by Melissa Ford
“What are you talking about? You’ve been working non-stop on those outfits.”
“It’s been more like stop-and-start. I haven’t gotten enough done, and I’m feeling stressed again.”
“Then what better way to relax than with a good, old-fashioned orgasm?”
I can hear Beckett’s somnolent breathing through the baby monitor, the deep, satisfied snuffles of sleep. Sex suddenly feels like another task from someone else’s to-do list that I need to accomplish before I can go to bed myself, and I hate myself for thinking of it like that. I love Ethan, love that he finds me sexy and always wants to have his hands on me. I’m just overtired and overworked. I try to keep the resentment out of my body and voice as I allow him to lead me to the bedroom.
“What’s the worst that will happen?” Ethan asks me between kisses down my neck. “Those writers will have to go to the Emmys naked?”
I keep my breathing even, careful and slow, my brain a million miles away, working on the toiles and trying not to blow this opportunity. I think about the way David Lear smiled at me when he leaned in to tell me he liked my designs. I remind myself for the millionth time that Ethan doesn’t understand; he doesn’t get what is riding on this, how important it is to me, how difficult it is to break into the fashion world. I’ll be able to get to work and subsequently to bed faster if I just get into this; give myself twenty minutes to have an orgasm and lie with Ethan, and then he’ll let me get to work without guilt.
I kiss him hungrily, as if my mouth needs him apart from me, as if it has its own mind, racing over his lips, tasting him. I bring my mouth to the space behind his ear, the warm dip, down his jugular vein, and into his shoulder valley, the down step of skin at the base of his neck. I bring my tongue in there and lick it as I would the inside of a cake batter bowl, salty and muted, as if my tongue has caught a bubble of flour.
I release his arms so he can unbutton my shirt while I peel off his t-shirt, drop it on the floor next to the bed. He pulls off my opened jeans. I bring my bare foot up the side of Ethan’s body and he shudders with pleasure, a long sigh of his body. It’s his body readying itself in anticipation for a release. He brings me into his shudder, wrapping his arms around my back again and holding me to him until I think I can feel his body humming, his blood flowing, cells dividing. I press myself against him, wanting to obliterate every tiny pocket of air between us, any molecule holding us apart, as if those spaces are Bubble Wrap that I can pop and deflate. Slide us together.
He pushes me over, climbing on top of me, pulling on a condom without comment this time, and slides himself into me. I catch my breath, and then he’s moving inside of me, sending currents all the way into my bones, lightning speed, that rearrange themselves when they reach my brain into an image of his face behind my closed eyes. He’s right in front of me, but I close my eyes and replay that first night on my sofa when we realized we were about to kiss. The way his eyes looked while I was on the telephone.
I trace Ethan’s name into his shoulder with my finger, unconsciously writing his name over and over again on his skin until I orgasm, clenching deliciously, almost painfully, underneath him. He finishes a moment later, too, clearly having barely held on to give me a chance to reach orgasm first—ever the gentleman. He collapses a bit on top of me, trying to shift most of his weight to the bed while he remains inside of me.
“Ari,” he yawns, his cheek smushed into my shoulder, “I’m spent. Let’s get ready for bed and watch mindless television.”
“I have to work,” I say softly.
I can’t tell if Ethan doesn’t hear me, or if he’s refraining from saying anything, but he allows me to slip out from underneath him and gather up my clothes as I tiptoe into the bathroom to clean up. By the time I’m set up in the living room with my sewing in front of me, I can hear Ethan tuned into old reruns of Saturday Night Live in the bedroom.
I hate myself that it isn’t the orgasm that brings a sense of relief, but instead this feeling that I’m getting something done. The needle traveling through the fabric as I stitch together my ideas. Everything will be different after Fashion Week, I promise myself. I just have to get through Fashion Week.
But several hours later, the lights dimmed in our bedroom while Ethan sleeps and hours of work ahead of me keeping me up, I wonder if I’ll even make it to Fashion Week. Will we even make it to Fashion Week if Ethan doesn’t start understanding how much pressure I’m under. There’s a reason why everyone is always hooking up at the loft. It isn’t just working in close proximity to one another for long hours that drives people to make out in the notions closet. People want to be with others who understand their kooky schedule. Actors date other actors, writers turn to other writers who will understand their need for solitude, and fashion insiders understand that life grinds to a standstill before September and February. I sew to the sound of Ethan’s snoring, trying not to feel resentful that I’m still awake, working.
Around one in the morning, I yawn and set down my needle. I gently fold the material and place it inside my bag, sweep the toys into their proper place, and bring the dishes to the sink. I brush up the crumbs, put away the dishes from the drying rack, and wash the mustard-encased butter knife that was sticking to the counter. I finally turn around and check email to see if Rachel canceled on me. I don’t have time to hang out, but she pointed out how little we’ve seen of each other so I made lunch plans with her when I already had a salon appointment scheduled at Mario Diab to kill two birds with one stone. I scroll down through junk emails and mailing list, but no email from my best friend. I rub my forehead, wishing I could freeze time for everyone else and magically tuck an extra week into life. And barring that, that everyone would miraculously become busy at the same time (except my parents, who would ask to take Beckett on a trip) and give me a little space so I can feel, for once, as if I’m on top of things instead of lagging behind.
