by Penny Reid
Matt returned with the items and we woke Roger to drink the tea and take some medicine for his fever. Half an hour later, Matt helped the man to the bathroom so he could take a tepid bath. Another half hour later, Roger was sitting up on his couch eating chicken soup and looking at us like we’d been sent from God.
“Thank you. I just—” his voice caught, “—thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Matt replied warmly from where he sat on the carpet. His back rested against the wall, his legs were crossed at the ankle and stretched out before him.
“I didn’t get the flu shot this year, and I know better. In my line of work, I’m in constant close contact with so many people from all over the city.” Roger stopped to cough, covering his mouth with a tissue, then cleared his throat before finishing his thought. “But I was busy and kept forgetting.”
“It’s easy to have tunnel vision when you live alone,” Matt agreed. “Don’t you think so, Marie?”
“Hmm?” I was only half listening to their conversation, still moving around the apartment, making sure all the surfaces had been disinfected.
“Marie. Sit down, take a break,” Matt said, patting the carpet next to him. “You’ve already been over everything three times.”
“I just want to be sure.” I ran the disinfecting wipe over a light switch I was sure I’d missed earlier, catching Matt’s pointed look, then glancing at Roger who was watching me with interest.
“Your guy is right, Florence Nightingale.” Roger gave me a tired smile. “Take a load off.”
Reluctantly, I relented, tossing the wipe in the garbage. Roger watched me as I settled, and I could feel his hazy gaze study us as I sat next to Matt on the carpet. Matt rubbed my back with light circles, his hands moving to my neck and massaging gently along my neck.
“We won’t stay long,” I assured the sick man. “And you should go to sleep as soon as we leave. Thanks to Matt, you’re stocked in chicken soup and essentials for the next three days.”
“Thank you, Matt.” Roger managed a small grin. I imagined, if the man weren’t so ill, the grin would have looked flirtatious.
I peeked at Matt to see if he’d registered what I had. If he did, it didn’t seem to bother him.
“You’re welcome, Roger,” Matt responded easily.
Meanwhile, I still felt uneasy about leaving Roger alone. “Is there anyone at all you can call? Just to check on you and make sure you’re okay?”
“Splitting from my partner has made things . . . strained with our mutual friend group.” Roger sighed, causing a small coughing fit, and shrugged. “I do have one client I can ask.”
“What’s his name? Can we call him?” I pushed.
“Her name is Zara.” Roger turned his head slowly from side to side, as though searching for something. “Uh, I can call. My phone is around here somewhere.”
“I saw it. I disinfected it. It’s next to your computer, charging.” I stood and crossed to his small desk, finding and then handing him the phone, reclaiming my spot next to Matt.
“You know, I’ll ask her if she’d mind talking to you while you’re here. I just feel so badly about you traveling all this way and finding me in this state.”
“Stop apologizing, you have no control over being sick,” I said, hoping to assure him.
“That’s a good idea, though. You could talk to his client, then you wouldn’t have to actually do a session,” Matt said in a quiet voice, not quite a whisper, but low enough that only I would hear.
Setting my jaw, I shook my head. “You are relentless.”
“So are you.” He nudged my shoulder with his, giving me a small, hopeful smile. “Why do you need to do this? Consider a different way.”
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” I snapped, careful to keep my voice low so as not to stress Roger out.
Annoyance spurred me to stand, picking up Roger’s finished bowl of soup and moving to the sink to clean it. I felt Matt’s gaze on my back, but I ignored it, and him. His persistence served only to irritate me.
Roger’s idea—that I interview his client as a replacement for going through with the session—had merit only because my window of opportunity was so short. I couldn’t stay in New York until Roger recovered. And based on my research, I wasn’t comfortable with any of the other dry humpers I’d investigated.
That said, there was absolutely nothing amiss about me going through with a professional dry-humping session. I was a journalist. This was for a story. And even if I hadn’t been a journalist, it wasn’t like I was in a relationship.
Stewing in my aggravation, I decided that Matt’s meddling might have been cute at first, but now it was completely inappropriate.
I’d really and truly stopped holding out hope for Matt, that he would change his mind and be open to exploring something lasting with me. I couldn’t make the horse drink the water.
I. Could. Not.
Therefore, I was at peace with the nature of our friendship.
Plus, there’s the two small elephants in the room we haven’t discussed yet: is he still seeing his lady friend and the fact that he’s being pursued by his old employer.
Eventually, he would have to tell me of his plans to move back to California, if he had such plans.
But a very distinct possibility existed that we would never discuss the woman he’d been snogging in the hallway more than we already had. Because just like me, he could have his opinion about what I did and with whom, but it wouldn’t matter. His feelings for me were platonic and therefore his platonic feelings should remain unaffected by any physical intimacy I chose to share with another person.
Right now, I didn’t have anyone’s feelings to take into consideration other than my own.
“What prompted you to try Roger’s services?”
