You Think It, I'll Say It(61)

“Really? Why not?” She seems genuinely interested.

He pauses, then says, “The anal fissure stuff—you put it out there that we were on a date, but you immediately followed up with that. It was like you were sex-proofing the situation.”

She laughs. “That’s an intriguing theory. But there’s no version of tonight that would have played out with us hooking up, is there?”

“The possibility of two people becoming physically involved generally hinges on both of them being open to it.”

“Oh, come on. That’s such a cop-out. Would you have slept with me?”

He thinks, Based on your appearance, sure. Based on your behavior, no. Aloud, he says, “I know you’ll think I’m dodging the question, but it’s impossible to say. It’s like the butterfly effect.”

“I’d have been okay with making out, I think,” she says. “I never kissed a Bishop boy, not even once, so I’d be able to cross that off my bucket list at the ripe old age of forty-three. Can you believe I graduated from high school without kissing anyone? It seems like it shouldn’t be possible.”

“Like giving birth to twins vaginally,” he says, and she laughs again and says, “Touché.”

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “everyone feels weird about their aging body. It’s not a crime not to look like you’re eighteen. Anyway, you’re attractive. I assume you know that by now.”

She is silent, and he wonders if, again, he’s misstepped. If he has, well—fuck her. She didn’t need to call him again. Then she sighs, sadly rather than resentfully. She says, “I once heard that smart women want to be told they’re pretty and pretty women want to be told they’re smart. And the depressing part is that I think I agree. What did you say your girlfriend’s name is?”

“See?” he says. “You just did it again. I told you you’re attractive and you brought up my girlfriend.”

This time, she laughs so heartily and authentically that, in a visceral way, it takes him back to their senior year at Bishop; it’s a laugh he’d forgotten about but recognizes instantly. (Oh, the passage of time! The twenty-six years that have elapsed, the green afternoon outside Dean Boede’s office! The irretrievability of his youth, the Bishop hymn, the blow jobs he used to get from Jenny Pacanowski.)

He says, “For the record, I really had no idea, none at all, that you were interested in me at Bishop. Maybe part of getting what you want is asking for it.”

“Said like a man.”

“That doesn’t make it wrong.”

The pause that ensues is the longest yet between them. He thinks about the distance between Wilmette, where his condo is, and her hotel and how many minutes it would take to drive there at this hour. (Thirty?) The thought is mostly but not completely speculative, and it’s hard to imagine that she’s not thinking about the same thing.

What she says when she finally speaks is “Did you cheat on your wife?”

“We were both involved with other people.”

“Who did it first?”

“She did, although she’d say I was checked out of the marriage by then.”

“Are you relieved or bummed out that you’re divorced?”

“Yes.”

She laughs. “Do you feel confused and desperate?”

“Sometimes.”

She says, “Now that we’re friends again—we’re friends again, right?”

“I hope so.”

“Now that we’re friends again, have you ever had an anal fissure? Because they really are insanely painful.”

“I wasn’t lying,” he says. “I haven’t.”

“Nelson once had hemorrhoids at the same time I had an anal fissure, and he said we should start a band called Sylvia McLellan and the Buttcheeks.” After a pause, she says, “I guess you had to be there.” There’s another pause—some shift seems to have occurred, some definitive understanding that they will not see each other again tonight, which is allowing them both to capitulate to their own tiredness—and she says, “I shouldn’t have said you were boring. It was rude, but it was also untrue. I appreciate your psychological insights.”

Alone in his bedroom, he smiles. “Thank you, Sylvia.”

Knowing he’s not going to her hotel makes it easier for him to settle into an uncomplicated and nostalgic affection for her. Will they stay in touch? Will they ever cross paths again? Possibly at a reunion, but otherwise, it seems highly unlikely.

“Did my call wake you up?” she asks, and it’s the combination of how sincere her concern seems with how belated it is that amuses him.

He says, “I was watching TV.”

She yawns audibly. “What show?”

He tells her the name; it’s a cable drama that’s been airing for a few years, though he’s only halfway through the first season.

“Oh, I’ve heard that’s good,” she says, and her voice is now so drowsy, so intimate with impending sleep, that it’s as if she is lying in the bed next to him. She says, “Maybe that’s what Nelson and I will watch next.”




For Susanna Daniel, Emily Miller, and Sheena MJ Cook—my fellow writers and confidantes