I swing by Rachel’s blog, visiting her like a good friend. I sometimes wonder if she still checks the site metrics software we installed months ago; if she knows that I stop by to read her daily even when I don’t have time to call or text. I am thinking about her. That has to count for something.
There’s a lot of freedom in working for yourself, but it’s also a lonely endeavor. It’s too easy to go for days without speaking to another human being. I sometimes get needy with cashiers at the grocery store, dumping long stories on them while they try to ring up my toilet paper and cartons of milk. I can see their thoughts clearly in their eyes as I refrain from stroking their arm: “get a job in an office.”
Except where could I work entirely on projects that fulfill me? That make me feel vital, as if I’m doing work that only I can complete? Anyone can check off tasks from someone else’s to-do list, can help someone else fulfill their creative work. Because wasn’t that what I was doing when I worked at the library? I was just providing materials for an exhibition that someone else curated; and even that was just an amalgamation of other people’s creativity. I was three times removed from the act of creation, or three times onion-unraveled into the act of creation, depending on how charitable I felt in thinking about my work in the moment.
But I am the only person who can write this particular post. The ideas are entirely in my brain, and it’s up to me to take them out and put them into words. Those recipes are entirely my own. If I don’t make them, they will never exist on this earth. Would it be a huge loss? Who can say. But I like to feel as if the work I’m doing is important to someone.
I look toward the closed bedroom door, wishing that I could wake up Ethan and shove his sister’s words in front of his face. This is exactly how I feel. I mean, not the needy conversations with grocery clerks, but that feeling of producing something that wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for me. Isn’t that why we’re here? To make our personal mark on this earth?
Before I shut down the computer and go to s
leep, I Google Noah Reiser’s name out of curiosity, wondering where he worked before he ended up at the Nightly. I find his Facebook page, some pictures on Flickr, and a few articles that reference past jobs, including the one as a joke writer for the Oscars. I feel like I’m working on a puzzle, sliding pieces of a person’s life together to try to see the complete picture.
I look at the two closed bedroom doors, my two boys fast asleep behind them, and I erase my search history and close the browser, putting Noah firmly out of my mind.
MY LEG IS jiggling under the table, knocking the white linen tablecloth as if a motor is flicking the fabric. It started running the moment Rachel and I sat down at Petit Tweet, a faux French restaurant close to Mario Diab that caters to tourists but happens to also make the best Salade Niçoise in Manhattan. The vinaigrette alone is worth dining next to large families carting around many shopping bags.
The last time my leg went crazy, I was waiting to hear Francesca’s thoughts about my drawings—an understandable response. But this time, I have no clue why my leg is vibrating or why I’ve recracked my knuckles so many times that I half expect my fingers to fall off before I can eat my salad. Before I walked into the restaurant, I was excited to catch up with Rachel and discuss last night’s blog post. So I can’t tell if I’m nervous that Rachel is going to want to talk incessantly about weddings, or if I’m anxious because I have a mound of work at home that I’m not currently tackling. Or if I’m just suddenly cognizant of how out of place I feel with my best friend once our discussion of her blog post fizzles out, as if I just noticed that she’s moved across the country and we’re trying to talk through two tin cans attached only by yarn.
Before we met up this morning, I dropped off Beckett with the nanny and then swung by the loft to drop off last night’s work and pick up anything I could do over the weekend, promising Francesca my undivided attention starting on Monday. I told her that I could be in the loft as long as she needed me all next week. I didn’t quite have time to work out in my head how I’ll actually swing the extra hours, but it was worth saying the words because Francesca looked placated enough to release me to drop off the fabric at home, which gave me just enough time to subway over to Soho so I could breathlessly run to meet Rachel for an early lunch before my eyebrow appointment.
And now I am finally sitting still for the first time all morning, but it feels as if I’m still moving, still racing to get somewhere. Rachel tells me a long story about another blogger named FoodieGirl. I blink rapidly while I drain my Diet Coke and motion to the waiter for a second one.
“Then she asked if you were going to the Emmys, and I told her that I didn’t think so. And that Ethan mentioned all of us coming over to watch the Emmys at your place that night.”
“What?” I ask, realizing that I should have been paying better attention. I stifle a yawn, covering my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Because she thought she might be able to meet up with you there,” Rachel repeats. “But you’ll be here, right?”
“Right. And why will she be out there?”
“Well, she lives in Los Angeles. But I just told you; she’s doing the food for the HBO after party.”
“Right,” I say. “Got it now. No, I’ll be here. With you guys at my apartment.”
“Do you want me to do the food for the party?”
“Party? We’re having a party?”
“Ari, are you listening at all? I just told you, Ethan told us that we should come over and watch with you. Don’t you want us there when the Nightly team wins and your designs are on national television?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Yes, I’d love that. I’m sorry, Rach, but I’m fried. Beckett was sick all week and I’ve been trying to get the toiles done and I have to keep up with all my normal Fashion Week craziness at the same time . . .”
“I know you’re busy,” Rachel interrupts.
