When I return to the bedroom, Robin is gone. I don’t know whether to climb back into bed or search for her in the labyrinth of illustrious white chic. I look around, noting a stack of slim poetry books, loved and well-thumbed, resting on a mirrored dresser; a Basquiat print, dozens of blush peonies in an antique vase. Hanging from an armoire is a long vintage kimono, wisteria and cranes hand-painted across the collar. The sound of footsteps interrupts my curiosity.
Robin appears at the door, a cream cashmere dressing gown wrapped around her lithe body, hands working its tie as we catch each other’s eyes.
“Coffee?” she asks, walking toward me.
Be nice to her, Runner says, her voice slow and cool. Just stay for a little while, get to know her.
“Thanks,” I say, catching Robin’s hand, “I take it black.”
“Sugar?”
“Please.”
Robin kisses my mouth.
“But first—” She smiles, guiding my waist.
We glide toward the bed, part of me sensing Runner’s libidinous joy, the flutter of her belly like roused butterflies.
Okay, I get it, I say, you like her.
Runner smiles from the Nest, heart slamming against her chest as she pops an angled leg out like a precious gift, a hint that I might do the same for Robin’s touch.
Wake me up when you’re done. Oneiroi yawns. I’m not into the whole older-woman thing.
I pause, wondering:
We can reinvent ourselves—a little.
Robin hands me a cup of postsex coffee, its smell familiar, sweet and intense. Resting her fingers on my belly, she lightly lowers her stroke to my thigh. Stirred, I edge closer. Her touch all at once attuned and thrilling, her gaze locked on my slow sips.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Robin asks.
“No.” I smile, noting Runner, in the Nest, smoking her second Lucky Strike.
“Would you like one?” Robin shines.
“Maybe,” I flirt.
She laughs, her head tilted back. There is luxury in her demeanor, fifty-three years affording her ease in both conversation and sex. I note how relaxed she feels in her skin, how aware she is of her presence and zeal. My whole being starts to sing like an aria of hope.
I told you she’s amazing, Runner whispers.
You’re right, I agree.
I try to imagine myself, momentarily, in three decades’ time. Whether I too could inhabit such confidence and allure when asking a woman half my age if she might like to date.
“I like being with you.” Robin smiles. “I like how easy it feels.”
“Same,” I say, immediately realizing I’ve spoken too quickly. Like I haven’t given her words time to settle, or the respect and tenderness they deserve.
I place my coffee on the nightstand and lean into Robin’s shimmering collarbone. Her smooth skin smelling, not unpleasantly, of sleep and sex. I scout around for a sentence, words that will let her know how good it feels to be with her. Words that will mirror her words.
Get out of your head, Runner whispers. Just tell her how you feel.
A pause.
“I’m damaged goods,” I risk, “but I like being with you too. Too much, maybe.”
“Does that frighten you?” she asks.
“A little,” I say.
She smiles.
“You know what? We’re all out of whack,” she says.
I feel the Body relax. My limbs heavy and satisfied, like they’ve been massaged and stretched. A grateful pain washes over me, offering the sharp truth of what intimacy and kindness really feel like. I wonder why I’ve been avoiding this kind of closeness. Why I’ve steered clear of female touch. Part of me—That would be me, Runner says with a smile—always knowing women to be tender, yet somehow fearing their power.
Not every woman will leave you, Runner says, her eyes turning damp. The smoke from her cigarette now climbing the sky, like a bird. For a moment, I picture my mother—no warning that she was about to end her life. She and I had been at the kitchen table, pressing wildflowers that we’d picked on our way home from school between thin pages of heavy books. A telephone directory for her, a Gideon’s Bible for me.
Flash.
“This one’s pretty,” Mama says, holding out a fresh buttercup and placing it beneath my chin.
“I can see you like butter.” She smiles.
“Let me,” I say.
Handing me the tiny yellow flower, my mother tilts her face north.
“You too,” I coo, happy to be just like her. A lemon glow cast against her skin.
Flash.
She takes my hands.
“Never forget what you like and who you are,” she says.
“I don’t understand,” I reply.
She kisses both hands. Her eyes drifting as if an invisible line has pitched her gaze toward the dining room door, ajar.
“Your baba, he wants us to be a certain way, to like what he likes,” she whispers.
“Like a good girl?” I say, pressing down hard, the buttercup hidden. Flat.
I watch a single tear leave and travel down her cheek.
“Mama?” I say.
Flash.
“You are good.” She finally speaks, her gaze now returned. “You mustn’t forget that either.”
Flash.
Robin leans in and kisses my neck.
“If you don’t call me, I’ll understand,” she says. “But if you do, be ready—for something amazing. Something real.”
I look away, her words aflame. A bird rising inside me, scorched wings, fear ignited should it fly too close to the sun and whirl to its death.
25
Daniel Rosenstein
“How much time did you lose?”
“Couple of hours,” she says, straightening the rug between us, “four, five tops.”
“Do you plan on meeting her again?”
“I’m not sure; maybe.” She shrugs, staring at two squabbling patients outside. “But I guess Runner might.”
