they don't? I hate relationships where people are always together, in each other's
way, to the point where nothing is a mystery, where they know what order the
other brushes their teeth and how often they go to the bathroom. Why can't
people just stay out of each other's way, and why is it so socially unacceptable to
do so?"
Here I was, 31, and I had gotten worse than Candace. I was so congealed in my
thought and horribly mired in my way of life, and I no longer got envious looks
over my idealism and naivete. I don't know how long it's been since I said or did
anything that would have provoked one of those old withering looks. I know
sometimes Candace looks at me now with that pitying look mothers give to the
childless, and I know I sometimes want to smack her. And I know by any
definition, these things mark me as bitter.
I enter my kitchen and pour two cups of water and put them in the microwave.
This is hospitality mixed with obvious resentment—my mother greatly prefers
freshly brewed tea, and this I know.
"Jo, honey, if you and Mark broke up—"
"There's nothing to break up. Sometimes we see each other, sometimes we
don't. Sometimes we see other people in between seeing each other."
This would have shocked her five years ago.
"You just seem so unhappy," she says to me, and this I also know. Some nights
as I get ready for bed, I try to remember if I smiled or laughed at all that day.
The fact that I have to think about it, and that nothing comes to mind, indicates to
me I probably didn't.
"I'm fine, Mom," I say dutifully. This is what she wants, to have done her part
and then be free to go. She will politely sip her tea, make a few comments about
the things I might be doing with my life if I would believe in myself more, and
then she will hug me and go away. And my house will be mine again.
way, they said, but as if the original me had died and then a new soul
reincarnated in my same body. And they liked me still, but they weren't sure
who I was. I couldn't argue. It was as good a way to put it as any.
I rationalized it as the old every seven years your cells renew idea. It makes
sense, if you want it to. And when everyone in your life seems perplexed
suddenly by the words you say and the choices you make, you need something to
make sense again. To me, I am still me. Perhaps like gaining or losing weight
gradually, or like the growth of hair over time, you can't notice changes in
yourself. Until you see an old acquaintance and they tell you how different you
look. Until you see an old friend or a relative you always loved to talk to, and
you can't think of a thing to say to them. Such is life...but not for everyone, it
seems. Only some of us, who lose ourselves from one minute to the next.
And so it happens that once in every seven years I fall in love. Just when I have
become certain I never will again, that I have bred it out of myself effectively,
there arrives that person who makes me feel alive again. Makes me feel almost
recognizable to myself. I desire them passionately. I abhor them violently. I
wish every moment to have them, and I wish every moment they didn't exist to be
had. There is nothing so awful as wanting, except gaining access to that which
you most want. You can starve for a long time and control your body, convince
it that you monitor its functions and control its needs. But one bite of something
delicious, and your mouth fills with saliva, your stomach opens up to receive
more, more. The heart is the same. The heart is a vestigial organ, and
sometimes, like the appendix, it asserts itself by exploding.
"Hello?"
Go away.
"Jo? Are you here?"
Jo isn't here. Jo isn't anywhere. Why do you have a key to my house?
"Yes," I say finally, quietly, making no effort to be heard.
My mother finds me, sitting in my office, staring at the window.
"You should open the blinds," she says and proceeds to do so.
"Thanks," I say, feeling the opposite. It is useless to argue with my mother about
what I want or need.
Mom leans, half-sitting, against my low file cabinet. I keep it to look important—
there is nothing in there anyone is likely to ask to see. She smiles unnaturally, the
smile of someone with a favor to ask or unwanted advice to impart.
"To what do I owe the honor?"
She widens her nervous grin. "I just wanted to see how everything was going.
You didn't come to our barbecue last weekend. I wondered if everything was all
right."
"I was busy last weekend."
"Well, yes, I know you're busy. Were you with Mark?" she says hopefully.
"No." There is a lot more to this answer. There are words lurking behind all
other words. There is the answer I would have given Robin, the answer I would
have given Candace, the composite answer I would have given if both were
present, the answer I repeat over and over to myself. The answer I give my
mother is just no.
"Well, is there someone new?"
"No. No someone new, no someone old. Not even any no ones. Just me."
Her smile flickers like a candle before disappearing completely. "Did you and
Mark have a fight?"
I stand and walk out of the room, wanting my face to be invisible to her as I
speak. Knowing she will follow, I rant as I go, "Why do people have to have
fights? Why can't people just see each other or not because they feel like it or
they don't? I hate relationships where people are always together, in each other's
way, to the point where nothing is a mystery, where they know what order the
other brushes their teeth and how often they go to the bathroom. Why can't
people just stay out of each other's way, and why is it so socially unacceptable to
do so?"
Here I was, 31, and I had gotten worse than Candace. I was so congealed in my
thought and horribly mired in my way of life, and I no longer got envious looks
over my idealism and naivete. I don't know how long it's been since I said or did
anything that would have provoked one of those old withering looks. I know
sometimes Candace looks at me now with that pitying look mothers give to the
childless, and I know I sometimes want to smack her. And I know by any
definition, these things mark me as bitter.
I enter my kitchen and pour two cups of water and put them in the microwave.
This is hospitality mixed with obvious resentment—my mother greatly prefers
freshly brewed tea, and this I know.
"Jo, honey, if you and Mark broke up—"
"There's nothing to break up. Sometimes we see each other, sometimes we
don't. Sometimes we see other people in between seeing each other."
This would have shocked her five years ago.
"You just seem so unhappy," she says to me, and this I also know. Some nights
as I get ready for bed, I try to remember if I smiled or laughed at all that day.
The fact that I have to think about it, and that nothing comes to mind, indicates to
me I probably didn't.
"I'm fine, Mom," I say dutifully. This is what she wants, to have done her part
and then be free to go. She will politely sip her tea, make a few comments about
the things I might be doing with my life if I would believe in myself more, and
then she will hug me and go away. And my house will be mine again.
At 27, I decided to buy a house. "Don't do it," Candace said, "it makes you too
independent when you own instead of rent. It makes you look like you don't
think you need a man."
"But I don't need a man," I told her.
