The Portrait of a Mirror

by A. Natasha Joukovsky

  The coin twisted in his hand, then it became unclear whose hand it was in. It was impossible to say who was the instigator, who had crossed the line first and admitted, if only in the language of brushing thumbs and hungry eyes, that there were feelings on both sides far in excess of friendship. There was grasping and staring and clutching. “The World Is Yours,” the universe whispered—for only twenty-five cents. Suggestive half-smiles morphed, in slow motion almost, into euphoric, toothy grins, then settled into rapt gravity. His every expression and emotion, she was sure, perfectly mirrored hers, the sea of activity around them buzzing in counterweight to their stillness. The entire exchange lasted maybe twenty-seven seconds. What were the best twenty-seven seconds of your life? When you took the field in blue and gold? When you blindly called out Adriannnn—and she called back? The answer should have been easy for Diana, and it should have had something to do with Wes. Their first kiss, maybe, or the one at the altar. When he’d proposed on the beach, or their racy pool-house rendezvous after. But in that particular twenty-seven seconds, it was as if all of her other once-vivid memories were drained of their color. None could match the searing passion of restraint.

  Twenty-seven perfect seconds. The kind you replay in your head over and over. Isn’t that what most of us live for, anyway? The reason we wake up and go to work or whatever it is we do, day after day; the reason we sit through the long, unedited scenes of our lives—all those endless meetings—inevitably destined for memorial montage? The anticipation of an unforgettable twenty-seven seconds in time—isn’t this the reason that we try? Why we sign up again and again to get the shit kicked out of us, only to stand up again and ask for more? Whether it takes the form of a stadium screaming your name or the extrasensory silence of a single person, we all yearn for some connection to the universe, for some indication that the universe, too, is trying; that it wants to grasp us back, that it wants to fulfill our desires, even if it can’t; even if our desires are doomed.

  Diana was facing the jukebox, quite unsure of how she got there. Dale had gone to the bar for another round. Regaining self-possession, she searched for the right song. Yes, there it was—yes. Diana offered Dale an eyebrow in exchange for the beer, and pressed PLAY.

  Dale and Diana had officially become adversaries in a game of chicken, barreling toward each other with vehicular fury. Both wanted, desperately, for the other to swerve, to have the distinct pleasure of being the one to do the rejecting, to be the responsible person and the unresponsible party, the champion of self-control, and even more importantly, the object of the other’s weakness, so personally desirable as to incite the other into welcoming a miserable spiral of consequences while maintaining the moral and ethical high ground of resistance, avoiding any unpleasantness on his or her own home front. The challenge of orchestrating such an outcome—of extracting the world’s greatest compliment from such a privileged, well-educated, self-involved adversary—was, naturally, irresistible.

  And so when neither acknowledged the truth, their silvery banter remained a euphoric sort of drug, rapturous and addictive. When he was inappropriately bold or complimentary, she thrilled in brushing off his affections. When she started in on eyebrow-laden hypotheticals, he relished delivering disappointment, claiming the morally superior side to every debate. And, on the rare occasions when they both tangentially admitted attraction and guilt—however technically correct their behavior—they blamed each other bitterly, eager to prove the more uncooperative body. Thus their interactions hardened into a guerrilla war of wills over who would be the blameless image in the pool, and who would fall in.