“And what about you?” I ask.
“She was lovely.” She shrugs again. “But—”
“But?” I stare at her intently.
“I don’t know,” she says, “it feels scary somehow.”
“How so?”
Silent, she looks away. Refusing my curiosity.
Today she arrived fifteen minutes early. Caught me daydreaming with a fistful of beef jerky as I turned the corner to my office. Startled, I held the dried meat behind my back as if hiding something I shouldn’t have. The reality of unusual junk food for breakfast not something I wish to share with anyone, especially my patients.
“I’m early!” Her voice glowed. “I’ll just wait here until it’s time. Boundaries!” Then winked.
I smiled.
“See you shortly,” I said, closing the door.
Her hair is loose today. A casual sweater thrown over her shoulders, a tight denim miniskirt buttoned over knitted leggings below a pale blouse. Clacking on her arms: a stack of bangles and bracelets, all different colors and shapes. An eccentric look, I think. Strange. I wonder who dressed her this morning, then suppose more than one of her was at work, each personality undecided or fighting for a say. I picture them, the Flock, all jostling for power like feuding siblings playing dress-up.
We sit in silence while I tongue a stubborn piece of jerky lodged between two top teeth, wondering if Alexa realizes her fear of intimacy is tied up with her mother’s suicide. If she understands that her night with Robin has thrown her off course, her feelings of longing too much to bear.
She shuffles in her chair, pulls down on her skirt.
“I’m sorry about our last session,” she starts up again. Her gaze now returned.
A pause.
“For?”
“For standing so close to you. I was confused. Forgive me.”
“Boundaries are important, they—”
“I know,” she interrupts, her voice slow and steady. “You said before.”
“They keep us safe,” I finish.
She stares down at the rug, a lick of shame in her eyes.
“Any time anyone shows me they care,” she says, “I mistake it for thinking I have to have sex with them.”
“That you’re obligated in some way?”
“I guess.”
“Scraps,” I say.
She looks to me, perplexed.
“Your father offered you scraps and you were grateful. Part of you believed you were obligated—sexually.”
“Yes.”
“You were not.”
“I know.” She smiles shyly.
Silence lingers between us.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I still have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.”
“I just want to feel loved,” she whispers. “You and I being close like that—it felt nice. I liked it. I’m sorry.”
I imagine her turning herself inside out: heart worn on her sleeve.
“Often when two people feel safe, or intimate,” I say, “the feeling gets eroticized.”
She looks up, a hot stare.
“I sometimes miss out on the intimacy bit,” she says, “and jump straight into downright fancying.”
“Like you did with Shaun?” I ask.
She nods. “Runner does the whole intimacy thing. She likes it. Makes her feel, you know, whole.”
“Like last night?”
She smiles. A different smile now, coquettish. “It felt different . . . tender.”
I lean forward. “And safe,” I offer.
“And safe,” she returns. She licks her lips, lowers her eyes.
“We just, you know, talked. Robin made lychee martinis.” She giggles. “We drank a lot.”
“The alcohol? It loosened you up.”
She stares and then pinches her mouth, seemingly displeased. My interpretation, I realize, too hasty. A fat slice of distance wedged now between us. Damn.
“No,” she says, “it didn’t loosen us up. It was nice. Fun. Safe.”
I fear I’ve dampened her mood now. Shamed and exposed her in some way.
“I’m sorry,” I say, attempting to claw back the moment, “it wasn’t my intention to make assumptions.”
“Okay,” she allows. Suspicious.
“Sounds like you and Robin had a good time,” I add playfully, realizing I haven’t quite won her back yet.
“Mm.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“It’s okay, Daniel. Really.”
“What about the lychee martinis, any good?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She shines, her mood dropped like a pebble in a lake, minor ripples now killed. “They were lethal!”
We laugh.
Some time ago I worked with a young woman named Joanna, who shared how after our sessions she would buy a sweet pastry on her way home. I thought I was being terribly clever offering interpretations such as: “You feel the need to sweeten our sessions,” or “The pastry offers comfort for your hurt.” The work eventually became stuck. There was nowhere left to go. I was robbing her of any self-discovery. That is, until I discussed our work with Mohsin, who suggested I ease off. “Ask her what kind of pastry,” he said. “More curiosity, less interpretation.”
What followed was a rich exploration into the sweet pastries, what they represented, and why Joanna made certain choices on particular days. Why when she felt rejected she would choose strawberry tarts—a specialty of her mother’s that were baked every Sunday after her father left one morning, never to return. When she was angry she chose truffles. “They can be scarfed—whole,” she said, “and lots of them.” On the days she felt melancholic, Joanna ate almond croissants. She would slowly peel away the fine layers of flaky pastry until the feeling finally left her, by which time she’d usually reached the gooey almond paste inside: a reward for getting through the melancholia.
In remembering this, I recognize my clumsy interpretation of Alexa’s story as unhelpful, just as my work with Joanna was limited at first. Ease off on her, I tell myself, don’t presume to tell her what she’s thinking, or feeling. It will choke her, and stunt the analysis.
“I love lychee,” Alexa continues. “You?”
