figured. Tay caught up and we barreled down this
via
and that. Were the police on our asses? I kind of hoped so but not, if you know what I mean. Ducked under a relic of some sort, didn’t know what the hell it was. Half expected Tay to whip out her guidebook and give us the lowdown—when itwas built, note the trickle of water from a nearby sewer—but she was bent over, gasping like she’d run the marathon. Snow was one bedraggled devil, hair plastered, that top with ruffles slapped to her skin. She should have looked miserable but my daughter was blissed out.
As soon as Tay caught her breath, she was dancing around Snow. I hadn’t seen Tay so hyped up in years. She even forgot she has reservations about that thing called touch and hugged me. All three of us looked like we’d been fished out of a well.
“She’s a Dolan,” I told Tay. I whispered it in the elevator. I had a boner and was pressing against her. Maybe my imagination was running wild but I thought she was pressing back.
“She’s a Dolan.” I said it again later in the bathroom. Tay all dried off, prim and perfect in that thin silky robe of hers. She wears it wrapped tight as if the north wind were going to show up and try to blow it off her. Still I was putting the moves on, nuzzling her neck.
“Snow,” she said.
Code. “Snow” means no sex, not happening, kid alert. The kid might hear. What? What can she hear? I’ve never known Taylor to even squeak. She’s a silent fuck. I shouldn’t call my wife a fuck, it’s disrespectful. I’m not taking it back, just letting you know that I know that I shouldn’t but fuck it I am. Thought a lot about why I wanted Tay. Talked to Dorothy the shrink about it. Started going to Dorothy after we got back. Part of Tay’s power is, “I’ll let you.” The grant-a-favor thing she’s got going is powerful.
Most men aren’t fucking their wives. I should say most wivesaren’t fucking their husbands. I know that from the business I’m in.
Tay, genius at buzzkill, started in with the face cream: a dab on each cheek, one on her forehead. She got up close and personal with the mirror while she rubbed in circles, using two fingers, middle and ring. Same go every night. She and the mirror have a good relationship. She and the mirror are tight.
She saw me watching. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Giorgio’s coming at nine tomorrow. We’re going to the Vatican.” She turned on her electric toothbrush.
We’re done here.
“Snow’s a Dolan,” I said again. There’s more than one way to fuck my wife.
I met the Swedes later, spent an hour sandwiched between them at a rave, everything strobe-streaked an inky sick yellow-green, violent music. They were slithery, could do things with each other while their hands and legs got tangled up with me. Thought about opening a restaurant in Sweden.
Rome, Day 3
Michael
O NLY DRINK WA S SAVING MY SANITY . Brought home by my wife, I was told. Behaved badly, she said, although I had no memory and seriously doubted that assessment. No memory of the Trevi Fountain. No memory at all of the previous night except for clicking, phoning, ranting, raging. My hand itchy for the phone. Lagging behind, plowing ahead, jockeying for privacy. Deluging K with texts and messages. Clicking, phoning, ranting, raging. No answer, no indication whatsoever that she was anything but a figment. The fish at dinner, the waiter extracting a perfectly intact spine. After that, nothing (remembered) till morning.
Although earlier:
I’d called the restaurant. Again. Six p.m. Roman time. Noon in New York. Made the calculation repeatedly, compulsively. Here this, there that. K arrived at eleven. Her job to answer. She will answer. Magical thinking.
She will answer
, I told myself as the phone rang. God, I felt ordinary. Ordinary. I whippedmyself with it. The phone rang and rang. Eventually Tino answered. Tino, oily with charm, silky manners. “Mr. Shapner, hello. Wonderful.”
Wonderful
was
via
and that. Were the police on our asses? I kind of hoped so but not, if you know what I mean. Ducked under a relic of some sort, didn’t know what the hell it was. Half expected Tay to whip out her guidebook and give us the lowdown—when itwas built, note the trickle of water from a nearby sewer—but she was bent over, gasping like she’d run the marathon. Snow was one bedraggled devil, hair plastered, that top with ruffles slapped to her skin. She should have looked miserable but my daughter was blissed out.
As soon as Tay caught her breath, she was dancing around Snow. I hadn’t seen Tay so hyped up in years. She even forgot she has reservations about that thing called touch and hugged me. All three of us looked like we’d been fished out of a well.
“She’s a Dolan,” I told Tay. I whispered it in the elevator. I had a boner and was pressing against her. Maybe my imagination was running wild but I thought she was pressing back.
“She’s a Dolan.” I said it again later in the bathroom. Tay all dried off, prim and perfect in that thin silky robe of hers. She wears it wrapped tight as if the north wind were going to show up and try to blow it off her. Still I was putting the moves on, nuzzling her neck.
“Snow,” she said.
Code. “Snow” means no sex, not happening, kid alert. The kid might hear. What? What can she hear? I’ve never known Taylor to even squeak. She’s a silent fuck. I shouldn’t call my wife a fuck, it’s disrespectful. I’m not taking it back, just letting you know that I know that I shouldn’t but fuck it I am. Thought a lot about why I wanted Tay. Talked to Dorothy the shrink about it. Started going to Dorothy after we got back. Part of Tay’s power is, “I’ll let you.” The grant-a-favor thing she’s got going is powerful.
Most men aren’t fucking their wives. I should say most wivesaren’t fucking their husbands. I know that from the business I’m in.
Tay, genius at buzzkill, started in with the face cream: a dab on each cheek, one on her forehead. She got up close and personal with the mirror while she rubbed in circles, using two fingers, middle and ring. Same go every night. She and the mirror have a good relationship. She and the mirror are tight.
She saw me watching. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Giorgio’s coming at nine tomorrow. We’re going to the Vatican.” She turned on her electric toothbrush.
We’re done here.
“Snow’s a Dolan,” I said again. There’s more than one way to fuck my wife.
I met the Swedes later, spent an hour sandwiched between them at a rave, everything strobe-streaked an inky sick yellow-green, violent music. They were slithery, could do things with each other while their hands and legs got tangled up with me. Thought about opening a restaurant in Sweden.
Rome, Day 3
Michael
O NLY DRINK WA S SAVING MY SANITY . Brought home by my wife, I was told. Behaved badly, she said, although I had no memory and seriously doubted that assessment. No memory of the Trevi Fountain. No memory at all of the previous night except for clicking, phoning, ranting, raging. My hand itchy for the phone. Lagging behind, plowing ahead, jockeying for privacy. Deluging K with texts and messages. Clicking, phoning, ranting, raging. No answer, no indication whatsoever that she was anything but a figment. The fish at dinner, the waiter extracting a perfectly intact spine. After that, nothing (remembered) till morning.
Although earlier:
I’d called the restaurant. Again. Six p.m. Roman time. Noon in New York. Made the calculation repeatedly, compulsively. Here this, there that. K arrived at eleven. Her job to answer. She will answer. Magical thinking.
She will answer
, I told myself as the phone rang. God, I felt ordinary. Ordinary. I whippedmyself with it. The phone rang and rang. Eventually Tino answered. Tino, oily with charm, silky manners. “Mr. Shapner, hello. Wonderful.”
Wonderful
was
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