You don't think you do, her disapproving frown answered, but then her
18-month-old started coughing, and that was the end of that.
I bought this house, and only later did I realize it is prohibitively small. No other
person could share this space comfortably. This is a single person's house. For a
time, I was afraid to live in it fully. I kept my belongings in corners and along
walls. I cleaned compulsively, sweeping every night before bed and washing
each dish as I used it. I wouldn't paint or carpet or tile, because deep down was
the idea that the man who came to see my home would find it too female, too
unwelcoming, too me.
Three years and two mediocre relationships later, I realized I had redone the
house bit by bit. Had a fight with Joel, put in new floors in the bathroom and
kitchen. Broke up with Joel, painted the living room. Pregnancy with Andrew.
He slept with his ex-wife while I recovered from the miscarriage, and suddenly
my bedroom was completely made over. I made the house totally mine over a
period of time in which my life was not my own. And then I got selfish with both
my house and my life. And no one was good enough anymore for either.
Mark had been a part of my life in a tangential way for going on two years.
Much the way Mike and I had alternately repelled and attracted each other
throughout college, Mark was now doing that same dance in and out of my life.
For a day or two, sometimes a week, we would spend rapturous hours in bed and
pleasant time out of it. But that difference was probably what had kept either of
us from committing fully. The sex was magnificent, the togetherness only nice.
And I found myself thinking that I was too old to settle.
I know that sounds like a contradiction; women as they hit thirty are supposed to
be more willing to settle, not less. The fear of being labeled an old maid, the fear
of never finding someone, some vague presentiment of losing one's ability to meet
new men later in life or to attract them. But for me, it was less and less
frightening as I got older. I had learned to be alone, had gotten used to it. When
Mark arrived to stay the occasional weekend, that was nice, but when he left,
and I no longer had to tend to my appearance as constantly, and there was no
one making a mess I would later have to clean, it was always a relief that
somehow outweighed the pleasure of seeing him in the first place. This makes
me a great girlfriend for a commitment-phobe. Or perhaps it just makes me a
commitment-phobe myself. Probably both.
And yet it never seemed to be worth it to me to end things with Mark. I let them
carry on in their vague, harmless way. Sometimes, as I had told my mother, I did
have other dalliances, but Mark's presence in my life made it safe to do so. I
wasn't risking anything, wasn't putting forth any great effort to become part of
someone's life. I didn't want to be in anyone's life, and I didn't want to make
room for anyone in mine. Everything was just experience, just contact, just a
brief interlude before returning to my solitary track. My friends, almost all
married and mothers at this point, claimed to be glad not to have to be dating at
our age, that it sounded so complicated. To me, it was simpler than it had ever
been in my twenties, because I expected nothing anymore. I was beyond
believing in the fairy tales.
This is not to say that I wasn't happy for my friends, who had followed the main
roads and to their great relief, found themselves in suburbia. And I believed
utterly in Matt's faithfulness to Robin, and I knew she was faithful to him. But
that was the only relationship I seemed to have any belief in. When I looked at
Candace and George, I saw such distance between them, such deliberate
distance, as if they had made a deal to remain together no matter what, and as a
result of that, they didn't have to care too much about each other anymore.
Maybe that's what parents look like to the outside world. I knew Candace was in
a maternal, loving wifey phase, ever since her affair with Alan had so soured her
on love. But George, who had always chased Candace so hard, loving her so
desperately in spite of her indifference, had now seemed to grow indifferent
toward her. Since the honeymoon period after her affair, he'd pulled away from
her increasingly over time. The only difference between this and the earlier
stages of their marriage was that where he had chased her as she ran, she
seemed fine with letting him run. She had a house to tend, two kids to look after.
She didn't seem to feel the loss.
And Chris, dear Chris, had moved in with a younger man, so handsome even her
closest friends had the initial uncharitable thought that he was after her for her
money. Naturally, we all hated ourselves for even thinking it, but they made such
an unlikely couple. Of course Jeremy turned out to be doing fine on his own
financially, as the owner of a small construction firm. And after watching him
watch Chris with love that seemed to border on awe, I felt guilty for ever having
entertained such condescending thoughts.
Chris told me later that Jeremy had only ever been with two girls, and that neither
of them was any good in bed. She said rather than being put off by her
experience, as most men were if she told them about her past, Jeremy found it
exciting. Sometimes, in the depths of my cynicism, it helps to remember that a
man like this exists.
So I may not be exactly happy. But I am not exactly sad. I am alone, but I
almost never feel lonely. I can still get laid when I feel like it, and I still have my
friends. There is not a whole lot I could want, and less that I would bother to try
to find. And this is 31. I could have another 60 years of this.
independent when you own instead of rent. It makes you look like you don't
think you need a man."
"But I don't need a man," I told her.
You don't think you do, her disapproving frown answered, but then her
18-month-old started coughing, and that was the end of that.
I bought this house, and only later did I realize it is prohibitively small. No other
person could share this space comfortably. This is a single person's house. For a
time, I was afraid to live in it fully. I kept my belongings in corners and along
walls. I cleaned compulsively, sweeping every night before bed and washing
each dish as I used it. I wouldn't paint or carpet or tile, because deep down was
the idea that the man who came to see my home would find it too female, too
unwelcoming, too me.
Three years and two mediocre relationships later, I realized I had redone the
house bit by bit. Had a fight with Joel, put in new floors in the bathroom and
kitchen. Broke up with Joel, painted the living room. Pregnancy with Andrew.
He slept with his ex-wife while I recovered from the miscarriage, and suddenly
my bedroom was completely made over. I made the house totally mine over a
period of time in which my life was not my own. And then I got selfish with both
my house and my life. And no one was good enough anymore for either.
Mark had been a part of my life in a tangential way for going on two years.
Much the way Mike and I had alternately repelled and attracted each other
throughout college, Mark was now doing that same dance in and out of my life.
For a day or two, sometimes a week, we would spend rapturous hours in bed and
pleasant time out of it. But that difference was probably what had kept either of
us from committing fully. The sex was magnificent, the togetherness only nice.
And I found myself thinking that I was too old to settle.