“With ice cream,” I say.
“Ooh, or what about crushed pistachio or syrup?”
“Sounds delicious.”
“When I was small my father used to do this trick. He’d peel the top off the lychee and pop the whole thing out in one go,” she says with a laugh, “pretend it was one of his eyes.” She shakes her head.
“A fond memory?” I ask.
“He had his moments.”
“Though few and far between, as I recall.”
Silence.
“I refuse to let him spoil my mood today,” she says brightly. “That’s good, right?”
“Right.”
“I must be getting better.”
Silence.
“Right?” she persists.
Not wishing to gratify, I simply offer her my eyes.
She clears her throat.
“Just for today I am strong. Just for today I will try my best to be the person I needed when I was young.”
“Good,” I commend.
She stares at me, seemingly grateful for my gentle stroke.
“I fear I’m becoming too dependent on you,” she says, voice shaking at the edge.
“Three months with someone, and you’re dependent?”
“So it seems.”
“Does this have something to do with my going away next month?”
She nods.
“It’s important we spend some time on this,” I say, “so you can tell me how you feel. How my going away might trigger previous separations, or losses. Your mother, maybe?”
“I tried to in our last session.”
I think back, trying to lasso memories of what she said, thinking I’ll check my notes, but then I suddenly remember her words: Please don’t go, please stay.
“You asked me not to go,” I speak gently, “to stay.”
“I know. I’m ridiculous.”
“I disagree. I think you were being honest.”
“And ridiculous.”
“Maybe a touch punitive.”
She smiles.
“Fancy a little holiday here at Glendown?” she jokes.
“I’m not sure the weather’s up to it,” I say.
“I hear they make a mean margarita in that cafeteria of yours.”
“Never been that keen on lime.”
“Manhattan?”
“Or whiskey.”
“Lychee mocktail?” She winks.
“Now you’re talking.” I laugh.
She stands, and this time a playful warmth swirls between our bodies. The cheeky little cocktail dance is both enjoyable and spontaneous, proving much different from our last session. I note her ease and my appreciation. Her play something to inspire any shrink, sustaining joy when we start to flag, sometimes unappreciated. A slow but steady disenchantment built from years of giving.
26
Alexa Wú
Closing time. Ugly lights. The scrape of chairs being pulled, flipped, and rested on the small mirrored tables while the cleaning crew wipes away sin. Ella catches my unease. Our spat, her threat of freezing me out at the Electra last month not fully resolved.
Jane, unsteady on a barstool, turns to face us. Her eyes wet, bloodshot, and pinched. Sylvie is seated beside her, a look of concern on her face while she strokes her friend’s hand. I note a bloodied scuff on Jane’s beautiful collarbones. A violet bruise on her knee. She flinches as we approach—a twitching hare—while Shaun moves clean glasses to the top shelf of the bar.
“Hey,” Ella says, resting her hand on Jane’s shoulder, both of us now close enough to smell the sharp liquor on her breath. “What happened?”
Jane looks down at the floor.
“I’m fine,” she says, nodding her head. Her hair, I can see, is matted and plastered to her skull.
<
br /> “No, you’re not,” Sylvie whispers. “Tell her what happened.”
Jane throws her a look. “Sylvie, please.”
“Why do you keep protecting him? Why?”
Ella moves forward. “You don’t look fine,” she says.
“I said I’m fine.”
Ella grabs a barstool, drags it close, and sits so their knees touch. “Looks like you could do with a drink?”
Jane creates some distance by resting her long arms on the bar. “Whiskey, then,” she allows.
“Make that two,” Sylvie adds.
I walk toward Shaun, knowing we’ve been drifting apart for a while, his eyes, I note, avoiding mine.
“She needs some whiskey,” I say, waiting at the tail end of the bar.
“Here, take the bottle,” he says, guardedly reaching over to kiss my mouth.
Bystanding bastard, Runner says.
I offer him my cheek. Not able to fully accept his fancy. An awful and prudent realization that he doesn’t really want me, or care about me. Not really.
When I return, Jane is knocking knees with Ella, a small bowl of water cupped in her unstill hands. Sylvie takes a cotton ball, dips it in, and pats the crown of her friend’s head—blood turning the cotton pink.
“We got into an argument,” says Jane. “Navid found out it was me who introduced Annabelle to Viktor.”
“Viktor?” Ella and I chime.
“The Russian,” she says, irritated. “We used to date.”
Sylvie dabs her head and its sticky wound, this time leaving the cotton a while longer. “It’s the only place the bruises won’t show,” she says, shaking her head. “Apparently punters don’t like to pay to see battered strippers. It spoils the fantasy.”
Her words find my gut, giving it a sharp twist.
“All right, Sylvie!” Jane barks, pushing Sylvie’s hand away.
“Do you need to go to the hospital?” I offer.
“No,” she says, reaching for a cigarette, “I have to wait here. Navid wants the other girls to see me like this. I’m to be made an example of, apparently.”
“That’s fucked up,” Ella says.
“You only just realized?”
Runner suddenly seizes the Light, spotting Navid through a chink of open door next to the bar.
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