—He wanted everyone to think he had fucked you.
—Paul barely said another word to me for the rest of the weekend. Every one of them avoided me. I was garbage.
—You said you ruined this man’s life. And all I’ve heard so far is how he pissed all over yours.
I told her she didn’t know the whole story. By now she had diced the spring onions, tomatoes, and avocados, and cut the tuna into textbook cubes. She’d minced the serrano peppers and cilantro. She used a wooden spoon to gently fold it all with lime juice and a few teaspoons of sugar. We were drinking Sancerre out of short cups, filling each other up frequently. It was just before two on a Monday afternoon.
—We’ll eat the ceviche now, and then I’ll make the salad outside while you grill the bluefish. Does that sound okay?
I nodded. I wished she would do or say something that wasn’t perfect so that I wouldn’t have to kill her.
—Now tell me how you hurt this man, because I have to tell you, Joan, I think you’ve got it wrong.
I told her about the week I met Big Sky. It was the same week that I had a big project due at work, and what she had to understand was that this was the first time in my life I had a job that wasn’t odd. For Christ’s sake I’d made up dead people, and poorly, because I didn’t have any training. At the advertising firm I’d been promoted from a secretarial position to an associate very quickly. I was telling the world to buy beer and cars and to shop at big department stores. I was involved in a conversation, I was involved in the making of money. It had become somewhat lost on me that the reason I was in this vaunted position was because a married man had become infatuated with me.
And Vic was happy to provide for my progression. He prided himself on his connections, his ability to vault people, but with me, of course, he also wanted to prove indispensable. He promoted me again. I met Big Sky a day or so later.
—You have to understand, I said to Alice, the situation with Vic had begun to fester. Palm Springs had happened a few months before, and I was done. I was disgusted. And he could tell.
—Did you tell Vic about him?
—I couldn’t bear not to. I had nobody else to tell.
—Not one girlfriend?
—Nobody.
—You’ve never had girlfriends? Alice asked.
—Not really. My aunt.
—You haven’t seen a point with women?
—I wouldn’t say that.
—Even though, all around you, men were fucking you right in the ass.
—That’s not entirely true, I said, feeling myself flush.
—Joan. This is why you met me. Don’t you think so? Everything happens for a reason. Even the scary things.
We had moved outside to her terrible yard with its yellow-green grass and its Char-Broil kettle grill. It felt like we were in Alabama instead of Southern California, and she was mocking me with her continental accent and her absolute beauty, and I wanted to dislike her very much. But I also felt she was on my side. It was hard to experience the feeling, let alone explain its effect. I wanted her to hold me. My whole life I’d been waiting for a woman to hold me.
We drank our wine and grilled the fish and the sun lowered and some more breeze came. I felt a little nauseous and Alice decided it was time to eat. She set the table and served the salad. It was a wonderful salad, with the banana blossoms julienned and the vibrant pinwheels of watermelon radish, the arugula coated with olive oil and bright lemon and a dusting of pecorino across the top. It was odd to eat something so fresh on stained armchairs in that unkempt yard with a gorgeous woman. A lot about Alice was a contradiction, but that was true of most beautiful women. There was one poet, one author, they knew backward and forward, which lent them some intractable intellect. Once I knew a beautiful girl from the Midwest who had read everything Barry Hannah had ever written and that was it. That was all she knew. The more obscure the writer, the more suicidal, the better.
—I told Vic about Big Sky after the first weekend when I didn’t hear from him at all. I was so desperate I just wanted to tell somebody who cared for me. I wanted Vic to tell me I would hear from him again.
—Oh, Alice said. That’s always it, isn’t it. Will he call me again? Just tell me I’ll hear from him again, even if it’s only so he can say, This is over.
Alice took a bite. She ate like a European—small, neat forkfuls. A piece of fish with a strip of arugula or radish. Mixing things.
—You grilled the fish perfectly, she said.
I thanked her and she nodded impatiently while chewing, reminding me of my mother, and gestured with her hand for me to go on.
—I told him, and I was breathing heavily, and I was scared. He could tell. We were out to lunch. It was a Monday at this Bavarian bar far from our office and I was drinking Belgian ale though I hate Belgian ale, and he was staring at me with his beady eyes. I kept looking at my phone to see if Big Sky had written and I could just sail out of there, leave