I know that sounds like a contradiction; women as they hit thirty are supposed to
be more willing to settle, not less. The fear of being labeled an old maid, the fear
of never finding someone, some vague presentiment of losing one's ability to meet
new men later in life or to attract them. But for me, it was less and less
frightening as I got older. I had learned to be alone, had gotten used to it. When
Mark arrived to stay the occasional weekend, that was nice, but when he left,
and I no longer had to tend to my appearance as constantly, and there was no
one making a mess I would later have to clean, it was always a relief that
somehow outweighed the pleasure of seeing him in the first place. This makes
me a great girlfriend for a commitment-phobe. Or perhaps it just makes me a
commitment-phobe myself. Probably both.
And yet it never seemed to be worth it to me to end things with Mark. I let them
carry on in their vague, harmless way. Sometimes, as I had told my mother, I did
have other dalliances, but Mark's presence in my life made it safe to do so. I
wasn't risking anything, wasn't putting forth any great effort to become part of
someone's life. I didn't want to be in anyone's life, and I didn't want to make
room for anyone in mine. Everything was just experience, just contact, just a
brief interlude before returning to my solitary track. My friends, almost all
married and mothers at this point, claimed to be glad not to have to be dating at
our age, that it sounded so complicated. To me, it was simpler than it had ever
been in my twenties, because I expected nothing anymore. I was beyond
believing in the fairy tales.
This is not to say that I wasn't happy for my friends, who had followed the main
roads and to their great relief, found themselves in suburbia. And I believed
utterly in Matt's faithfulness to Robin, and I knew she was faithful to him. But
that was the only relationship I seemed to have any belief in. When I looked at
Candace and George, I saw such distance between them, such deliberate
distance, as if they had made a deal to remain together no matter what, and as a
result of that, they didn't have to care too much about each other anymore.
Maybe that's what parents look like to the outside world. I knew Candace was in
a maternal, loving wifey phase, ever since her affair with Alan had so soured her
on love. But George, who had always chased Candace so hard, loving her so
desperately in spite of her indifference, had now seemed to grow indifferent
toward her. Since the honeymoon period after her affair, he'd pulled away from
her increasingly over time. The only difference between this and the earlier
stages of their marriage was that where he had chased her as she ran, she
seemed fine with letting him run. She had a house to tend, two kids to look after.
She didn't seem to feel the loss.
And Chris, dear Chris, had moved in with a younger man, so handsome even her
closest friends had the initial uncharitable thought that he was after her for her
money. Naturally, we all hated ourselves for even thinking it, but they made such
an unlikely couple. Of course Jeremy turned out to be doing fine on his own
financially, as the owner of a small construction firm. And after watching him
watch Chris with love that seemed to border on awe, I felt guilty for ever having
entertained such condescending thoughts.
Chris told me later that Jeremy had only ever been with two girls, and that neither
of them was any good in bed. She said rather than being put off by her
experience, as most men were if she told them about her past, Jeremy found it
exciting. Sometimes, in the depths of my cynicism, it helps to remember that a
man like this exists.
So I may not be exactly happy. But I am not exactly sad. I am alone, but I
almost never feel lonely. I can still get laid when I feel like it, and I still have my
friends. There is not a whole lot I could want, and less that I would bother to try
to find. And this is 31. I could have another 60 years of this.
Enter Galen Munoz. No, please don't. Please please let me keep my life just the
way it is, and I will never complain about it or wish for any other life. Please
please Galen never meet me.
way it is, and I will never complain about it or wish for any other life. Please
please Galen never meet me.
Like the stomach, like the heart, a woman's sex is greedy. Give her a taste of
something, have it be good, and then withdraw and watch her grab for more.
And so I return to that bar a few days later, hoping it will turn out to be a place
Galen frequents. I go alone, no pretense, ready to throw myself on his mercy
with the blatant admission of want. I have no pride that can compete with my
desires.
And he knows, when he sees me, why I have come. From across the room, I
see the green of his eyes deepen, see him make excuses to his friends, stand,
and come to me. He walks right past with a look, knowing I will follow. And it
is the bakery again, and the sensory overload of smell and touch and taste.
And my body, so hungry, so greedy, grabs at him and pulls him closer and into
me, my mouth and hands aiming for anything within reach and loving that part
of him, then the next. How do people live without this, having had it?
We are dressing, the sweat cooling on our bodies, our hair flattened and
tangled.
"Come back with me, have a drink, meet my friends," he says casually, and I
freeze with fear. I realize the last thing I want in the world is to get to know
this man. Suddenly I hope I don't know his real name.
"I can't, I have to go."
He pauses, his shirt half-buttoned, smiles at me. "You look gorgeous, if that's
what you're worried about."
"No, I just—" just can't think of a legitimate-sounding excuse, I realize. He
comes over then and kisses me again, and my already faltering brain goes
blank. "Sure, okay," I say.
Galen holds my hand on the way back. It troubles me, and I want to let go, and
it's nice, so I don't let go. This is how it begins, with the division of self, the
attraction and the repulsion, the seeds of love and hate which grow equally,
side by side, nourishing each other. This is what I spend my life feeling
superior to in others.
We are sitting in the booth, laughing and talking of little unimportant things, and
these are the moments that become important, that we were able to do this
together, that our conversations need not be intense and that our interactions
need not be sexual. This is what he has brought me here to show me, and I
resent the implication.
At the end, his friends cheerfully say good night, treating me not like an
interloper but a welcome new addition. Galen walks out onto the sidewalk with
me, takes my hand lightly, asks if I would like to come back to his place again.
My body answers for me.
But when we get there, he kisses me only affectionately, not passionately. He
walks me over to the bed, lies down and puts his arms around me. I rail against
this idea, argue with myself privately. I do not want to sleep with this man...
apparently I am going to sleep with this man. I don't seem to be standing up.
We talk, and I will remember little of it later, because my brain is otherwise
engaged, telling me to leave, telling me I'm stupid, telling me I have boundaries,
and I know what they are, and I am trampling them. And between this voice in
my head and his softer, lovely voice in my ear, the cacophony eventually puts
me to sleep, my head on his shoulder, my face in the hollow of his throat.