  Why, really though, Diana asked herself, was she so intent on resisting him? That she was physically able to stop herself—was this marker enough that she was not actually as enamored as she seemed to herself? That what she really loved was the deeply flattering attention he paid to her? Perhaps. Was the sense of duty she bore for Wes indicative of a superior, if latent, love? Perhaps again. It wouldn’t be worth arguing with him absent the remnants of their former flame. Was her longing for Dale really, then, a longing for Wes, like some kind of referred pain? Or was that a cop-out, too—a way to justify sunk costs and choices? Dale and Diana were fundamentally, materially, philosophically compatible—not only theoretically, as lovers, but as people. Was it possible she loved Dale so sincerely, so selflessly, that even if she could stand to ruin her own life, she could not risk bearing the responsibility for ruining his? She recoiled at this provincial notion of infidelity as “ruinous” and the possibility it was some bourgeois moral squeamishness holding them back. The idea that middle-class sexual taboo had any power whatsoever to shape her decision-making contrasted sharply with Diana’s image of herself—but this was precisely the image she’d crafted in Wes’s reflection. How unfair, that the only moral exemption she sought was the one that threatened her social claim to moral exemption! It was too deeply unflattering to be the explanation in her predicament with Dale. And yet she could not help but think that things might have been different if only one of them had been in a serious relationship, that either of them in full pursuit would have toppled the other without even much difficulty. But as it stood, both wanted the other person to be that person, to have the clear choice and moral high ground and security of ending up with someone. To preserve optionality. The more successful her resistance, the more powerful her yearning for him became—and yet the more intensely she aspired to resist. Delayed gratification might be especially gratifying, but power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

  There was, also, the formerly isolated problem of Wes and that other montage of Diana’s present life, the seminal black-and-white breakfast serial that so closely mirrored her weekends. It was a marriage like any other marriage. What Diana told Dale that first night in their no-background bar was overdramatized, yes, but fundamentally true: she had tentatively intended on leaving Wes that summer already. Nantucket had offered a jolt of marital concord and nostalgia and temporarily weakened her resolution, but by the following Thursday, Wes had reverted to his Wellesian performance of unreadable moods and last-minute cancellations and obsession with Ecco (Really, Charles!). After that, the problem had been finding a plausible weekend. She could not identify a slot that wouldn’t spoil some prearranged plan that Diana herself was rather looking forward to: weddings, trips to Nantucket, Hamptons shares with friends. It turned out that divorce was an extremely inconvenient item on one’s to-do list, and she kept putting it off, even as the fissure between her two lives developed into a chasm.

  If Diana was being honest, there were other considerations about this chasm giving her pause, aside from the logistics: the perception of her looming decision weighed heavily on the dense little group of ideas that Diana had about herself. For Diana’s internal calculation of her own image was less one of actual social rebellion than the impression of it, and the outward narrative implications of her prospective classification as a divorced person played no small role in her mind. There had been, in certain lights, a modern romance to it: to fierce, uncompromising independence; to the implicit confidence of exercising her power with remorselessness. She imagined stoically rising above conventional gossip, overhearing intelligent critics calling her “brave” and “interesting.” This imprint was closely tied to the idea that, in renouncing a spouse such as Wes, she could only be destined for something greater.

  And yet, when “something greater” had presented itself—as her longing for Dale deepened, and the inappropriate relationship underlying their appropriate behavior morphed into a kind of weekday marriage, it had strangely shifted this mental calculus. It no longer even mattered that, quite independently, Wes misread her every move, that every argument with him devolved into a grotesque marital retrospective avoidable only by icy silence. If Diana left him now, it would be impossible to divorce her decision from Dale’s existential presence. Leaving your husband for irreconcilable differences was, perhaps, brave. Leaving him for another man? That was betrayal. Wes’s ire
would be perfectly justified. The Haemonic madness of the reasonable: persuasive, transcendent, coalition-building wrath. The kind that would all but force mutual friends to wholeheartedly take his side and render her a criminal ingrate; not just an asshole, but also a moron. She saw Agatha’s disdain, Cort shaking his head in disappointment. Ruinous. Dale was a more suitable match for her, there was little doubt of that. But the world at large would not make the same assessment, and this extrinsic analysis played too great a role in Diana’s evaluation of herself. If Dale would even have her, over his own fiancée! This note of failure, of self-doubt and uncertainty, combined with the self-preserving sense that it was rather glamorous to be acerbically dissatisfied with a husband such as Wes. The idea of playing this sort of dissatisfied wealthy wife character was perversely appealing in Diana’s mind, encouraged by the likes of Cate Blanchett. Such women were always beautiful in their misery—self-conscious and critical with themselves for it, deeply glamorous even in (because of?) their vanity. No, she did not want to divorce Wes. She wanted the right of indignation. She wanted the chorus advocating on her behalf—and an unimpeachable marital severance package. In a desire so foreign to her she would have been personally unable to articulate it, what Diana really wanted was for Wes to divorce her.

