many times had she come home from work to make love to him without a clue as to what he’d been up to earlier in the day? Drugs, bondage, kinky sex. The whole thing made her positively sick.
She let the sweet liquor buff the edge off her thoughts. At least it was all behind her now, and thank God she’d always used condoms with him. Who knew what kind of diseases people like that had? Probably all of them, she thought.
The French doors offered only a view of deep winter dark now, but it was warm in the bedroom, and cozy. Then another thought—an unbidden and crude thought-popped into her mind. I wonder how long it’ll be before
I get laid again? It would require some adjusting to; she’d been sexually active with Paul for the last two years, but now, like a gavel striking its pad, the outlet was closed. Well, Vera, she joked, if things get too high and dry, you can always take Kyle up on his swimming offer. She wondered if he pulled the same come-on with other women. What a hound. Sure, Kyle, I’ll go swimming with you, but only if you wear a chain-mail jock strap with a lock on it.
She poured another drink and ran a warm bath. Even the bathroom shocked her in its opulence: a lot of gorgeous, swirled marble, bright brass fixtures, mirrored walls. The sunken bath, encircled completely by stark black curtains, was as big as a hot tub. It even had jets. Live it up, girl, she thought. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.
She undressed and eased into the froth of bubbles. The warm, fragrant water cloaked her; she nearly drifted off to sleep. There was too much to think about; her mind felt desperate to decide, so instead she thought about nothing. That felt much better.
Yet inklings kept betraying her. Sexual inklings. She sipped the sweet liquor and began to wonder more about herself. Am I attractive? Sometimes she thought she was, sometimes not. The fact that Kyle had made a pass at her was no proof of desirability. Guys like Kyle made passes at watermelons if they could put holes in them. Attraction was not something she gave much thought to—she’d always believed that physicality was a veneer, and that veneers had no valid use in relationships. But my relationship with Paul is over. So, as a single, unattached, successful, and possibly attractive woman, where did that leave her?
Alone in a bathtub, well past midnight, a million miles away from everything, she answered herself. But that was good, for now at least. Prevaricating prick that he was, Paul wouldn’t be forgotten overnight. She’d spent two years with him, a block of her life. It wasn’t something you could blink your eyes at and erase. Being so far away, however, would make it easier to deal with and, eventually, get over. She couldn’t imagine how unpleasant it would be to still live in the city. She knew so many of his friends, and she’d be running into him all the time, at the Undercroft, downtown, at restaurants, etc. A grim consideration. Here, though, she’d never have to worry about that. She could devote her full energy to making The Carriage House work.
So why, suddenly, did she feel so concerned about her sexual desirability?
That’s it, she thought.
She climbed quickly out of the tub, padded naked across the floor, and eyed herself in the full-mirror wall. She’d read that top-rate models were often convinced they were ugly. It was paranoia. Am I paranoid? she wondered, looking at herself. Am I attractive or am I a bow-wow?
The mirror replicated her image in bright, dripping crystal clarity. The bath water had layered her short black hair to wet points; her flesh shined in the glass. Hmmm, she contemplated. She stood 5’ 5”, and weighed 110 pounds the last time she stepped on a scale. Her trimness did not reduce her frame to boyishness; Vera’s contours clearly came together femininely. Long legs,
