guy. Does she make you turn the lights out during sex? Keep her eyes closed the whole time?”
I was going for blood now: “Actually, we mostly do it in public places. She likes it when people watch. She says it makes the orgasms better. Wanna bring your pom-poms sometime? Cheer us on?”
“If you’re involved? I think I’d rather watch bowling on TV. More action.”
I inhaled to respond—something about how the pins probably stood a better chance of getting knocked up than her—then stopped myself. I just couldn’t believe the venom that was coming out of my mouth. Why was I trying to hurt her? For whatever might have happened between Tina and I—and it had been too stunted and strained to ever really find out what it was—we were still friends, or something, at one point. We had cared about each other, or at least I thought we did.
Now here we were, going after each other like we were on opposite sides of the table in a divorce lawyer’s office, trying to singe each other’s skin with our words.
She was standing there, braced, like she was waiting for the next salvo. Instead, I said, “Tina, what the hell? Can’t we at least be civil to each other?”
“Relax. I’m just busting your chops. Don’t take it so seriously. There’s no need to get all girly on me.”
“Ah, so you’re not at all upset that I started dating Kira? Because, you know, the way you’ve been acting around me lately I would beg to differ.”
“What are you talking about?” she said, the mask still in place. “Because I asked you to stay late tonight rather than … whatever you were going to do?”
“Tina, we barely talk anymore…”
“You think I really care that much what you do after work? Don’t flatter yourself. Look, you’re a damn good reporter—my best, if you have to know. That’s the only thing that matters to me. Whatever chick you’re bouncing on your balls is none of my business.”
“You’re … you’re really going to play that game?”
“It’s no game, stud,” she said. “Anyhow, since you’re not sticking around, I have to. Someone has to make sure the desk doesn’t massacre this thing. Have a nice night. Just keep your cell on, okay?”
She walked away without bothering to hear my answer.
* * *
I was in such a foul mood about Tina, I forgot all about dinner—which would prove to be something of a mistake—and instead talked Kira into leaving five minutes early. It was either that or lure her into making out in Tina’s office. And I figured that would just make things worse.
We got in my Malibu and started driving toward an address just off University Avenue. I half expected she might have changed into after-work garb—Kira seemed to celebrate Halloween roughly a hundred times a year—but she was still in the dark pink sweater set she had worn to work.
“So tell me about this party we’re going to,” I said as I maneuvered out of the parking garage.
“Well, it’s hosted by this guy named Powell.”
“Powell? Is that his first name or his last name?”
“Actually, his name is Paul,” Kira said. “But he prefers people pronounce it Powell. Like he’s foreign. He’s really from Mahwah. I guess he thinks it gives him mystique.”
“Ah, mystique.”
“Yeah, he’s a bit of a character.”
“You don’t say.”
“Wait until you meet him,” she said, lightly tracing the bones of my right hand with her fingers. “He is getting a Ph.D. in what he calls ‘Death Studies.’”
“I didn’t realize Rutgers-Newark offered courses in Death Studies.”
“They didn’t until Powell came along. I’m not sure how he talked them into it. He’s basically just making it up as he goes along. He takes courses from the School of Criminal Justice, the Law School, even the Nursing School.”
“The nursing school has a course on death?”
“Oh, I have no idea. I met him because he was taking a library sciences class at the New Brunswick campus. I think maybe
I was going for blood now: “Actually, we mostly do it in public places. She likes it when people watch. She says it makes the orgasms better. Wanna bring your pom-poms sometime? Cheer us on?”
“If you’re involved? I think I’d rather watch bowling on TV. More action.”
I inhaled to respond—something about how the pins probably stood a better chance of getting knocked up than her—then stopped myself. I just couldn’t believe the venom that was coming out of my mouth. Why was I trying to hurt her? For whatever might have happened between Tina and I—and it had been too stunted and strained to ever really find out what it was—we were still friends, or something, at one point. We had cared about each other, or at least I thought we did.
Now here we were, going after each other like we were on opposite sides of the table in a divorce lawyer’s office, trying to singe each other’s skin with our words.
She was standing there, braced, like she was waiting for the next salvo. Instead, I said, “Tina, what the hell? Can’t we at least be civil to each other?”
“Relax. I’m just busting your chops. Don’t take it so seriously. There’s no need to get all girly on me.”
“Ah, so you’re not at all upset that I started dating Kira? Because, you know, the way you’ve been acting around me lately I would beg to differ.”
“What are you talking about?” she said, the mask still in place. “Because I asked you to stay late tonight rather than … whatever you were going to do?”
“Tina, we barely talk anymore…”
“You think I really care that much what you do after work? Don’t flatter yourself. Look, you’re a damn good reporter—my best, if you have to know. That’s the only thing that matters to me. Whatever chick you’re bouncing on your balls is none of my business.”
“You’re … you’re really going to play that game?”
“It’s no game, stud,” she said. “Anyhow, since you’re not sticking around, I have to. Someone has to make sure the desk doesn’t massacre this thing. Have a nice night. Just keep your cell on, okay?”
She walked away without bothering to hear my answer.
* * *
I was in such a foul mood about Tina, I forgot all about dinner—which would prove to be something of a mistake—and instead talked Kira into leaving five minutes early. It was either that or lure her into making out in Tina’s office. And I figured that would just make things worse.
We got in my Malibu and started driving toward an address just off University Avenue. I half expected she might have changed into after-work garb—Kira seemed to celebrate Halloween roughly a hundred times a year—but she was still in the dark pink sweater set she had worn to work.
“So tell me about this party we’re going to,” I said as I maneuvered out of the parking garage.
“Well, it’s hosted by this guy named Powell.”
“Powell? Is that his first name or his last name?”
“Actually, his name is Paul,” Kira said. “But he prefers people pronounce it Powell. Like he’s foreign. He’s really from Mahwah. I guess he thinks it gives him mystique.”
“Ah, mystique.”
“Yeah, he’s a bit of a character.”
“You don’t say.”
“Wait until you meet him,” she said, lightly tracing the bones of my right hand with her fingers. “He is getting a Ph.D. in what he calls ‘Death Studies.’”
“I didn’t realize Rutgers-Newark offered courses in Death Studies.”
“They didn’t until Powell came along. I’m not sure how he talked them into it. He’s basically just making it up as he goes along. He takes courses from the School of Criminal Justice, the Law School, even the Nursing School.”
“The nursing school has a course on death?”
“Oh, I have no idea. I met him because he was taking a library sciences class at the New Brunswick campus. I think maybe
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