would seize with happiness the moment she climbed into the car. It still seizes with happiness, but I have to hide it now. I have learned to ignore her blank stares and rolling eyes. I knock when her door is shut and I try not to eavesdrop when she’s video chatting. My point is, other than this closet transgression, I am usually very good at letting her have a life-but I miss her terribly. Of course I heard the war stories from parents with older children. I just thought, as every parent smugly does, that we would be the exception; I would never lose her.
“You’re probably right,” I say. “I’ll do some research.” I wince. My ankle is throbbing. It’s black and blue.
“What did you do to your ankle?” asks Caroline.
“I fell. After you left. Tripped on a pinecone.”
“Oh, no! Did you ice it?” asks Caroline.
I nod.
“For how long?”
“Not long enough, apparently.”
Caroline jumps to her feet and stacks the boxes in Zoe’s closet. Expertly she folds the sweaters-“The Gap, every summer in high school,” she explains-and stacks them in front of the boxes. I hand her my yellow sweater. Caroline takes it wordlessly, puts it on the pile, then shuts the closet door. She holds out her hand.
“Now. Let’s go get you some more ice.”
28
35. And so we had a secret. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday we met in front of the Charles Hotel at lunchtime for a run. In the office we pretended that we didn’t work out together every other day. We pretended we didn’t know the shape of each other’s thighs, or the scars on our ankles and knees, or the brand of each other’s running shoes, or who was a pronator and who was not, or that we had matching farmer’s tans, which were soon remedied when May turned into June and we peeled off the layers and our shoulders turned the color of walnuts. I pretended that he didn’t have a girlfriend. I pretended that I didn’t know the mineral smell of his sweat and how exactly he sweated-always the same: a line down his back and vertically across his collarbone. I pretended I didn’t buy new running shorts, and practice running in them in front of the mirror to make sure nothing untoward showed, and that I didn’t rub my legs with baby oil so they gleamed. I pretended I didn’t obsess about how a running partner should smell, or whether or not to wear perfume and in the end settled on baby powder, which would hopefully convey the message
36. Having a secret is the most powerful aphrodisiac in the world and, by necessity, exactly what’s missing in a marriage.
29
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Hope
Date: May 30, 4:45 PM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Dear Wife 22,
I took the liberty of codifying your last email-the emotion data points: longing, sadness, nostalgia, and hope. The last emotion might not seem evident to you, but there’s no doubt in my mind. It’s
I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but what I find most likeable about you is your unpredictability. Just when I think I’ve gotten a handle on you, you say something that throws me off completely. Sometimes the correspondence between subject and researcher reveals so much more than the answers.
You are a romantic, Wife 22. I wouldn’t have guessed it.
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Hope
Date: May 30, 9:28 PM
To: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Researcher 101,
Takes one to know one. Are you for real?
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Hope
Date: May 30, 9:45 PM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Wife 22,
I assure you I am very real. I’ll take your question as a compliment, and go one further and answer your next question so you needn’t ask it-no, I am not a senior citizen. Believe it or not, there are men in your generation who are romantics. Frequently we are disguised as curmudgeons. I look forward to getting your next set of answers.
Researcher 101
From: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Hope
Date: May 30, 10:01 PM
To: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
I took the liberty of codifying
Sincerely,
Wife 22
From: researcher101 ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Re: Hope
Date: May 30, 10:38 PM
To: Wife 22 ‹[email protected]›
Wife 22,
I suppose it’s what everybody hopes for-to be known for who we truly are.
Researcher 101
30
Bookmarks Bar (242)
nymag.com/news/features/The Science of Gaydar
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