  And so Diana read the newspaper at breakfast in subconscious protest of his failure to capitulate, exceedingly miserable for someone in such assiduous avoidance of misery. Inaction is, after all, its own form of decision. People forget that.

  On the train back to New York on the evening of Thursday, June 25, Diana continued reading Anna Karenina (McBride-approved Pevear and Volokhonsky translation). She had reached the part of the novel where Anna is likewise reading a novel on a train, but finds it unpleasant to read because she wants too much to live herself. The hero of Anna’s novel was beginning to achieve his English happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna wants to go with him to this estate, when suddenly she feels that he must be ashamed and realizes she is ashamed of the same thing—and Diana could tell that she, too, was supposed to feel ashamed here. She had seen the preview of the Keira Knightly movie version two or three years ago, and could guess where all this was headed for Anna—to bed with that Vronsky fellow, for sure.

  What a cheeky book recommendation! You can read it on the train, indeed. Diana could not decide what was more dangerous, Dale’s physical presence or the very idea of him. But surely they were past the risk of an actual affair now, weren’t they? An affair would never be enough, so there was no point in being an asshole in service of one. So, then, what was she ashamed of? What am I ashamed of? she asked herself in offended astonishment. She put down the book and leaned back in the seat, clutching her Kindle with both hands.

  Diana sat there very quietly for several minutes until, in an unwelcome leftward whirr, a southbound train came roaring past.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  SELECT TELEPHONE ACTIVITY (TRANSCRIBED, CHRONOLOGICAL), OFFICE OF C. WESLEY RANGE IV, CEO, ECCO LLC (TIME WARNER CABLE, WIRELINE NUMBERS 212-XXX-XXXX, EXT. 2233 & 2234), FRIDAY, JUNE 26, 2015.

  [9:05 AM INCOMING CALL FROM: PAPPAS-FIDICIA, JULIAN (INTERNAL EXTENSION 2235), 3 minutes]

  RANGE:--ot it, Cassie. Hello, Julian.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Oh, shit, why did you answer?

  RANGE: This may shock you, but . . . because you called me?

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Well, this is awkward. You’ve entirely thwarted my prank call.

  RANGE: By all means, please proceed. Far be it from me to ruin your fun at my expense.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Too late, you’ve already ruined it.

  RANGE: Have it your way, that foiled look on your face is satisfying enough. You look like some maniacal cartoon villain.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Goddamn it! I hate these fucking glass offices. They make me never want to see you again. What are you doing this weekend?

  RANGE: Stuck in the city for some horrible wedding. One of Diana’s friends. I’m not going to know anyone. And Diana’s a bridesmaid, so I’m sure to be promptly abandoned.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Just download an e-book to your phone. Have you read Brideshead Revisited yet? Actually, don’t tell me. You’ve already ignored that particular recommendation an embarrassing number of times, so I don’t want to know. Where is the wedding? Not in Brooklyn or anything, I hope.

  RANGE: Actually yes. The Brooklyn Botanical Garden, I think.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Oh, no! Not that den of iniquity! Well prepare yourself: it is sure to involve multiple fire hazards and unsatisfying food. This is assuming massaged baby kale and vegan cake count as food at all. Take care to avoid any sort of “signature cocktail.” It’s like they are programmed to give you the runs. Come to think of it, I would stay away from anything served in a mason jar. Don’t go near the sparklers either. Some drunk person angling for a photo is liable to whack you with one. And be careful getting home! I’m exceedingly wary of Prospect Park. Its primary prospect, as far as I’m concerned, is murder in the first degree.

  RANGE: You’re being ridiculous. It’s no more dangerous than Central Park is.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: I’m not advocating a wedding in Central Park, either. Taking a few photos there would be okay, I guess. But what exactly is wrong with the Yale Club?

  RANGE: Why are you so prejudiced against Brooklyn?

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Oh, I’ve got all kinds of prejudices, don’t worry. Is there some Bed-Stuy brunch on Sunday featuring a band you’ve never heard of and bottomless kombucha? Or do you and Diana want to go to Café Croix with me?

