Love and Other Impossible Pursuits by Ayelet Waldman Page A

Freud's couch. I also know that, like my friend Simon, my father is a sensitive man. How can he possibly live with himself?
    â€œEmilia?” Simon says.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œDid you hear what I said?”
    â€œNo, I'm sorry.”
    â€œI was telling you about the lap-dancing sixteen-year-olds.”
    â€œI think I'm going to be sick.”
    â€œI know. It's totally disgusting. And meanwhile, what are the cops doing with themselves? What's the FBI up to? Busting medical marijuana users. Making the world safe from all those little old ladies with ovarian cancer growing reefer in their backyards. And let's not forget the time and money the Justice Department is spending writing amicus briefs in favor of the so-called partial birth abortion ban.” He makes little quotation marks around the phrase with his fingers. “Gotta make sure those women with the hydrocephalic babies get the jail time they deserve. We live in one fucked up country, you know that?”
    Simon's voice has gotten louder. He is normally a fairly sedate person whose wit is of the sardonic kind, spoken under the breath rather than aloud. But when he is angry about some injustice, when he has a political point to make, Simon can climb up on a soap box with the best of them. I allow him to go on, hoping that his highly vocal outrage will camouflage my quiet. It is mysterious to me why I have not told Simon about my father. It is almost easier to understand why I have kept the secret from Jack. Jack, after all, must see my father on a regular basis, must interact with him and pretend affection. Simon has met my father only a few times, and those meetings did not go well. Although my father would never admit to it, although he would, in fact, shake his fist in the face of anyone who accused him of it, my father, longtime donor to the Democratic Party, onetime member of the Young Communist League, sexual sybarite, is a homophobe. Only my father seemed to require an explanation for why my cousin Seth, who lived one town over from us in Fair Lawn and whom we saw frequently throughout my childhood, wore eyeliner and leather hip-huggers to nearly every family occasion. When my aunt Irene finally explained, in language you would use with a simpleminded child, that Seth “liked boys better than girls,” the blood drained from my father's face and his silver tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. I have never seen him hug his nephew since then, and on the few occasions when he and Simon have met, he has managed somehow to avoid shaking Simon's hand. Simon would be only too glad to hear a story this vile about my father, and I do not understand why I cannot bring myself to tell him. Why do I feel such loyalty for a man who seems entirely unfamiliar with the concept?
    The man sitting opposite me, however, knows nothing except loyalty. For ten years he has been my most stalwart companion, sticking by me even in the past few months when I have been so unpleasant. And, worse, so
boring
.
    â€œSimon,” I say. “Simon, I have something to tell you.”
    â€œWhat?” He grimaces, reacting to the urgency in my voice.
    â€œYou are my best friend, Simon, and I love you.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd? And nothing. That's what I wanted to tell you.”
    â€œThat's all? I know you love me, girlfriend. I love you, too.” He takes one of my sweet potato fries, dips it in aioli, and stuffs it in his mouth.
    â€œI don't deserve you. You're a better friend than I deserve.”
    â€œOh please. How many bad boyfriends have you saved me from?” He shudders. “Did you or did you not step in and terrify that horrible Christopher until he turned over all my stuff? And where was I? Cowering in the elevator, punching the ‘open' button.”
    â€œHe was not a good boyfriend.”
    â€œExactly! And you bullied your way into his apartment and got me back my two pairs of black Hanro boxer briefs, my good