his bed.
I try not to think too hard about his clients and, when I inevitably do, to not find them threatening. I wonder what they do with him, or need from him. When I feel jealous I remind myself they’ve never crouched at the edge of the sidewalk, stroking Didier’s hair until he stopped hyperventilating. Many know he’s a shut-in—for years he’s relied on them to run errands so he could stay inside. He’s very easy to be kind to. But none of them have seen him as I do. They’ve seen him naked, seen him turned-on and watched him come, but I know him even more intimately. I’ve seen him so scared I swear I could hear his bones rattling, and I wouldn’t trade the shivering baby bird for its pretty shell, never in a hundred years.
“I did laundry,” he tells me.
I blink, surprised. “Did you?”
He nods and the food arrives. The second the waitress is gone I gape at him. “At the launderette around the corner?”
Another nod. It’s scarcely a thirty-second walk, but when we met he was lucky if he made it downstairs to check his mail twice a week. This is huge .
“Wow. You left two times in one day.”
His smile is full of shy pride. “I did.”
“That’s amazing. How was it, doing laundry?”
“Quiet. Nearly pleasant, I suppose, once I caught my breath.”
He tells me about a little girl who was there with her mother, how she helped him pair his socks. The vision sets dangerous creatures prowling in my reproductive jungle. That never used to happen, but since I turned thirty and discovered I can interact with a handsome man without getting sick to my stomach… It’s all very treacherous down there of late. But it’s nothing. Biological insanity. A byproduct of my age and overexposure to Didier’s pheromones or something.
Provided he never had to go outside, Didier would be a wonderful father—doting and patient and loving. Provided I… Well, in no scenario do I suspect I’d make a good mother. Karma would come collecting, landing me with a child as callous and volatile as I was growing up. I also worry it might be saddled with my mom’s bipolar disorder, my social awkwardness or Didier’s crippling anxiety, or his late mother’s depression, or all of these things.
Plus it’s only been a few months since I started seeing him without having to pay for the privilege. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s far from monogamous, exceptional as our relationship is. I’m stupid in love with him and not thinking straight, and theorizing about the children we shouldn’t have is an exercise in extreme delusion. Stupid brainwashing ovaries.
We sample the various hors d’oeuvres and moan our delight. Sipping his wine, Didier motions frantically with a hand, as if he’s remembered something important he meant to tell me. He swallows and blurts, “You look beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you.” I look down at my dress, all my guilt over its price melting away at his three little words. Three little words he needed to say so urgently he nearly choked.
“I noticed right away, but…”
“It’s fine. Your head was someplace else. You look nice too.”
He looks far better than nice. He looks as if he stepped out of the window dressing of a shop in the Rive Droite. I’ve grown so used to him barefoot and in jeans that seeing him in a dress shirt, open at the throat…I feel that same giddy excitement from the first night we met. He shaved today too. I love him all rumpled and casual, as if he’s just rolled out of bed, so he usually skips on days when we have a date. But I like how dapper he’s looking tonight. We both look nice, as if we belong in this fancy restaurant. I know we’re only playing dress-up, but I also know that everyone else here is doing just the same. Everyone’s a mess underneath, but it’s fun to put on costumes and play tourist in elegant places.
I tell him about my new duties at the museum as we eat then the waitress corks and bags the half-empty bottle so we can take it
I try not to think too hard about his clients and, when I inevitably do, to not find them threatening. I wonder what they do with him, or need from him. When I feel jealous I remind myself they’ve never crouched at the edge of the sidewalk, stroking Didier’s hair until he stopped hyperventilating. Many know he’s a shut-in—for years he’s relied on them to run errands so he could stay inside. He’s very easy to be kind to. But none of them have seen him as I do. They’ve seen him naked, seen him turned-on and watched him come, but I know him even more intimately. I’ve seen him so scared I swear I could hear his bones rattling, and I wouldn’t trade the shivering baby bird for its pretty shell, never in a hundred years.
“I did laundry,” he tells me.
I blink, surprised. “Did you?”
He nods and the food arrives. The second the waitress is gone I gape at him. “At the launderette around the corner?”
Another nod. It’s scarcely a thirty-second walk, but when we met he was lucky if he made it downstairs to check his mail twice a week. This is huge .
“Wow. You left two times in one day.”
His smile is full of shy pride. “I did.”
“That’s amazing. How was it, doing laundry?”
“Quiet. Nearly pleasant, I suppose, once I caught my breath.”
He tells me about a little girl who was there with her mother, how she helped him pair his socks. The vision sets dangerous creatures prowling in my reproductive jungle. That never used to happen, but since I turned thirty and discovered I can interact with a handsome man without getting sick to my stomach… It’s all very treacherous down there of late. But it’s nothing. Biological insanity. A byproduct of my age and overexposure to Didier’s pheromones or something.
Provided he never had to go outside, Didier would be a wonderful father—doting and patient and loving. Provided I… Well, in no scenario do I suspect I’d make a good mother. Karma would come collecting, landing me with a child as callous and volatile as I was growing up. I also worry it might be saddled with my mom’s bipolar disorder, my social awkwardness or Didier’s crippling anxiety, or his late mother’s depression, or all of these things.
Plus it’s only been a few months since I started seeing him without having to pay for the privilege. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s far from monogamous, exceptional as our relationship is. I’m stupid in love with him and not thinking straight, and theorizing about the children we shouldn’t have is an exercise in extreme delusion. Stupid brainwashing ovaries.
We sample the various hors d’oeuvres and moan our delight. Sipping his wine, Didier motions frantically with a hand, as if he’s remembered something important he meant to tell me. He swallows and blurts, “You look beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you.” I look down at my dress, all my guilt over its price melting away at his three little words. Three little words he needed to say so urgently he nearly choked.
“I noticed right away, but…”
“It’s fine. Your head was someplace else. You look nice too.”
He looks far better than nice. He looks as if he stepped out of the window dressing of a shop in the Rive Droite. I’ve grown so used to him barefoot and in jeans that seeing him in a dress shirt, open at the throat…I feel that same giddy excitement from the first night we met. He shaved today too. I love him all rumpled and casual, as if he’s just rolled out of bed, so he usually skips on days when we have a date. But I like how dapper he’s looking tonight. We both look nice, as if we belong in this fancy restaurant. I know we’re only playing dress-up, but I also know that everyone else here is doing just the same. Everyone’s a mess underneath, but it’s fun to put on costumes and play tourist in elegant places.
I tell him about my new duties at the museum as we eat then the waitress corks and bags the half-empty bottle so we can take it
Similar Books