Zara, Roger’s client, glanced up and to the side, as though consulting her memory. “Dating in New York, at least for a woman, is horrific.”
Her frankness made me smile, but I didn’t commiserate out loud, wanting to keep her talking.
After Roger had messaged Zara, she came by almost immediately. When she’d seen the state of things—how sick he was and how we’d helped him—she immediately agreed to the interview. Presently, she and I were sitting together at Roger’s small kitchen table, talking softly, while he dozed in his bed.
Matt sat on the couch with his laptop open and headphones on, wanting to give us privacy for our conversation, but still not willing to leave me alone with strangers.
“But that wasn’t the thing that made me seek him out,” Zara said, as though making a grave admission.
“What was the thing?” I prompted.
“I was assaulted on a date,” she said matter-of-factly, but it was clear the incident had—and continued to—affect her deeply. “It happened four years ago. I couldn’t bring myself to go out again, not for a long time. Men . . . became these frightening creatures. I saw threats everywhere. Reasonably, I knew I’d been hurt by just one man. I knew that. I know that. But knowing and believing are two different things.” She gave me a self-deprecating smile that made my heart ache.
I tried to return it with understanding, not pity.
“So . . . when I finally did go on a date, I had a panic attack.” Her attention moved to someplace behind me. “My therapist suggested immersion therapy, but it’s difficult to be exposed to a date or physical intimacy without actually going on a date. One of my therapist’s colleagues suggested—informally of course—Roger’s services.”
“And, if you don’t mind my asking, has that worked?”
Zara considered me for a long moment while she thought about my question, finally responding with, “I don’t know. I mean, Roger has helped me. He’s a beautiful soul.”
“Do you think you find him non-threatening because of his sexual orientation? That it’s easier to trust him because of it?”
She tilted her head to the side, like she didn’t understand the question. “What do you mea
n?”
“That Roger, being gay, is—”
“Roger isn’t gay. He’s bisexual.”
“Oh.” Didn’t see that coming.
“You thought he was gay?”
“Yes. My colleague—who recommended Roger to me—implied that he was gay.”
Zara shook her head, giving me a warm smile. “No. He’s not. And to answer your question, I don’t think of Roger as safe because of his sexual orientation. I think of him as safe because of his sexuality.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“He’s free from shame,” she said simply, one of her cheeks showcasing a dimple as she smiled. “It’s so refreshing to be around someone—a man—who doesn’t feel like he needs to prove his masculinity by being tough or by not being vulnerable. I trust him because he is willing to be vulnerable. Roger is loving and patient and truly wants to make others feel good, in the moment and about themselves in the long-term. In a sense, he’s a modern day Don Juan. A lover of lovers, and a lover of love. He’s shown me that being sexual isn’t something to be ashamed of. Not when it comes from a place of mutual respect. Just as important, he’s shown me that being sexual doesn’t mean having sex. It can be wearing a sexy outfit, or holding hands.”
“But you said,” I glanced at my notes, “you said you felt like Roger had helped you, but you weren’t sure if his services had worked.”
“That’s right.” She nodded, taking a deep breath as though preparing herself to speak weighty thoughts, or admit something unpleasant. “I know I should want to have a partner. I know I should want to date someone who I don’t have to pay to be intimate with me. But I don’t. I don’t want to.”
“So, you haven’t been on any more dates?”
“No. I haven’t. Roger has helped me, definitely, but whenever I think about dating someone, I still feel the same crippling anxiety. Except now, now that I have Roger, I have no reason to address that anxiety or clear that hurdle. He gives me everything I need. And so I don’t feel like I need to date anyone. Ever.”
19
FreeHAL
A self-learning conversation simulator (chatterbot) which uses semantic nets to organize its knowledge to imitate human behavior within conversations.
Source: Chatterbox Challenge
“Marie?”
“What?” I blinked, bringing Matt back into focus.
His eyebrows were expectant arches suspended on his forehead as he glanced meaningfully to the side. I followed his gaze and found our waiter had returned.
Crap.
We’d left Roger to Zara’s gentle care and walked the Village streets until we found a promising-looking and wonderful-smelling bistro. Matt pulled me inside and now here we were.
“I’m sorry,” I split my attention between them both, “I still don’t know what I want. Can I have a few more minutes?”
“Do you mind if I order an appetizer then? I’m hungry.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“In the mood for anything?” he asked.
“No. Please. Go ahead. Order whatever.” I read the menu, hoping something would jump out at me.
“We’ll take the beets au gratin and the baked brie tart. Oh! And the chicken liver pâté. And a bottle of wine. Red something. I trust your judgment.”
The waiter smirked without looking up, finished writing our order, and left us.
As soon as he was gone, Matt asked, “Are you still thinking about Zara?”
I nodded, setting my elbow on the table and placing my chin in my palm. “I just feel so badly for her.”
I’d told Matt the gist of Zara’s story as we’d searched for a place to eat. I’d be writing about her anyway, so I didn’t feel I was breaking her trust by telling Matt what we’d discussed. Plus, I needed to talk about it. I needed to process it.
