mind.
Here’s a short one. This is the first time Jane and I lay face-to-face. She runs a hand down my spine, then back up again to cup my shoulder blade in her palm, as if it were a breast, and says, “This is probably really a mistake. But I just really want to.”
“I know,” I say. Question remains:
Why
does she want to? Is it simply that being nonstandard has fucked up her self-esteem? Is it dismissive to add that her father deserted the family when she was twelve? The implication being …
“Oh, bullshit,” she says. “You don’t know the first thing. You are such a
fake.
Will you just please relax and make love to me?”
Did I give myself a whore’s bath before? Get hammered after? Can’t say. That other moment I wanted to put here is the same way: nothing before, nothing after. Also in bed, I guess a couple of weeks later.
She says, “I’m sorry I told you that thing.”
“Thing,” say.
“About the coke,” she says. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“What am I going to do, have him arrested?”
“What I mean is, it’s his business,” she says. “And possibly my business. But it isn’t anything you have to know.”
“I care about you,” I say. “I want to know what your life is like.”
She rolls her head from side to side on the pillow. “Uh-
uh,
” she says. “You’re not my husband. If we even lose track of
that
—I don’t know, forget it, it’s stupid to even talk about ethics in a situation like this.” She flops her naked body across me facedown, to stretch for her backpack on the floor (her buttocks, for all her nonstandardness, are more perfect than any I’m likely to touch again in this life), and comes back up with her hairbrush. She flicks two brisk strokes at her left temple, then flings the brush backhand against the wall.
My
wall. My landlord’s wall. “This is so stupid,” she says. “I don’t know what integrity I think I’m trying to keep up. Why don’t you hit me?”
“You’re doing enough of a job on yourself,” I say. I look at the wall. A tiny mark that might have been there already. “I wish we could go away,” I say. “And just not come back.”
“Please,” she says. “This is the one thing I promised myself. Not to get into discussions about how I’m going to leave Jonathan and yat-ta-dat-ta-da. If this is going to be about sitting around saying I wish this and I wish that, it’s like forget it, okay?” She gives me a quick, wide smile—the kind of facial cue an ape might use to signal submission. But there is no submission.
Now, maybe that right there is the cadence you want:
But there is no submission.
Over and out. God knows it’s cold enough.
But I still haven’t told how it all came out. After that we can worry about cadences. So under Loose Ends let’s put (a) the clarinet and (b) Jane’s little problem. (You want cold? Now that’s
cold.
) Oddly enough, I did get the clarinet back. What happened was, I took the subway up at lunchtime, found the place, and sure enough: guy had it stashed behind the bar. He asked if I had i.d. and I thought,
Well, this is where you get busted,
but what was I going to do? I showed him my driver’s license, he looked at the name tag and handed me the case. I opened it up, nodded when I saw all the pieces of the clarinet in their molded recesses, lifted out the bell and looked underneath. The joint was gone. The guy behind the bar had a white apron, clean except for a brown-red stain shaped like Mississippi. His blond hair was combed straight back. “Something missing?” he said. One more confrontation I wasn’t up to.
Which brings us, by commodious vicus of recirculation—hey, the fun never stops—to (b). So here’s the thing that happened today. Monday. No need to backtrack and give a blow-by-blow of the whole weekend: it got over with. Phone didn’t ring once. Which really isn’t a complaint. It wasn’t until late this afternoon that I finally heard from Jane.
“I’m
Here’s a short one. This is the first time Jane and I lay face-to-face. She runs a hand down my spine, then back up again to cup my shoulder blade in her palm, as if it were a breast, and says, “This is probably really a mistake. But I just really want to.”
“I know,” I say. Question remains:
Why
does she want to? Is it simply that being nonstandard has fucked up her self-esteem? Is it dismissive to add that her father deserted the family when she was twelve? The implication being …
“Oh, bullshit,” she says. “You don’t know the first thing. You are such a
fake.
Will you just please relax and make love to me?”
Did I give myself a whore’s bath before? Get hammered after? Can’t say. That other moment I wanted to put here is the same way: nothing before, nothing after. Also in bed, I guess a couple of weeks later.
She says, “I’m sorry I told you that thing.”
“Thing,” say.
“About the coke,” she says. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“What am I going to do, have him arrested?”
“What I mean is, it’s his business,” she says. “And possibly my business. But it isn’t anything you have to know.”
“I care about you,” I say. “I want to know what your life is like.”
She rolls her head from side to side on the pillow. “Uh-
uh,
” she says. “You’re not my husband. If we even lose track of
that
—I don’t know, forget it, it’s stupid to even talk about ethics in a situation like this.” She flops her naked body across me facedown, to stretch for her backpack on the floor (her buttocks, for all her nonstandardness, are more perfect than any I’m likely to touch again in this life), and comes back up with her hairbrush. She flicks two brisk strokes at her left temple, then flings the brush backhand against the wall.
My
wall. My landlord’s wall. “This is so stupid,” she says. “I don’t know what integrity I think I’m trying to keep up. Why don’t you hit me?”
“You’re doing enough of a job on yourself,” I say. I look at the wall. A tiny mark that might have been there already. “I wish we could go away,” I say. “And just not come back.”
“Please,” she says. “This is the one thing I promised myself. Not to get into discussions about how I’m going to leave Jonathan and yat-ta-dat-ta-da. If this is going to be about sitting around saying I wish this and I wish that, it’s like forget it, okay?” She gives me a quick, wide smile—the kind of facial cue an ape might use to signal submission. But there is no submission.
Now, maybe that right there is the cadence you want:
But there is no submission.
Over and out. God knows it’s cold enough.
But I still haven’t told how it all came out. After that we can worry about cadences. So under Loose Ends let’s put (a) the clarinet and (b) Jane’s little problem. (You want cold? Now that’s
cold.
) Oddly enough, I did get the clarinet back. What happened was, I took the subway up at lunchtime, found the place, and sure enough: guy had it stashed behind the bar. He asked if I had i.d. and I thought,
Well, this is where you get busted,
but what was I going to do? I showed him my driver’s license, he looked at the name tag and handed me the case. I opened it up, nodded when I saw all the pieces of the clarinet in their molded recesses, lifted out the bell and looked underneath. The joint was gone. The guy behind the bar had a white apron, clean except for a brown-red stain shaped like Mississippi. His blond hair was combed straight back. “Something missing?” he said. One more confrontation I wasn’t up to.
Which brings us, by commodious vicus of recirculation—hey, the fun never stops—to (b). So here’s the thing that happened today. Monday. No need to backtrack and give a blow-by-blow of the whole weekend: it got over with. Phone didn’t ring once. Which really isn’t a complaint. It wasn’t until late this afternoon that I finally heard from Jane.
“I’m
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