Throughout the night when I occasionally half-awaken, I kiss his neck lightly,
just because I want to.
I am in trouble.
Morning comes, and he has to get ready for work. He is intrigued by my
leisurely pace, and only slightly envious that I can work from home. "But don't
you get bored?" he says. "The only thing I like about working is meeting
people and interacting."
"I like my own company," is my standard answer to all such inquiries, so I give
that.
"Well, I like to be alone too," he says, "but how do you make friends?"
I don't, I realize, but I just tell him that I've had the same friends since high
school and college. We part ways with a tentative, closed-mouth morning kiss.
On the way out, I stop in the bakery and buy an apple Danish. I don't eat it
right away but smell it occasionally. This is what Galen smells like, I think, and
then when that becomes too painfully delicious a thought, I finally bite into it,
and it is like swallowing him.
At home I get some work done, but my mind wanders; it is not my own.
By the end of this day, I am so distracted and so filled with the desperate
yearning to see him again, that I decide I will never see him again. This will be
easy, I say, easier than any ending of any liaison or relationship has ever been.
We don't know each other's phone numbers. We don't know last names. He
wouldn't know where to find me, and I know only two places to find him, so I
will simply never return to those places again. I can keep my life as it is. I don't
have to let him find his way into it.
And so thinking, I pull up an internet-based phone book, search on the first
name Galen, find the listing with the right street name, and think Munoz. His
name is Galen Munoz. Not that I will ever make use of that information, it's
just respectable to know the full name of a person you had sex with. That's all
I need to know this for. And I write it down and hide it in the back of my desk
drawer, where I will forget about it for the next fifty years, then someday find it
while cleaning and think, oh yes, Galen with the green eyes whose skin was
sweet as Domino sugar. I will think that and be happy about the simplicity of
the memory, because I was smart enough to walk away before the pain could
start.
It is a full two days before I pull the number back out and dial it.
something, have it be good, and then withdraw and watch her grab for more.
And so I return to that bar a few days later, hoping it will turn out to be a place
Galen frequents. I go alone, no pretense, ready to throw myself on his mercy
with the blatant admission of want. I have no pride that can compete with my
desires.
And he knows, when he sees me, why I have come. From across the room, I
see the green of his eyes deepen, see him make excuses to his friends, stand,
and come to me. He walks right past with a look, knowing I will follow. And it
is the bakery again, and the sensory overload of smell and touch and taste.
And my body, so hungry, so greedy, grabs at him and pulls him closer and into
me, my mouth and hands aiming for anything within reach and loving that part
of him, then the next. How do people live without this, having had it?
We are dressing, the sweat cooling on our bodies, our hair flattened and
tangled.
"Come back with me, have a drink, meet my friends," he says casually, and I
freeze with fear. I realize the last thing I want in the world is to get to know
this man. Suddenly I hope I don't know his real name.
"I can't, I have to go."
He pauses, his shirt half-buttoned, smiles at me. "You look gorgeous, if that's
what you're worried about."
"No, I just—" just can't think of a legitimate-sounding excuse, I realize. He
comes over then and kisses me again, and my already faltering brain goes
blank. "Sure, okay," I say.
Galen holds my hand on the way back. It troubles me, and I want to let go, and
it's nice, so I don't let go. This is how it begins, with the division of self, the
attraction and the repulsion, the seeds of love and hate which grow equally,
side by side, nourishing each other. This is what I spend my life feeling
superior to in others.
We are sitting in the booth, laughing and talking of little unimportant things, and
these are the moments that become important, that we were able to do this
together, that our conversations need not be intense and that our interactions
need not be sexual. This is what he has brought me here to show me, and I
resent the implication.
At the end, his friends cheerfully say good night, treating me not like an
interloper but a welcome new addition. Galen walks out onto the sidewalk with
me, takes my hand lightly, asks if I would like to come back to his place again.
My body answers for me.
But when we get there, he kisses me only affectionately, not passionately. He
walks me over to the bed, lies down and puts his arms around me. I rail against
this idea, argue with myself privately. I do not want to sleep with this man...
apparently I am going to sleep with this man. I don't seem to be standing up.
We talk, and I will remember little of it later, because my brain is otherwise
engaged, telling me to leave, telling me I'm stupid, telling me I have boundaries,
and I know what they are, and I am trampling them. And between this voice in
my head and his softer, lovely voice in my ear, the cacophony eventually puts
me to sleep, my head on his shoulder, my face in the hollow of his throat.
Throughout the night when I occasionally half-awaken, I kiss his neck lightly,
just because I want to.
I am in trouble.
Morning comes, and he has to get ready for work. He is intrigued by my
leisurely pace, and only slightly envious that I can work from home. "But don't
you get bored?" he says. "The only thing I like about working is meeting
people and interacting."
"I like my own company," is my standard answer to all such inquiries, so I give
that.
"Well, I like to be alone too," he says, "but how do you make friends?"
I don't, I realize, but I just tell him that I've had the same friends since high
school and college. We part ways with a tentative, closed-mouth morning kiss.
On the way out, I stop in the bakery and buy an apple Danish. I don't eat it
right away but smell it occasionally. This is what Galen smells like, I think, and
then when that becomes too painfully delicious a thought, I finally bite into it,
and it is like swallowing him.
At home I get some work done, but my mind wanders; it is not my own.
By the end of this day, I am so distracted and so filled with the desperate
yearning to see him again, that I decide I will never see him again. This will be
easy, I say, easier than any ending of any liaison or relationship has ever been.
We don't know each other's phone numbers. We don't know last names. He
wouldn't know where to find me, and I know only two places to find him, so I
will simply never return to those places again. I can keep my life as it is. I don't
have to let him find his way into it.
And so thinking, I pull up an internet-based phone book, search on the first
name Galen, find the listing with the right street name, and think Munoz. His
name is Galen Munoz. Not that I will ever make use of that information, it's
just respectable to know the full name of a person you had sex with. That's all
I need to know this for. And I write it down and hide it in the back of my desk
drawer, where I will forget about it for the next fifty years, then someday find it
while cleaning and think, oh yes, Galen with the green eyes whose skin was
sweet as Domino sugar. I will think that and be happy about the simplicity of
the memory, because I was smart enough to walk away before the pain could
start.
