Strange Fits of Passion by Anita Shreve Page A

me and was calling out my name, I thought: When he had been watching me, had he read this scene on my face?

    It was morning. I was standing by a closet and a mirror, getting dressed for work. I had on a dress I liked—it was cotton, muslin, a long smock from India, and had intricate hand embroidery on the bodice. He was in front of his bureau, lifting socks from a drawer. He had on his pants but not his shirt. He turned to me and examined me—a long, cold stare of examination. He said, You should wear your skirts shorter; you have nice legs. And then: Don't put your hair up. It looks better long.
    I took the pins out of my mouth, put them on a table. I unwound my hair, let it fall.
    He said, You could look sexy if you wanted to. You've got the raw material.
    I had known him three months then, or maybe four.
    That day, on my lunch hour, I walked to a department store and bought two skirts that were shorter than those I normally wore. But even as I handed the money to the woman behind the counter, I was thinking: He is changing me. Or rather: He wants me to be different than I am.

    The presents started then. Harrold had money and would bring me things from Europe or from California. Or from Thailand or Saigon. At first the gifts were jewelry and sometimes clothes. Then mostly clothes—beautiful, expensive fabrics I could not afford and would not have bought for myself. The clothes were unlike those I'd ever worn before—sensuous and exotic. I put them on to please him and seemed to change as I wore them, to become the person he'd imagined.
    And then there was the lingerie. He bought me risque bits from Paris or the East. He said I had to wear them to the office, and only he would know, and I thought, talking to myself, trying to still just the smallest voice of worry: This is harmless and fun, isn't it?

    He said I should stand up straighter; I should unclasp my hands; I should stop a nervous gesture I had of fingering my hair.
    He said to me, I tell you these things for your own benefit. Because I love you. Because I care about you.

    He was my mentor at the office. I had a modest talent only, but he took me in hand. This was exciting, you understand, being tutored by him. He had power, and I sometimes found that irresistible. In the bar, after work, he would look at a story I had done, suggest improvements. I'd be stumped in my reporting, and he'd have a name to call, a golden source. He told me, too, how to talk to the people above me—what to show them, what to withhold. When I was sick once, he did my story for me; he even wrote it in my style.
    He told me I should refuse to write only about trends, and I said no, I'd lose my job. But he goaded me and pushed me, and one day I did as he had said to do, and I didn't lose my job: I was moved to the national desk; I was given a bigger cubicle.
    I took everything he offered me, acquiesced to his design. This was the bargain we had made, wasn't it?
    ***
    We had been together a year, maybe longer. I had gotten home before him. I was in the kitchen, at the table, reading a newspaper. I didn't want a drink. I hadn't gone to the bar to meet him. I had a headache. Actually I had the flu but didn't know it yet. I heard him in the hallway, and I stopped reading. There was his key in the lock, his footsteps in the hallway. I realized with some surprise that I didn't want to see him, I wanted to be alone. Do I need a reason? I was tired. I didn't want to have to give anything—or to have to take from him, either. It was the first time since we'd met I'd felt this way.
    He came into the kitchen, and he must have seen it. Perhaps it was in the way I wouldn't look at him and kept my eyes on the newspaper: Something in me resisted this intrusion.
    He took his jacket off, hung it on a chair. He pulled his tie loose, unbuttoned his collar. He put his hands on his hips, looked at me. He said, Don't you want a drink? and I said, No, I have a headache. He said, Have a