for over a year. Just weekends. Not much sex to speak of."
“Not much sex? What do you call Friday night and yesterday in the park?"
“I think it was just because I was scared."
“Scared of what?"
“Losing you,” I said, realizing that somehow it was really true. I had already lost her without knowing it and now I was going through the feelings of trepidation leading up to that loss, as if I was playing catch-up with time.
“ I ‘m not going anywhere,” Jo said. “ I ‘m here for you and I want you here with me."
“How about tomorrow?” I offered.
Jo hated spending weekdays with me. Her work so took up her life that she always said that she needed her weekdays alone
to garner her resources.
I hadn‘t spent a non-holiday weekday with her in over six years.
“Okay,” she said without hesitation. “What time will you be here?"
“What time do want me?"
“Afternoon?"
“You sure you don‘t have to work?” I asked.
“I have an appointment but I can change it,” she said. “You‘re what‘s important, L, not some job ."
I brought my hand to my face and smelled the light, lemony scent of Lucy‘s incense-oil perfume. This served to make me feel guilty. Then I remembered Johnny Fry and I was angry again. That was when I began to understand the connection between emotion and sensuality. It came to me that somewhere between seeing jo and Johnny rutting on that sunlit floor and now, I had come alive. And life hurt.
“Yeah,” I said. “Three o‘clock. I‘ll be there."
“You sound like you want to get off."
“I don‘t want to,” I lied, “but I have to,” and lied again.
Classical mathematics don‘t work with affairs of the heart. My sleeping with Lucy and flirting with Sasha and Linda Chou didn‘t even out what Joelle had done with Johnny Fry. I could never forgive her based upon those equations. I would never feel that things were harmonious between us.
I didn‘t want to go to her place, but I wanted her to want me to go. I didn‘t want her to have slept with Johnny, but whenever I saw her and I thought about them together, I wanted to have sex.
The confusion was too much. I left my house and wandered toward the East side. I made it north to about Houston and then east to West Broadway. There were thousands of people out in the street on that Sunday afternoon. Women wearing next to nothing and men pretending not to gawk. People sold silver jewelry, hand-bound blank books, paintings, pottery, and old records there on the street. I went farther east, past Elizabeth Street, past Chiystie.
I got tired after a while and stopped to sit on a blue fire hydrant in front
of a
tiny Peruvian restaurant. The hydrant sat next to a telephone pole. All over the wooden post there were stapled dozens of sheets of paper. People were looking for roommates, apartment shares, rooms. Some were leaving town and selling off their belongings. One woman had lost a male poodle named Boro. A lavender page promised you could lose thirty pounds in thirty days, free of cost. And there were nine white sheets with the photograph of a young black woman xeroxed on them.
HAVE YOU SEEN ANGELINE? the poster said, and then it gave a phone number and promised a reward of $150. It was the smallness of the reward that made me pay attention to the poster. Angeline must have come from poor folks who could hardly afford to pay a reward. I felt sorry for them and for the girl, even though she might be happier on her own. I was. At least I had been before I met Jo. My first wife, Minda, was a painter. She did portraits on the boardwalk at Coney Island. We got married on a whim and divorced on the rocks. We were nine months into the marriage when she told me that she‘d rather share her bed with broken glass.
“What do I do wrong?” I asked her.
“You don‘t do anything.” she said. “You don‘t even fart."
My second marriage was even shorter. Her name was Yvette and her father was a career soldier. He told me on our
“Not much sex? What do you call Friday night and yesterday in the park?"
“I think it was just because I was scared."
“Scared of what?"
“Losing you,” I said, realizing that somehow it was really true. I had already lost her without knowing it and now I was going through the feelings of trepidation leading up to that loss, as if I was playing catch-up with time.
“ I ‘m not going anywhere,” Jo said. “ I ‘m here for you and I want you here with me."
“How about tomorrow?” I offered.
Jo hated spending weekdays with me. Her work so took up her life that she always said that she needed her weekdays alone
to garner her resources.
I hadn‘t spent a non-holiday weekday with her in over six years.
“Okay,” she said without hesitation. “What time will you be here?"
“What time do want me?"
“Afternoon?"
“You sure you don‘t have to work?” I asked.
“I have an appointment but I can change it,” she said. “You‘re what‘s important, L, not some job ."
I brought my hand to my face and smelled the light, lemony scent of Lucy‘s incense-oil perfume. This served to make me feel guilty. Then I remembered Johnny Fry and I was angry again. That was when I began to understand the connection between emotion and sensuality. It came to me that somewhere between seeing jo and Johnny rutting on that sunlit floor and now, I had come alive. And life hurt.
“Yeah,” I said. “Three o‘clock. I‘ll be there."
“You sound like you want to get off."
“I don‘t want to,” I lied, “but I have to,” and lied again.
Classical mathematics don‘t work with affairs of the heart. My sleeping with Lucy and flirting with Sasha and Linda Chou didn‘t even out what Joelle had done with Johnny Fry. I could never forgive her based upon those equations. I would never feel that things were harmonious between us.
I didn‘t want to go to her place, but I wanted her to want me to go. I didn‘t want her to have slept with Johnny, but whenever I saw her and I thought about them together, I wanted to have sex.
The confusion was too much. I left my house and wandered toward the East side. I made it north to about Houston and then east to West Broadway. There were thousands of people out in the street on that Sunday afternoon. Women wearing next to nothing and men pretending not to gawk. People sold silver jewelry, hand-bound blank books, paintings, pottery, and old records there on the street. I went farther east, past Elizabeth Street, past Chiystie.
I got tired after a while and stopped to sit on a blue fire hydrant in front
of a
tiny Peruvian restaurant. The hydrant sat next to a telephone pole. All over the wooden post there were stapled dozens of sheets of paper. People were looking for roommates, apartment shares, rooms. Some were leaving town and selling off their belongings. One woman had lost a male poodle named Boro. A lavender page promised you could lose thirty pounds in thirty days, free of cost. And there were nine white sheets with the photograph of a young black woman xeroxed on them.
HAVE YOU SEEN ANGELINE? the poster said, and then it gave a phone number and promised a reward of $150. It was the smallness of the reward that made me pay attention to the poster. Angeline must have come from poor folks who could hardly afford to pay a reward. I felt sorry for them and for the girl, even though she might be happier on her own. I was. At least I had been before I met Jo. My first wife, Minda, was a painter. She did portraits on the boardwalk at Coney Island. We got married on a whim and divorced on the rocks. We were nine months into the marriage when she told me that she‘d rather share her bed with broken glass.
“What do I do wrong?” I asked her.
“You don‘t do anything.” she said. “You don‘t even fart."
My second marriage was even shorter. Her name was Yvette and her father was a career soldier. He told me on our
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