It is a full two days before I pull the number back out and dial it.
Candace is thrilled to meet my handsome date at her next party. I brought him
only because it is as close to a legitimate party as Candace or Robin will ever
throw again; both of them have split the cost of a babysitter, so the kids are not
here, for once. It is a nighttime affair, and I am slightly saddened when I
realize how long it has been since I saw my friends past sunset.
"He's gorgeous," she says vehemently, and I realize I have finally succeeded in
making Candace jealous again—rather than seeing me as her less worldly
friend as she used to when I had wider eyes, she is now living vicariously
through me, seeing me as she might have been if she had taken a different
path. People always swear children were worth it, worth everything they gave
up to have the kids, but since kids aren't returnable, you have to wonder if they
are just trying to make themselves feel better, justifying the sacrifice with the
intensity of their love.
"That's a beautiful name," she says when I tell her Galen's full name. Then she
insists on combining my first with his last and saying it aloud.
"Shut up!" I say, and not playfully. I can think of nothing more mortifying than
his possibly hearing her insinuate we could marry. At least until she speaks
again,
"And think how beautiful your kids will be—"
"Would. Not will, would. And don't talk about that in the first place, it'll never
happen, and your saying it only makes it worse, because even if he didn't hear
you, the words themselves are forming a big black cartoon hammer of fear, and
it will hit him over the head!"
My rant comes to a halt, and I see Candace and Robin looking at me with
radiant expectancy.
"What?" I snarl.
Chris answers for them, "You're in love. They're in shock. So am I."
"I am not," I say, and even I can hear the terror in my voice.
My friends laugh at me. They're so pleased that I am trapped all over again, as
I swore I would never be, not after Mike. I was never supposed to fall in love
again. And my lack of giggling glee over the idea is what makes it seem
suddenly so obvious. Shit. They're right. I'm in love. Suddenly I am
physically aware of my heart. It's like an appendix.
Later, Galen rejoins me. He has been getting to know the men, while I have
dutifully stayed on the side of the women, though tonight of all nights I have
hated being among them. He puts his arm around me and says, "I like them a
lot. But I have to admit I'd rather be alone with you right about now. Do we
have to stay long?"
I smile gratefully. "We don't have to stay at all."
In the car, I ask what he thinks of everyone. He says George is kind of straight,
that he could see through George's casual wear to the suit within, and I laugh at
the appropriateness of the image. He liked Jeremy and Matt a lot and plans to
play basketball with them this Sunday. He tells me my girlfriends are cool, but
that of all of them, I am the only one who's really alive. "Because you haven't
surrendered to anyone," he says, "because you aren't anyone's woman but your
own. It's beautiful. I can tell no one could ever own you."
And I am proud of this because it is true, and I am sorrowful of this because in
some way I fear I am surrendering to him, that to love someone is of necessity
to be owned by them. This is okay, it seems, if you get to own them too. But
doesn't ownership then change both people? I don't want that. I've seen it too
many times. I want to push Galen away, now, fast, before it's too late. I want
to pull him closer, till he's inside me, till our bodies merge, and we can never be
separated. There is a hard stony fear in the pit of my stomach. I will never
relax again. I was not made to love.
only because it is as close to a legitimate party as Candace or Robin will ever
throw again; both of them have split the cost of a babysitter, so the kids are not
here, for once. It is a nighttime affair, and I am slightly saddened when I
realize how long it has been since I saw my friends past sunset.
"He's gorgeous," she says vehemently, and I realize I have finally succeeded in
making Candace jealous again—rather than seeing me as her less worldly
friend as she used to when I had wider eyes, she is now living vicariously
through me, seeing me as she might have been if she had taken a different
path. People always swear children were worth it, worth everything they gave
up to have the kids, but since kids aren't returnable, you have to wonder if they
are just trying to make themselves feel better, justifying the sacrifice with the
intensity of their love.
"That's a beautiful name," she says when I tell her Galen's full name. Then she
insists on combining my first with his last and saying it aloud.
"Shut up!" I say, and not playfully. I can think of nothing more mortifying than
his possibly hearing her insinuate we could marry. At least until she speaks
again,
"And think how beautiful your kids will be—"
"Would. Not will, would. And don't talk about that in the first place, it'll never
happen, and your saying it only makes it worse, because even if he didn't hear
you, the words themselves are forming a big black cartoon hammer of fear, and
it will hit him over the head!"
My rant comes to a halt, and I see Candace and Robin looking at me with
radiant expectancy.
"What?" I snarl.
Chris answers for them, "You're in love. They're in shock. So am I."
"I am not," I say, and even I can hear the terror in my voice.
My friends laugh at me. They're so pleased that I am trapped all over again, as
I swore I would never be, not after Mike. I was never supposed to fall in love
again. And my lack of giggling glee over the idea is what makes it seem
suddenly so obvious. Shit. They're right. I'm in love. Suddenly I am
physically aware of my heart. It's like an appendix.
Later, Galen rejoins me. He has been getting to know the men, while I have
dutifully stayed on the side of the women, though tonight of all nights I have
hated being among them. He puts his arm around me and says, "I like them a
lot. But I have to admit I'd rather be alone with you right about now. Do we
have to stay long?"
I smile gratefully. "We don't have to stay at all."
In the car, I ask what he thinks of everyone. He says George is kind of straight,
that he could see through George's casual wear to the suit within, and I laugh at
the appropriateness of the image. He liked Jeremy and Matt a lot and plans to
play basketball with them this Sunday. He tells me my girlfriends are cool, but
that of all of them, I am the only one who's really alive. "Because you haven't
surrendered to anyone," he says, "because you aren't anyone's woman but your
own. It's beautiful. I can tell no one could ever own you."
