was free. Secretly he believed himself to be lazy and selfish; Janice had provided him the righteousness he had needed to face down one criminal after another. Without her, his ire ebbed.
He hunched lower until only his head was above the steamy, frothy water of the round pool. For a confused moment he felt as though he were within his own churning cranium: a head within a head, the mind endlessly looking at itself endlessly looking at itself. But soon he felt limber and momentarily relaxed, his body rubbery and pink, his thoughts cooked out.
Before stepping into the shower, he lingered before the mirror, mentally subtracting the slight softness at his hips, flexing his stomach muscles to test for definition. He continued his inspection. His shoulders were firm, his legs in excellent condition. No way would he end up screwing this woman tonight, he thought; she had too much class and he probably wasn’t interested. He tested his stomach again. In his junior year in high school, a million years ago, he had once done four hundred sit-ups holding a twenty-five-pound weight behind his head. He could fuck like a machine when he was seventeen.
Peter showered, picked at his nose in the mirror, toweled off, dressed. The odds were infinitesimal that Janice might be in the restaurant Cassandra had picked. It would be too expensive for her current condition, unless some guy were taking her out. He felt guilty for having dinner with Cassandra, and blamed Janice for it—a convenient psychological device, he realized. On the other hand, he need not feel guilty, since all it
was
was a dinner. If Cassandra were some sweet young fox, he might be getting some mileage out of his guilt. He was glad he wasn’t very strongly attractedto her—physically, at least. He looked around, feeling vaguely miserable. Men came into the locker room in their overcoats and suits, stripped themselves, and became pale, blobby boys in shorts and T-shirts. A few men, in much better shape, were obviously cruising. He could tell in a lot of small ways, from two decades’ experience—the locker-room code: Basically, one didn’t
present
oneself to another man. But the rest, just regular guys like himself. How many had cheated on their wives?
Cassandra waited for him outside. She had changed into a blue wool business suit and carried a slender leather briefcase.
“You look like you make more money than I do,” Peter said.
“Probably.” Her eyes were bright. “So I’ll buy dinner.”
THEY REACHED THE RESTAURANT in her car. What he really needed to do, he decided, was go home and prepare for the summary argument. The waiter appeared and Cassandra ordered.
“You’ve barely spoken since we left the club. Tired?” she asked. “Or a complicated silence?”
“Both.”
“You complicated?”
“I’m simple.” He felt like arguing. This was all happening too easily. “I’m like anybody else. I want certain things and don’t get most of them. I make a lot of mistakes.”
“You’re acting like I’m one of them.” Her voice was even, almost amused, and he realized by her tone that she had experienced plenty of men and knew how they worked.
“You’re not a mistake, Cassandra, and you’re right to point out what a complete, multifaceted ass I’m being.” He pushed back from his chair, let the first sip of wine sift through his brain. All he did anymore was apologize to attractive women in restaurants. “This sounds ridiculous, but I had a tough day and even though I want to talk, I’m having a hard time being witty and interested and all those things that I’m supposed to be”—he looked at her pointedly, almost aggressively, despite his apology—“in such a situation.”
“What do you do, Peter?” she asked, charming him out of his distraction. “You still haven’t told me.”
“I’m a priest.”
She laughed, looked at his hands.
“C’mon.”
“I’m a butcher.”
“Somewhere in between?” She lit a cigarette,
He hunched lower until only his head was above the steamy, frothy water of the round pool. For a confused moment he felt as though he were within his own churning cranium: a head within a head, the mind endlessly looking at itself endlessly looking at itself. But soon he felt limber and momentarily relaxed, his body rubbery and pink, his thoughts cooked out.
Before stepping into the shower, he lingered before the mirror, mentally subtracting the slight softness at his hips, flexing his stomach muscles to test for definition. He continued his inspection. His shoulders were firm, his legs in excellent condition. No way would he end up screwing this woman tonight, he thought; she had too much class and he probably wasn’t interested. He tested his stomach again. In his junior year in high school, a million years ago, he had once done four hundred sit-ups holding a twenty-five-pound weight behind his head. He could fuck like a machine when he was seventeen.
Peter showered, picked at his nose in the mirror, toweled off, dressed. The odds were infinitesimal that Janice might be in the restaurant Cassandra had picked. It would be too expensive for her current condition, unless some guy were taking her out. He felt guilty for having dinner with Cassandra, and blamed Janice for it—a convenient psychological device, he realized. On the other hand, he need not feel guilty, since all it
was
was a dinner. If Cassandra were some sweet young fox, he might be getting some mileage out of his guilt. He was glad he wasn’t very strongly attractedto her—physically, at least. He looked around, feeling vaguely miserable. Men came into the locker room in their overcoats and suits, stripped themselves, and became pale, blobby boys in shorts and T-shirts. A few men, in much better shape, were obviously cruising. He could tell in a lot of small ways, from two decades’ experience—the locker-room code: Basically, one didn’t
present
oneself to another man. But the rest, just regular guys like himself. How many had cheated on their wives?
Cassandra waited for him outside. She had changed into a blue wool business suit and carried a slender leather briefcase.
“You look like you make more money than I do,” Peter said.
“Probably.” Her eyes were bright. “So I’ll buy dinner.”
THEY REACHED THE RESTAURANT in her car. What he really needed to do, he decided, was go home and prepare for the summary argument. The waiter appeared and Cassandra ordered.
“You’ve barely spoken since we left the club. Tired?” she asked. “Or a complicated silence?”
“Both.”
“You complicated?”
“I’m simple.” He felt like arguing. This was all happening too easily. “I’m like anybody else. I want certain things and don’t get most of them. I make a lot of mistakes.”
“You’re acting like I’m one of them.” Her voice was even, almost amused, and he realized by her tone that she had experienced plenty of men and knew how they worked.
“You’re not a mistake, Cassandra, and you’re right to point out what a complete, multifaceted ass I’m being.” He pushed back from his chair, let the first sip of wine sift through his brain. All he did anymore was apologize to attractive women in restaurants. “This sounds ridiculous, but I had a tough day and even though I want to talk, I’m having a hard time being witty and interested and all those things that I’m supposed to be”—he looked at her pointedly, almost aggressively, despite his apology—“in such a situation.”
“What do you do, Peter?” she asked, charming him out of his distraction. “You still haven’t told me.”
“I’m a priest.”
She laughed, looked at his hands.
“C’mon.”
“I’m a butcher.”
“Somewhere in between?” She lit a cigarette,
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