“Why? Because her choices don’t adhere to traditional ideas of normality? Because she doesn’t want a romantic life partner?” Despite the pointed nature of the questions, his tone was gentle.
“No. Not at all. If she’d eschewed traditional ideas of normality because it was her choice to begin with, or because she’d found an innovative solution that brought her true happiness, then I’d applaud her resilience against the pressures of society’s dictates. But it’s not. She’s not happy. This isn’t her first choice. She feels . . . trapped.”
Matt nudged his silverware until they were all perfectly parallel. “Did she say that?’ His voice sounded odd, tight, and he wasn’t looking at me.
“She didn’t have to. She’s found a work-around, and recognizes that it’s not what she wants, but fear keeps her from moving forward. She’s crippled, but she’s not too broken, not enough to put the effort in to fix her situation.”
He examined me, looking surprised. “Not too broken?”
“Exactly.”
“Interesting choices of words.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” An edge of something new entered his voice; was it defensiveness? “Because not everyone wants or needs to be fixed, Marie.”
“I know that, Matt. I’m not trying to fix her, and I’m not judging her,” or you, you stupid, stupid dehydrated horse, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I wish . . .”
Damn.
“What? What do you wish?” he asked quietly, studying me intently, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth.
Crap.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
What are you doing?
I thought I was over wishing for more with Matt, but it continued to rear its ugly head.
Again, nothing is ever going to happen. You know this. Still wanting him, after seeing with your own eyes that he’s sleeping with other women, makes you pathetic. He said he loves sex, didn’t he?
I was so frustrated with myself. I should have known he’d be hooking up with other people. He’d probably been sleeping with other women this whole time. I shouldn’t have been surprised when I saw him last Friday.
Let it go. Let it go. Why can’t you just let it go?
What was it going to take for me to stop wishing?
Zara’s words from earlier floated to my forebrain, knowing and believing are two different things.
“Never mind.” I closed my menu, leaned back, and crossed my arms. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Surprisingly, he allowed me to change the subject without pushing back. “What are you getting?”
“Matt, you ordered so many appetizers, I don’t need to get anything.”
“No. You should order something. You know me, I’ll probably eat all the appetizers, and my dinner, and part of yours.”
He had a point there. Which led me to ask a question I’d been wondering about since he first came to my apartment and ate everything I’d placed in front of him.
“How can you eat so much all the time without gaining any weight?”
Matt took a drink from his water glass, eyeing me over it. “I have a really high metabolism. I was that kid in high school who never got picked for football because I was so weak, but always got picked for dodge ball.”
“Why’d you get picked for dodge ball?”
“Because I’d turn sideways and disappear.” He returned his glass to the table and seemed to be meditating on its condensation drops.
“Is that why you started working out? To become bigger? Stronger?”
Matt lifted his eyes to mine, the side of his mouth curving into a flirty smile. “Who says I work out?”
Stopping myself just before I snorted, I opened my menu and looked through their pasta dishes again, in the mood for something with a lot of veggies but also meat sauce. I was not in the mood to flirt with Matt the Impervious.
The ache in my chest told me I should never be in the mood to flirt with Matt the Impervious ever again.
He was quiet while I perused the menu, then he said, “I started working out because I wanted to be more attractive to women.”
That grabbed my attention, my eyes cu
tting to his. “Really?”
Matt nodded once. “Yes.”
“You didn’t think you were attractive before you started working out?”
He shook his head, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “No. I wasn’t. I know I wasn’t.”
“Matt—”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be admired by the opposite sex, especially when the opposite sex is notorious for not giving guys like me the time of day,” he said stubbornly, though he didn’t raise his voice.
“Guys like you?”
“Nice guys,” he said, sounding defensive, almost defiant, like he dared me to disagree with him.
Before I could catch myself, I asked, “Is that why you still work out?” but then I bit my lip to stop from asking if he’d been working out to impress women.
“No.” He shook his head, his attention dropping to the table as much of his defensive posture eased. “That’s not why I do it now.”
“Why then? For health?”
“No.” His eyes moved up and to the side. “Once I did it for a while, I couldn’t stop. I like being stronger, faster, more agile. I have a lot of room for improvement and constantly improving myself appeals to me.”
“Hmm.” I peered at him, absorbing this information.
I have a lot of room for improvement . . .
“Do you think,” I held my breath for a beat, “do you think you’re in a competition?”
“Yes. But not how you mean.” His attention was back on his silverware, nudging it with his fingers. “I’m in competition with myself, not with others.” He released a breath and it sounded tired, then he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, his mouth hitching to one side wryly. “I’d like to think of myself as fine wine, getting better with age, more robust, more complex. But I accept that when I was young, I resembled the simplicity of grape juice.”
I exhaled a short, surprised laugh, but then a wave of melancholy crashed over me followed by a spark of anger directed at his parents. Even so, I forced a smile and determined not to allow my emotions to run away from me.