And I am proud of this because it is true, and I am sorrowful of this because in
some way I fear I am surrendering to him, that to love someone is of necessity
to be owned by them. This is okay, it seems, if you get to own them too. But
doesn't ownership then change both people? I don't want that. I've seen it too
many times. I want to push Galen away, now, fast, before it's too late. I want
to pull him closer, till he's inside me, till our bodies merge, and we can never be
separated. There is a hard stony fear in the pit of my stomach. I will never
relax again. I was not made to love.
It has been four months. We spend all weekend together at my house, and a
couple of nights a week at his apartment. When we stay there, we eat
breakfast together at the bakery. The other nights of the week we don't see
each other, and I still love time with my friends and time to myself, but I still
can't wait to see him the next day. When he walks into a room, the lights seem
to dim, and he seems to radiate. I made the mistake of saying so to Chris. She
just laughed.
We are in my bed on a Sunday morning, our legs entwined, our bodies pressing
affectionately, an affection I expect will become heat any minute.
I have a thought that I find I have often in his presence—a feeling on the level
of epiphany that is not diminished even by its repetition—the feeling that this is
the most important moment of my life, and I must study it and remember it. It
is not even about trusting that there will be more of these moments or not. It is
simply about knowing how true I am right now, that I am not hiding or running
for once in my life, and in these moments, I feel myself wanting to apologize to
everyone in my life and to thank them for putting up with me all these years
when I was so unhappy, so lost. This feeling then crashes into another, the
knowledge that nothing good survives my life, I have to prepare for the
inevitable loss of this happiness, that even if this is the one man who could fulfill
me, I will find a way to drive him off, or I will simply cease to notice his beauty
after a time and start unaccountably finding fault with him, because people like
me are never satisfied.
I look at his profile in the morning light and trace his jaw with my index finger,
loving the tiny stubble I encounter, this man, this man, he is here and mine, and
the future cannot be helped. That is what I tell myself, and I climb on top of
him and kiss him and let our bodies take us over for awhile.
couple of nights a week at his apartment. When we stay there, we eat
breakfast together at the bakery. The other nights of the week we don't see
each other, and I still love time with my friends and time to myself, but I still
can't wait to see him the next day. When he walks into a room, the lights seem
to dim, and he seems to radiate. I made the mistake of saying so to Chris. She
just laughed.
We are in my bed on a Sunday morning, our legs entwined, our bodies pressing
affectionately, an affection I expect will become heat any minute.
I have a thought that I find I have often in his presence—a feeling on the level
of epiphany that is not diminished even by its repetition—the feeling that this is
the most important moment of my life, and I must study it and remember it. It
is not even about trusting that there will be more of these moments or not. It is
simply about knowing how true I am right now, that I am not hiding or running
for once in my life, and in these moments, I feel myself wanting to apologize to
everyone in my life and to thank them for putting up with me all these years
when I was so unhappy, so lost. This feeling then crashes into another, the
knowledge that nothing good survives my life, I have to prepare for the
inevitable loss of this happiness, that even if this is the one man who could fulfill
me, I will find a way to drive him off, or I will simply cease to notice his beauty
after a time and start unaccountably finding fault with him, because people like
me are never satisfied.
I look at his profile in the morning light and trace his jaw with my index finger,
loving the tiny stubble I encounter, this man, this man, he is here and mine, and
the future cannot be helped. That is what I tell myself, and I climb on top of
him and kiss him and let our bodies take us over for awhile.
Mark comes over late at night on a Tuesday. This means to me that he had a
date or was at a bar, and whatever girl he was working blew him off. Mark is
horny and had reason to believe he was getting some tonight, and it didn't work
out, so we will be each other's consolation prize.
After we find our release and fall back, sweaty, lying apart from each other on
the bed as we never did in the beginning, I see in my peripheral vision that he is
staring at me. His eyes are a little watery, unfocused. He has been drinking, is
no longer quite drunk, is perhaps a little emotional.
"Do you think about what we're doing?" he says.
I don't even think about you when you're not here, I want to say. Instead I ask
what he means. Note to those curious about their lovers: when a question is
answered with another question, this is an equivocation. It means we don't
want to tell the truth.
He rolls onto his side, facing me. This begins to look like excitement. This
begins to scare me.
"Well, I was thinking we've been doing this a long time, and I wondered if
maybe we were ready to move in together. Maybe even get engaged."
He is a fool. He doesn't know what he is saying. This is depressing.
So I stand and put on my robe, because I no longer feel like being naked in
front of this man. I tell him, and I try to be gentle, but I know my voice betrays
my impatience, that even though relationships usually go in stages, one step
does not presuppose the next, that not everyone I would have sex with is
someone I would sleep next to, and not everyone I would spend a night or
weekend with is someone I would live with, and that you don't move on to a
new level of commitment just because you've spent a certain amount of time in
the current one, and that people who want to get married get married, not
engaged. If he had asked will you marry me, at least I would have thought he
might mean it. Maybe we should get engaged is a half-hearted attempt to
bullshit the both of us.
Around this time he gets dressed and goes to give me a kiss as he leaves. I feel
my eyes narrow in a withering look, and I know this is the last time Mark will
be in my bedroom. Suddenly I want to go back and enjoy this last romp more,
knowing it is the last. I shower and change the sheets. I go back to bed alone,
and it is not a bad thing.
Galen Munoz. The man who will renew my cells after seven stagnant years,
the man who will make me more myself again. That was how I heard
soulmates described once, and that scares me. Galen Munoz. Don't come into
my life just when I've got everything figured out!
For a couple of months after Mark and I spent our final evening together, I
enjoy having my body to myself. I think of sex as something that would be fun
once it happened but too much work to make happen. I fantasize about this
person or that on the television, because they can never reject or overwhelm
me. At first I can tell my commitment-phobia is still raging out of control
because in my early fantasies, I can't control the men yet, they all say they love
me, and then I have to start watching a different show. Finally my head quiets
down, and I am back to having hot fantasy sex and no one gets emotional on
me. This is how I know I am ready to go out into the real world again.
One of the great things about Chris and Jeremy's relationship is that they do not
seem to get jealous. When I call Chris and ask if she will go out with me, she
doesn't even ask him, she just says, "I'm going out, hon," and he says, "Okay,
have fun." It's too good to be true, and I watch as if from the other side of a
mirror.