  RANGE: We should be good for Sunday.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: I’ll confirm with your wife--

  RANGE: That’s very kind of you.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: --for her sake, I want to be clear.

  RANGE: Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Okay, well ta-ta.

  RANGE: Later.

  [9:07 AM INCOMING CALL FROM: PAPPAS-FIDICIA, JULIAN (INTERNAL EXTENSION 2235), 2 minutes]

  RANGE: Yes?

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Don’t you want to know what I’m doing this weekend?

  RANGE: Not especially.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Dick. Just for that, you’re getting the detailed version. I have a lengthy personal to-do list. First priority is Taco Bell. I have been dreaming of a Cheesy Gordita Crunch all week. Also, I am going to Paul Stuart. I need to buy white flannel pants. Actually, I haven’t decided between flannel and gabardine, but the point is, I want a nice drape. Anuj Chadha, by the way, is having a dinner party tomorrow night that you weren’t invited to; sorry, I bet you didn’t know that. I’m looking forward to it: his wife is an excellent cook. Ooh, and I hope their son is still up so I can read advanced books to him--

  RANGE: So the Chadha baby’s a boy! Thanks, I’ve actually been meaning to ask you that. I could never tell from his Instagram.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Ugh, you’re so racist!

  RANGE: What? No I’m not! What are you talking about?

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: That reminds me, I tore a pocket in my blue blazer. I’ll have to get the Koreans to stitch it up.

  RANGE: Oh my god. What you have to do is stop saying things like that.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Why? I have strong racial preferences when it comes to dry cleaners.

  RANGE: Jesus, Julian. You don’t even mean that. You never mean anything you say.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Excuse me, but Mr. and Mrs. Kim are extremely professional and I’ve come to rely on their sage counsel in matters of sartorial repair.

  RANGE: Only you would render a compliment that offensive.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: And only you would predicate your compliments on how they reflect upon you.

  RANGE: That would sting more if you didn’t look so pleased with yourself for saying it.

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: Goddamn it! Cassie? Can you order me blinds?

  [4:32 PM INCOMING CALL FROM: PAPPAS-FIDICIA, JULIAN (INTERNAL EXTENSION 2235), 1 minute]

  RANGE: Yes?

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: I want to fire Jo
el Francis.

  RANGE: No. We need more programmers, not fewer. Did you like that guy Sara interviewed this afternoon?

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: How can you even ask that? He was wearing a green shirt with a green tie for a job interview. He didn’t even bother to shave.

  RANGE: So?

  PAPPAS-FIDICIA: So he looked like a Macy’s elf at an off-season audition for Duck Dynasty! I swear, it’s like your eyes otherwise cease to function when Sara Khan is ar--

  RANGE: Shit, Julian, I have to g--

  [4:33 PM INCOMING CALL FROM: HOWARD, JACK (WIRELESS NUMBER 215-XXX-XXXX), 6 minutes]

  ECCO ADMIN: Wes Range’s office, this is Cassie, how may I help you?

  HOWARD: Hi, Cassie, this is Jack Howard. I’m the CEO of Mercury Incorporated. I’m hoping to have a quick chat with Wes if he’s around.

  {Background rustling.}

  ECCO ADMIN: Um, yes, Mr. Howard, absolutely, let me transfer you. One moment, please.

  {Pause for transfer.}

  RANGE: Wes Range.

  HOWARD: Wes, this is Jack Howard from Mercury. How are you? I hope you’re not working too hard on this Friday afternoon.

  RANGE: Hey, Jack, good to talk to you. I’m fine, thanks. Just wrapping up a few things before the weekend. How about you?

  HOWARD: My wife and I are headed to our place in Cape May for the weekend, and I’m determined to get in a round at Wildwood.

  RANGE: Oh, very nice! Such a great course. How’s the weather looking?

  HOWARD: You’ve played it?

  RANGE: I’ve been very fortunate.

  HOWARD: Sounds like you’ve also been making some pretty exciting things happen for yourself. I read that piece in Forbes last week. Ecco’s all over my Twitter feed. Congrats.