Two more men lurched in our direction. We only half-turned to acknowledge them. It was the same young man again, and another. “Hi, ladies,” the second man said. It occurred to me that men only call women ladies in a mockery of chivalry. “It’s my birthday tonight, and I was wondering, would you two please show me your tits?”
Well. At least he said “please.” C’s mask was impenetrable. “No.”
“No,” I echoed.
“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling a look of false pleading.
Does this ever work? I wondered. He didn’t even offer money, for goodness’ sake. So women are expected to act like whores for free, and this is considered being a good sport, while actual prostitutes are objects of mockery and revulsion. You have to wonder.
“No,” a voice behind the boys said, and it was N, a head taller than either of them. The boys scarpered.
N gave me and C a lift. She’s young, almost a teenager, really. Actually, she’s in her mid-twenties but acts eighteen. In the nice sort of way.
We were talking about marriage. She was curious about N’s situation, why he’s still single. She asked if I wanted to marry and have children someday. I said no. She said she didn’t, either.
“Oh, you’ll cave,” N said to her. “You’ll find the right man and it will just happen.”
She bristled but didn’t argue with him. “So what do you think about my future, then?” I asked N. “Spinsterhood?”
He looked at the road. He was being careful with his words. “I think you’ve chosen your own path and don’t want anyone to interfere with that,” he said. “You value your freedom above everything else. So yes, I think that’s what you will have if you want it. I’m not saying you’ll never change your mind, but it would take a remarkable man, and I think you’ll want to be single for a long time still.” dimanche, le 20 juin
I was flopped on my bed, reading. The phone buzzed. Dr. C.
“Top of the road, you said?”
“Bottom of the road.” Actually, I’m never quite sure which is which, but if he didn’t see the number, he was probably at the wrong end.
He tapped on the door a minute later. “Bottom of the road?” I grinned. His smile was nicer than I’d remembered. He had a single bag and an old blue car. His brother’s, he said. I let him in.
He dropped his bag next to the sofa. Ack, I thought. Should have put some pillows and blankets out. Wouldn’t want him to think I assumed he’d be sleeping with me. We faced each other, said nothing, just smiling.
“So.”
“So. Go for a walk?”
“Walk it is.”
We wandered for hours. I didn’t even notice the time until the sun went behind the trees. He talked about his family, his work. He talked with his gorgeous mouth and his hands. We sat on a bench and watched round women walking their tiny, even rounder dogs.
“Home?”
“Home it is,” he said.
I offered to cook something for him. “To be honest, I’m not really that hungry,” he said. I wasn’t either. He brought a large bottle of liqueur out of his bag. There must not have been room in there for much else. We sat at my kitchen table with a bowl of ice and finished the bottle.
I was tipsy, so was he, but in a nice way, like the night we were first together. When the glasses and bottle were finally empty, I took him up to my bedroom. We kissed and fondled each other through our clothes. “Your breasts look great in this,” he said. “May I ask you something?”
Anything, I almost said. “What’s that?”
“May I whip your breasts? Through the shirt, I mean.”
I produced a rubber multitailed whip for him. He started with light taps at first. I laughed. “You can go harder than that,” I said. He did. It hurt. It wasn’t the hardest anyone had ever whipped me, but it felt like the most fun. I kept laughing. He didn’t say anything, but he smiled too, it seemed so ludicrous. When he finished, he put the whip down and his hands under the shirt.
“The flesh is warm,” he said. Lifted the shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra. “They’re pink.” He pushed me up against the wall and had me like that. Then we fell into bed and were almost instantly unconscious. lundi, le 21 juin
The phone woke me. I was groggy and answered without looking to see who the call was from. “Hello?”
“Hello.” It was the Boy. I shivered. I should have hung up. Didn’t. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Umm, at home.” No point lying. No time to think. “Where are you?”
“Outside.”
“Oh.” I put down the phone. Stretched, gently pushed the sleeping man beside me awake. “Um, I have a guest downstairs,” I said.
He must have heard something in my voice. “Who is it?”
“My ex.” A frown flickered across his face. He asked what I wanted to do. “Answer the door, I suppose.” He said I didn’t have to. That I could ring the police. I said I knew that. We dressed. He went down to the kitchen. I answered the door.
The Boy stood there. Shorts and a T-shirt. His car was pulled up opposite. He was alone. The street was quiet. He asked if he could come in. I let him.
He nodded at Dr. C in the kitchen. I introduced them. Asked if anyone wanted tea, breakfast. They said yes. I put the radio on. Everything seemed far too calm. I turned to the stove and scrambled eggs; put bread under the grill to toast. Made light chatter with both about the weather (pleasant) and what was on the radio (rubbish) and the news (depressing). I dished up and put plates of equal size in front of them.
The Boy dug straight in. His head bowed over the plate. It was odd to my eyes to see him sitting at the table after these few months.
“Aren’t you having any eggs?” Dr. C asked.
“Just a slice of toast,” I said.
“Lightweight fuel,” he said, smiled, and ate. The two of them were quiet. I couldn’t sit down, just paced lightly in front of the sink nibbling a crust. The Boy finished quickly and asked to use the toilet. I said he could. He had never had to ask before.
When he was out of the room Dr. C turned to me and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“Didn’t think there was anything to tell,” I whispered back. “Haven’t seen him in months.”
The Boy came back in. He asked if he could talk to me. I said he could. We stood there, in the kitchen, silent, Dr. C watching us. The Boy asked if he could speak to me in my room. I said yes. We went up the stairs. I left the door open. He sat on the bed, motioned for me to sit next to him. I sat. I knew we were within earshot of the kitchen.
“I have to ask you a question, I want you to be honest,” he said.
I bristled. What right did he have to ask me anything? And when had I ever not told him the truth? “Yes?” I said.
“Are you sleeping with this man?”
“Yes.”
“He slept here last night?”
“Yes,” I said, and it occurred to me to wonder how long the Boy had been outside.
“I can’t believe you would do this to me,” he said. I was mystified. Was I supposed to be keeping a tally of lovers to recount for him? Was I still supposed to answer to him, care what he thought of me, care what anyone thought? I asked him to go.
He was calm. Oddly calm. Usually the Boy is fidgety and talkative, but he was silent and composed. He said he could let himself out; I insisted on walking him down. To the door. Out the door. I stepped outside after him and pulled the door shut. Dr. C was still in the kitchen. Heard the lock close after me. I didn’t have the key. Whatever the Boy was going to do, I wouldn’t let him attack a stranger. He would have to get through me.
The Boy realized this. He turned, the color back in his cheeks. “I have to talk to him,” he said with sudden urgency.
“No,” I said, and crossed my arms.
“I have to talk to him,” the Boy said. “He can have you, I just want him to know what… what he took from