Chris and I go to a bar and watch a number of very inebriated people make
fools of themselves singing karaoke. How has this stayed in fashion all these
years? I can tell most of this crowd aged with me and not long after, because
of the songs they choose. If the night ends and no one has sung Love Shack, I
will owe Chris ten dollars.
And there is a man across the room who keeps looking at me, and I realize to
my embarrassment that it may be because he's noticed me looking at him. I tell
Chris I'm going to get us another round. Since we have a waitress, this is a
ridiculously transparent move, but Chris is a good friend and says nothing.
I stand at the bar, a good five feet from the guy. This is important, because if I
were any closer, he could speak loudly from where he sits. If he wants to talk
to me, I want him to have to get up and cross the distance.
I order Chris a beer and myself a Manhattan. I wait impatiently, hoping the
bartender takes his time, hoping the guy does not.
The drinks are ready, and I turn to go. The guy is looking at me, but he is still
seated. Oh well.
As I go, I feel his eyes follow me. This may still be a possibility.
Chris asks, "Anything?"
"He's got green eyes," I report.
"But nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Give it time," she says with the nonchalance of a woman who has found true
happiness and so believes all her friends will also. This is far easier to take than
the condescension of a woman who has fallen into her own traps and so
expects her friends to follow.
We talk about our work, and we talk about our families, and we reminisce.
After we have been in this bar for over two hours, she throws out casually, "We
got married."
"Got? Not getting? Got?"
"Yeah. We went to Vegas a couple of weeks ago. We haven't told anyone yet;
we're planning a party."
Over all of this I hear my own voice saying to Mark, "People who want to get
married just get married. People who get engaged are trying to give themselves
time to back out of it."
"Congratulations," I say numbly, then realize how weak it sounded, and I rally
myself then, put all my energy into showing my good friend how truly happy
for her I am, and she seems pleased, and all I am thinking is that I am the last
one left.
It is the end of the night, and Chris leaves alone. I stay because sometime over
the last couple of hours, the evening became less catch a buzz and have fun,
and more drown my sorrows. What sorrows? I ask myself in the tough inner
voice that exists to rein me in when I get self-indulgent. I ended a dull nowhere
relationship with a dull man who wasn't in my life enough to have left any great
emptiness when he was gone. I have great friends, loyal, lifelong...but will they
leave me behind more and more over time as my life increasingly fails to
conform to theirs? Robin and Candace both have children, now even Chris is
married, and the new people in their lives, the people I keep meeting at parties,
the ever-growing crowd of people who don't have anything in common with
me, will those people over time crowd me out? Am I losing relevance to the
people I love?
They have all told me I changed. This is probably true. But I have always
secretly thought it was they who had changed the most. Was that true? Wasn't
it more that they had grown, naturally, normally, where I had just moved
forward along the same path I had always traveled? Had I changed, or had I so
stubbornly failed to change that I had become unrecognizable, like a
caricature?
"So this neutron earlier tried to pay the tab, but the bartender said, ‘No charge.’
"
I turn my head and see the guy, the green eyes, right beside me.
"You look like you're drowning. Thoughts can be too deep."
"So you throw me a joke to pull me back to the surface?"
"Something like that."
"Thank you. I'll reciprocate the next time I remember a joke."
"I don't need a joke."
"What do you need?" He doesn’t answer with words, but he takes my hand
and leads me to the dance floor.
Galen Munoz will break my heart. This is almost a good thing, since I've long
suspected I didn't have a heart to break. But I've lived with myself for so long, I
don't know if I can handle this shock to my system. To feel that alive again
only foreshadows a greater death in the future. Perhaps it is better never to
have lived at all.
This night I do not know his name yet and I do not know he will destroy me.
We exchange first names only, and even then either of us could be lying to the
other. We are utterly open with the inherent deceit of the one night stand. We
kiss on the dance floor and he tastes like pears, and I find myself plunging my
hands into the blackness of his hair and kissing him deeply, indecently, as if I
were ten years younger. Grown women do not behave like this in public.
We discover his place is closer, and so we hurry there from the bar. It is an
apartment high above the street, a bakery on the ground floor. The whole
place smells of dough, powdered sugar, sweet confectionery delights. I taste all
this on his skin. We don't turn on any lights, but the blinds are open, and the
streetlights pour in. In blue blue darkness we fall together, grasping and
gasping and desiring and taking. And I think to myself as his body stiffens
against me that I may not even know his real name, and that I may never see
him again, and I think how perfect that is, how right and natural and honest.
And it cures me of all the doubts of the evening. It absolves me. I am fine
again.
I kiss him goodbye for a long time, and then I go home.
date or was at a bar, and whatever girl he was working blew him off. Mark is
horny and had reason to believe he was getting some tonight, and it didn't work
out, so we will be each other's consolation prize.
After we find our release and fall back, sweaty, lying apart from each other on
the bed as we never did in the beginning, I see in my peripheral vision that he is
staring at me. His eyes are a little watery, unfocused. He has been drinking, is
no longer quite drunk, is perhaps a little emotional.
"Do you think about what we're doing?" he says.
I don't even think about you when you're not here, I want to say. Instead I ask
what he means. Note to those curious about their lovers: when a question is
answered with another question, this is an equivocation. It means we don't
want to tell the truth.
He rolls onto his side, facing me. This begins to look like excitement. This
begins to scare me.
"Well, I was thinking we've been doing this a long time, and I wondered if
maybe we were ready to move in together. Maybe even get engaged."
He is a fool. He doesn't know what he is saying. This is depressing.
So I stand and put on my robe, because I no longer feel like being naked in
front of this man. I tell him, and I try to be gentle, but I know my voice betrays
my impatience, that even though relationships usually go in stages, one step
does not presuppose the next, that not everyone I would have sex with is
someone I would sleep next to, and not everyone I would spend a night or
weekend with is someone I would live with, and that you don't move on to a
new level of commitment just because you've spent a certain amount of time in
the current one, and that people who want to get married get married, not
engaged. If he had asked will you marry me, at least I would have thought he
might mean it. Maybe we should get engaged is a half-hearted attempt to
bullshit the both of us.
