“She was looking at me strangely last night.”
I moved in again, kissing her neck and then her inner arm—she now had goose bumps. “It was just the lighting. Forget about it.”
Aimee leaned away from me again. “I got the definite impression that she was studying me.”
I sighed and stood up straight. “Are we ever going to do it, or what?”
“Oh, God—”
“Because I, for one, do not think I’m too young.”
She laughed loudly, throwing her head back. “No, it’s not that.”
“And you’re becoming very quickly the biggest cocktease I’ve ever met in my life and it’s not funny, Aimee.” I grabbed her hand and moved it toward my crotch. “You wanna feel how not funny it is?”
“I shouldn’t be involved with you for any number of reasons,” she said, sitting up. But I wouldn’t budge from my position. She kept sighing. “Look, number one is you’re married—”
“For only three months!” I wailed.
“Bret—”
I moved in again, burying my face in her neck. “Married guys live longer.”
“There’s no research that indicates being married is a good idea.”
I moved down to my knees until I was staring between her parted thighs. I placed a hand beneath her dress, feeling the navel ring in the middle of her soft, tanned stomach. My hand glided across her lower abdomen and down around her hip bones. The little slope at the base of her spine, right above her ass—I rubbed that indentation delicately, massaging it with very gentle, circular motions, and then my hands moved to the spot where her ass cheeks met her thighs. My hands started moving toward her panties and the uncharted territory that lay beneath them. She tried to close her thighs but I gripped them tightly, holding them open. Straining, I managed to say, “I read a study in a magazine somewhere.” She struggled to close her thighs. My teeth were clenched. “Something connecting coital frequency to life span.” I finally let go, panting.
“That is such bullshit,” she said, laughing.
“Look, I’m trying to trigger a sexual response in you, so why aren’t you convulsing with pleasure?”
She relaxed as I stood up, and we kissed again. I became lost in her once more. “God, what are you wearing?” I murmured. “That smell, it takes me back.”
“To where?”
I was licking her mouth. “Just, like, back. The past. I’m reexperiencing my whole adolescence.”
“Just with this lip gloss?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “It’s like those little tangerines in Proust.”
“You mean madeleines.”
“Yeah, like those little tangerines.”
“How . . . did you get this job?”
“Shapely legs.” I was feeling her stomach again, pulling gently on the ring piercing her navel. “Can I get one of those too? We can have matching navel rings. Wouldn’t that be cool?”
“Yeah, it would really set off those abs of yours.”
“Are you talking about my six-pack?”
“I think I’m talking about your, um,
“You’re very sexy, baby, but I’m equally hot.”
And then, as usual, it stopped. This time it was mutual. She had places to go, and I had to print out a dream and head over to Dr. Kim’s.
While we were getting ready to leave the office, Aimee said something.
“That boy who was in here earlier . . .”
“Yeah. Do you know him?”
She paused. “No, but he looked familiar.”
“Yeah, I thought so too. Did you see him at the party last night?” I asked, while the printer started cranking out my assignment.
“I’m not sure, but he reminded me of someone.”
“Yeah, he went as Patrick Bateman. He was the guy in the Armani suit. Very creepy.”
“Um, Bret, I have news for you: you were so wasted I don’t think you could have recognized anybody by the time that party hit full force.”
I shrugged, slipped the dream into my jacket and picked up a few stories students had left in the bin by my door. It was quiet. Aimee was thinking about something else while she lit a cigarette.
“Yeah? What is it?” I asked. “I’m gonna be late.”
“It’s weird you said Patrick Bateman,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I thought he looked a little like Christian Bale.”
We were both silent for a long time, because Christian Bale was the actor who had played Patrick Bateman in the film version of
“But he also looked like you,” Aimee said. “Give or take twenty years.”
I started shivering again.
Back in the parking lot, the cream-colored 450 SL was no longer there.
I noticed.
6. the shrinks
Since I was late I drove instead of walking over to the building housing the practices of Dr. Kim and our couples counselor, Dr. Faheida. Unfolding my dream I raced into the lobby and bumped into a woman exiting the elevator. I was staring at my dream, feeling like a child about to be tested, when she stepped aside and said, “Hello, Bret.” I looked up and stared into the woman’s face: gaunt, midforties, vaguely Spanish, dark wispy hair, a crooked smile. Holding an armful of folders and books, she stood there patiently as I squinted at her, assessing who she was.
It took a moment before I realized.
“Ah, Dr. Fajita. How are you?” I said, relieved.
She paused slightly. “It’s Dr. Fe-hay-da.”
“Dr. Fe-hay-da,” I mimicked. “Yes, and how are you?”
“I’m fine. Will I be seeing you and your wife next week?”
“Yes, and this time we’ll both be there,” I promised.
“That’s good. See you then.” She slowly shuffled off as I hopped into the elevator.
The couples counseling had started due to the lack of sex in our marriage. This was, admittedly, my problem, and the guilt I felt led me to follow Jayne to Dr. Faheida. Even when I first arrived in July we were having sex only once a week, though Jayne kept trying to initiate it more regularly. But she was being turned down so often that she soon quit trying. And I couldn’t figure out where this lack of interest on my part was coming from. Jayne—whom I was once so highly attracted to that she’d complained about the frequency of sex—resembled something new to me now, something other than the hot girlfriend. She was the wife, the mother, my savior. But how did that begin to constitute a celibate relationship? (“Ah yes, how indeed?” the dark voice in the back of my mind whispered frequently.) I simply blamed it on whatever convenient lie I came up with when we were lying in the massive bed in the darkened bedroom, the door locked, the curtains drawn, my softened penis lying immobile against my thigh: exhaustion, stress, the novel, the natural ebb and flow of desire, the antidepressants I was on; I even hinted about sexual scars from my childhood. She kept checking her resentment. I held in my shame but not enough to make her feel guiltless about questioning my manhood, to the point where she felt bad about forcing the issue. She kept asking if I still found her attractive—which I did, I kept assuring her. I was proud to have Jayne Dennis as my wife. Millions of men found her image magnetically sexual. She was a young and popular movie star. Yet, mysteriously, sex had become mundane and increasingly rare between us. I no longer had the hard-on for her that I once did, and tried to soothe her with vague generalities I’d picked up on Oprah. “Is sex more important than our kids or our careers, Jayne?” I asked one night. “I think we have it pretty good.” She sighed in the darkness. “Just because the sex isn’t here now doesn’t mean you aren’t,” I said gently (that was the first night I slept in the guest room). And
