still felt his pulse quicken.
«Hi,» he said. Myron prided himself on his clever opening gambits.
«You want Chinese?» she asked.
«Whatever, sure. Hunan, Szechwan, Cantonese?»
«Szechwan,» she said.
«Okay. Szechwan Garden, Szechwan Dragon, or Empire Szechwan?»
She thought a moment. «Dragon was greasy last time. Let’s go with Empire.»
Jessica crossed the kitchen and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Her hair smelled like wildflowers after a summer storm. Myron gave her a quick hug and grabbed the delivery menu from the cabinet. They figured out what they’d get – the hot and sour soup, one shrimp entree, one vegetable entree – and Myron called it in. The usual language barriers applied – why don’t they ever hire a person who speaks English at least to take the phone order? – and after repeating his telephone number six times, he hung up.
«Get much done?» he asked.
Jessica nodded. «The first draft will be finished by Christmas.»
«I thought the deadline was August.»
«Your point being?»
They sat at the kitchen table. The kitchen, living room, dining room, TV room were all one big space. The ceiling was fifteen feet high. Airy. Brick walls with exposed metal beams gave the place a look that was both artsy and railroad station-like. The loft was, in a word, neat-o.
The food arrived. They chatted about their day. Myron told her about Brenda Slaughter. Jessica sat and listened in that way of hers. She was one of those people who had the ability to make any speaker feel like the only person alive. When he finished, she asked a few questions. Then she stood up and poured a glass of water from their Brita pitcher.
She sat back down. «I have to fly out to L.A. on Tuesday,» Jessica said.
Myron looked up. «Again?»
She nodded.
«For how long?»
«I don’t know. A week or two.»
«Weren’t you just out there?»
«Yeah, so?»
«For that movie deal, right?»
«Right.»
«So why are you going out again?» he asked.
«I got to do some research for this book.»
«Couldn’t you have done both when you were there last week?»
«No.» Jessica looked at him. «Something wrong?»
Myron fiddled with a chopstick. He looked at her, looked away, swallowed, and just said it: «Is this working?»
«What?»
«Our living together.»
«Myron, it’s just for a couple of weeks. For research.»
«And then it’s a book tour. Or a writer’s retreat. Or a movie deal. Or more research.»
«What, you want me to stay home and bake cookies?»
«No.»
«Then what’s going on here?»
«Nothing,» Myron said. Then: «We’ve been together a long time.»
«On and off for ten years,» she added. «So?»
He was not sure how to continue. «You like trave-ling.»
«Hell, yes.»
«I miss you when you’re gone.»
T miss you too,» she said. «And I miss you when you go away on business too. But our freedom – that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? And besides» – she leaned forward a little – T give great reunion.»
He nodded. «You do at that.»
She put her hand on his forearm. «I don’t want to do any pseudoanalysis, but this move has been a big adjustment for you. I understand that. But so far I think it’s working great.»
She was, of course, right. They were a modern couple with skyrocketing careers and worlds to conquer. Separation was part of that. Whatever nagging doubts he had were a by-product of his innate pessimism. Things were indeed going so well – Jessica had come back, she had asked him to move in – that he kept waiting for something to go wrong. He had to stop obsessing. Obsession does not seek out problems and correct them; it manufactures them out of nothing, feeds them, makes them stronger.
He smiled at her. «Maybe this is all a cry for attention,» he said.
«Oh?»
«Or maybe it’s a ploy to get more sex.»
She gave him a look that curled his chopsticks. «Maybe it’s working,» she said.
«Maybe I’ll slip into something more comfortable,» he said.
«Not that Batman mask again.»
«Aw, c’mon, you can wear the utility belt.»
She thought about it. «Okay, but no stopping in the middle and shouting, 'Same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.' «
«Deal.»
Jessica stood, walked over to him, and sat on his lap. She hugged him and lowered her lips toward his ear. «We’ve got it good, Myron. Let’s not fuck it up.»
She was right.
She got off his lap. «Come on, let’s clear the table.»
«And then?»
Jessica nodded. «To the Batpoles.»
5
As soon as Myron hit the street the next morning, a black limousine pulled in front of him. Two mammoth men – muscle-headed, neckless wonders – lumbered out of the car. They wore ill-fitted business suits, but Myron did not fault their tailor. Guys built like that always looked ill fitted. They both had Gold’s Gym tans, and though he could not confirm this by sight, Myron bet that their chests were as waxed as Cher ’s legs.
One of the bulldozers said, «Get in the car.»
«My mommy told me to never get in a car with strangers,» Myron said.
«Oh,» the other bulldozer said, «we got ourselves a comedian here.»
«Yeah?» The bulldozer tilted his head at Myron. «That right? You a comedian?»
«I’m also an exciting vocalist,» Myron said. «Want to hear my much-loved rendition of 'Volare'?»
«You’ll be singing out the other end of your ass if you don’t get in the car.»
«Other end of my ass,» Myron said. He looked up as though in deep thought. «I don’t get it. Out of the end of my ass, okay, that makes sense. But out of the other end? What does that mean exactly? I mean, technically, if we follow the intestinal tract, isn’t the other end of your ass simply your mouth?»
The bulldozers looked at each other, then at Myron. Myron was not particularly scared. These thugs were delivery boys; the package was not supposed to be delivered bruised. They would take a little needling. Plus, you never show these guys fear. They smell fear, they swarm in and devour you. Of course Myron could be wrong. They might be unbalanced psychotics who’d snap at the slightest provocation. One of life’s little mysteries.
«Mr. Ache wants to see you,» Bulldozer One said.