Around this time he gets dressed and goes to give me a kiss as he leaves. I feel
my eyes narrow in a withering look, and I know this is the last time Mark will
be in my bedroom. Suddenly I want to go back and enjoy this last romp more,
knowing it is the last. I shower and change the sheets. I go back to bed alone,
and it is not a bad thing.
Galen Munoz. The man who will renew my cells after seven stagnant years,
the man who will make me more myself again. That was how I heard
soulmates described once, and that scares me. Galen Munoz. Don't come into
my life just when I've got everything figured out!
For a couple of months after Mark and I spent our final evening together, I
enjoy having my body to myself. I think of sex as something that would be fun
once it happened but too much work to make happen. I fantasize about this
person or that on the television, because they can never reject or overwhelm
me. At first I can tell my commitment-phobia is still raging out of control
because in my early fantasies, I can't control the men yet, they all say they love
me, and then I have to start watching a different show. Finally my head quiets
down, and I am back to having hot fantasy sex and no one gets emotional on
me. This is how I know I am ready to go out into the real world again.
One of the great things about Chris and Jeremy's relationship is that they do not
seem to get jealous. When I call Chris and ask if she will go out with me, she
doesn't even ask him, she just says, "I'm going out, hon," and he says, "Okay,
have fun." It's too good to be true, and I watch as if from the other side of a
mirror.
Chris and I go to a bar and watch a number of very inebriated people make
fools of themselves singing karaoke. How has this stayed in fashion all these
years? I can tell most of this crowd aged with me and not long after, because
of the songs they choose. If the night ends and no one has sung Love Shack, I
will owe Chris ten dollars.
And there is a man across the room who keeps looking at me, and I realize to
my embarrassment that it may be because he's noticed me looking at him. I tell
Chris I'm going to get us another round. Since we have a waitress, this is a
ridiculously transparent move, but Chris is a good friend and says nothing.
I stand at the bar, a good five feet from the guy. This is important, because if I
were any closer, he could speak loudly from where he sits. If he wants to talk
to me, I want him to have to get up and cross the distance.
I order Chris a beer and myself a Manhattan. I wait impatiently, hoping the
bartender takes his time, hoping the guy does not.
The drinks are ready, and I turn to go. The guy is looking at me, but he is still
seated. Oh well.
As I go, I feel his eyes follow me. This may still be a possibility.
Chris asks, "Anything?"
"He's got green eyes," I report.
"But nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Give it time," she says with the nonchalance of a woman who has found true
happiness and so believes all her friends will also. This is far easier to take than
the condescension of a woman who has fallen into her own traps and so
expects her friends to follow.
We talk about our work, and we talk about our families, and we reminisce.
After we have been in this bar for over two hours, she throws out casually, "We
got married."
"Got? Not getting? Got?"
"Yeah. We went to Vegas a couple of weeks ago. We haven't told anyone yet;
we're planning a party."
Over all of this I hear my own voice saying to Mark, "People who want to get
married just get married. People who get engaged are trying to give themselves
time to back out of it."
"Congratulations," I say numbly, then realize how weak it sounded, and I rally
myself then, put all my energy into showing my good friend how truly happy
for her I am, and she seems pleased, and all I am thinking is that I am the last
one left.
It is the end of the night, and Chris leaves alone. I stay because sometime over
the last couple of hours, the evening became less catch a buzz and have fun,
and more drown my sorrows. What sorrows? I ask myself in the tough inner
voice that exists to rein me in when I get self-indulgent. I ended a dull nowhere
relationship with a dull man who wasn't in my life enough to have left any great
emptiness when he was gone. I have great friends, loyal, lifelong...but will they
leave me behind more and more over time as my life increasingly fails to
conform to theirs? Robin and Candace both have children, now even Chris is
married, and the new people in their lives, the people I keep meeting at parties,
the ever-growing crowd of people who don't have anything in common with
me, will those people over time crowd me out? Am I losing relevance to the
people I love?
They have all told me I changed. This is probably true. But I have always
secretly thought it was they who had changed the most. Was that true? Wasn't
it more that they had grown, naturally, normally, where I had just moved
forward along the same path I had always traveled? Had I changed, or had I so
stubbornly failed to change that I had become unrecognizable, like a
caricature?
"So this neutron earlier tried to pay the tab, but the bartender said, ‘No charge.’
"
I turn my head and see the guy, the green eyes, right beside me.
"You look like you're drowning. Thoughts can be too deep."
"So you throw me a joke to pull me back to the surface?"
"Something like that."
"Thank you. I'll reciprocate the next time I remember a joke."
"I don't need a joke."
"What do you need?" He doesn’t answer with words, but he takes my hand
and leads me to the dance floor.
Galen Munoz will break my heart. This is almost a good thing, since I've long
suspected I didn't have a heart to break. But I've lived with myself for so long, I
don't know if I can handle this shock to my system. To feel that alive again
only foreshadows a greater death in the future. Perhaps it is better never to
have lived at all.
This night I do not know his name yet and I do not know he will destroy me.
We exchange first names only, and even then either of us could be lying to the
other. We are utterly open with the inherent deceit of the one night stand. We
kiss on the dance floor and he tastes like pears, and I find myself plunging my
hands into the blackness of his hair and kissing him deeply, indecently, as if I
were ten years younger. Grown women do not behave like this in public.
We discover his place is closer, and so we hurry there from the bar. It is an
apartment high above the street, a bakery on the ground floor. The whole
place smells of dough, powdered sugar, sweet confectionery delights. I taste all
this on his skin. We don't turn on any lights, but the blinds are open, and the
streetlights pour in. In blue blue darkness we fall together, grasping and
gasping and desiring and taking. And I think to myself as his body stiffens
against me that I may not even know his real name, and that I may never see
him again, and I think how perfect that is, how right and natural and honest.
And it cures me of all the doubts of the evening. It absolves me. I am fine
again.
I kiss him goodbye for a long time, and then I go home.