—This Vic, Alice said.
I didn’t want to tell her about Vic but she had to hear about him. I wanted a woman to finally see me. At the same time, I worried she would be disgusted, the way Big Sky was when he saw Vic and realized he was my group.
I explained how the outfit, the ludicrous idea, was based upon the previous evening. A couple of martinis, darkness. But I hadn’t lived an emotional life in between the night before and that moment. I was stuck in last night, whereas he had gone home to his family then to work in the morning and now, in the innocent light of half past five, I looked like the reason he married his wife and not a girl like me. Imagine the mother of his children, presiding over a roast in the big nice oven, and then me there with my bare legs and my old heels. Here, I said to him, shaking, nervously handing him his headphones and his Mets cap. I thought of my father loving the Yankees. I thought of what my father would think if he could see me now.
—Okay, Alice said, so let’s stop for a moment. Because this is important, right? I mean, let’s really stop and get inside this man’s head. So he comes to the door of a woman he ate out last night who wasn’t his wife. Now it’s the next day and he’s sober. He showered last night and once again this morning. He ate pizza with his wife in their apartment off the park. He felt like he could erase it. Now if he can just get back the very expensive headphones his wife bought him last Christmas, it will be like he never stepped foot in a strange animal’s apartment. He spent a weekend thinking of you but then last night he put his mouth between your legs and he felt wrong and sad. Last week he only kissed you, and it felt innocent and full of promise. But last night was too quick and sour. He wondered how many men you did that sort of thing with. You had no compunction about his wife and for God’s sake his infant. Because of course you are the temptress and he is the tempted. And now here you are, opening the door with no pants on. In high heels. His dick is like hey whatever what’s up, but otherwise he feels like you’re nuts. Already he felt strange and awkward coming here, but now he is downright appalled.
—Fuck, I said, are you trying to kill me?
—Do you still love him?
—No.
—You do. Well, you can’t. Maybe that’s why you’re telling me this.
It turned colder and the water blew the salt air against our bare skin. Alice was one of those people who didn’t feel cold. The littlest thing can make you feel another woman is better than you.
—This is important, she said. Please don’t stop.
—The next part is terrible.
—Go.
—I said, Here. And I handed him his gear and he looked down at it and I began to close the door.
—Like you were just, what, dusting the cabinets in panties and heels?
—Yes, I said, groaning. I’m ashamed.
—No. You are all of us. You are the parts of us that no one wants to admit to. Go on.
—He said hey because he had to say hey.
—Otherwise he’d be a monster!
—And I said, Did you want to come inside? Can you imagine? Like you said, it’s daytime, everyone’s sober. He looked confused. But he came inside.
—Probably, you think, he wanted to end it then? Just get his gear and take off?
—I never thought of it like that. My aunt once told me that if you have feelings for someone, feelings that are very strong, they can’t exist in one direction alone. That the other person feels them, too. But you’re probably right.
—You don’t believe I am.
—I don’t, so what?
—So nothing. Go on.
—I offered him a beer. I was the devil, I guess. We sat on my couch and—
—What?
—I can’t.
—Joan, she said, then paused. That’s interesting. I’ve never said your name. I’ve never said the name Joan out loud. Or I must have. Joan of Arc. Etcetera. It’s silky. Joan, please, you must go on. This is how we learn from one another.
—I asked him if he wanted a massage. I never liked a man that much before. I didn’t understand what was happening. I was flooded with emotion. I took off his shirt and he lay on his stomach on my couch.
—Couches are less barbaric than beds. There is something half-assed about cheating on a couch.
—And I gave him an excellent massage. I imagined exactly what would feel good and did it.
—I just was thinking, when you’re with someone you’re tired of, you give them a massage to get things over with. You expend the least amount of energy. But the first time with someone new, you massage a back like you’re before a committee, competing with every woman you’ve ever felt threatened by.
—Yes, I said, that’s exactly what I was doing. And his back was stippled with freckles and scars. It wasn’t a pretty back, but I loved it anyway. It was pale. Eventually he lifted himself up and sat down. He pulled me close and I straddled his waist and wrapped my bare legs around it, heels still on. I must have looked like a prostitute. We kissed for thirty minutes, maybe more. My legs wrapped around