I want to ask her if she knows that I’m busy, why did she put one more thing on my plate at the moment, but I hold my tongue and accept the fresh glass of Diet Coke from the waiter, who swings by our table.
“I mean, it sounds like an insane schedule. The Emmy dresses, Fashion Week. When are you getting any time to just relax and hang out with Ethan?”
I narrow my eyes, wondering if Ethan asked her to slip in that question. I shrug my shoulders. “We’re figuring it out. It’s like you said in your post. If I don’t do it, it won’t get done. Believe me, I’d love to go to bed before one in the morning, but I have work I have to do.” I take a delicate bite of lettuce, trying to think of the best way to phrase things as I chew. “With Ethan’s job being part-time, we sort of need this extra money right now. But, I mean, it’s also my career. I’m doing all of this because I’m trying to launch my career.”
I cringe, certain that Rachel is going to be pissed that I’ve criticized her brother, but she merely trades a chunk of her tuna for a sliver of egg from my plate. “It has to be better than when he was unemployed.”
“Oh yeah, it’s a lot better,” I agree, even though underemployed isn’t really much better than unemployed. I try to squeeze the memory of the full-time job he turned down out of my head. “But rent for a two-bedroom anywhere in Manhattan is insane. You know that. And then paying Martina. It will be different once I have my own design house.”
“But if you’re this busy now, do you really think things will calm down once you’re in charge of a whole team of people? Won’t you always be racing around in the lead-up to Fashion Week? For the rest of your life? I mean, I don’t see how it can become any less busy when it’s your name on the label.”
I fight down the words that are rising up in my throat. That not all of us have it as easy as Rachel, a book deal practically handed to her just because she has a popular blog. Lounging about in the apartment, writing whenever she wishes. She may complain on her blog that it’s hard work, but I can’t see how writing is that difficult. She can do it from any location, entirely around her schedule. I am so jealous that if we were in one of those terrible reality television shows right now, I’d be overturning the table and we’d engage in a full-on catfight much to the entertainment of the family to our left speaking in loud Southern accents.
I know it’s just my exhaustion bubbling up, coating all my emotions in a hazy concoction of bitterness mixed with anxiety and guilt, that makes me angry with myself for not putting my foot down and telling Rachel that I can’t possibly meet for lunch today. Because here I am, once again feeling as if I’m getting further and further behind, setting myself up for less time with Beckett and more late nights, all to accommodate someone else’s whim—and to get lectured about my career goals to boot, despite the fact that everything she wrote on her blog supports my artistic work.
I’m giving another hour to someone else, and the only time I’m retaining for myself today will be used to rip hair from my face at an eyebrow waxing appointment. I can feel the space between my eyes creasing, and perhaps Rachel notices it too, because she immediately backs off, promising me that all the time spent will be worth it once my clothes are on the backs of fabulous Manhattanites.
“I mean, you’re right, your schedule probably won’t be the same because you’ll be in charge of everything,” she tells me. “You’ll just start prepping for Fashion Week ahead of time, spreading it out so you can have your nights with Ethan. Maybe you’ll even start working out of your apartment again!”
“Exactly,” I mumble, even though I don’t believe it any more than Rachel does. The thought of feeling this stressed out for the rest of my life makes the Salade Niçoise in my stomach roll around as if it’s in a gymnastics competition. I drop my fork onto my plate, suddenly incapable of taking one more bite despite all my favorite pieces of tuna remaining uneaten.
“So,” Rachel says, twenty minutes later as we stroll out of Petit Tweet. Actually, Rachel strolls. I stalk, as i
f walking faster will somehow add more minutes into my day. “To Mario Diab?”
I feel ill, as if I’m coming down with a stomach virus, except I know that my only problem is that I’m tensing my body so tightly that even my intestines feel squeezed. My sweaty forehead isn’t due to the heat; I’m wringing all the moisture out of my body through worry alone. How did everything get so complicated since Ethan moved in? I’d never had trouble before balancing friendships and work and Beckett. I’ve also always been able to unload anything frustrating me, I remind myself, and I certainly can’t do that now. If I was nervous pointing out our financial situation due to Ethan’s part-time job, how could I possibly vent about how half my stress is because instead of being supportive and having my back, he’s making me out to be a workaholic while he leaves the apartment in various states of disrepair?
I blot at my forehead with the back of my hand, wondering if I’ve picked up Beckett’s virus. Wouldn’t that just be perfect, to be curled up on the bathroom floor vomiting when I have seven toiles that need to be finished and on those writers’ bodies as soon as possible. I will my lunch to stay put and take a few deep breaths while Rachel talks about something funny that her niece Penelope said.
I’ve noticed that Rachel has yet to bring up her wedding, and I can’t tell if she’s doing it out of kindness for me or if there is nothing new to report on the planning front. But I am suddenly filled—despite the fact that I can’t vent about Ethan and she’s two-faced about her blog posts—with weepy gratitude for my best friend and a strong desire for the days when we used to have time to sit around and drink coffee or watch stupid movies or browse bookstores. That time before I started dating Ethan, before Beckett came along, before we were working our asses off in Manhattan. Again, it may just be my exhaustion bringing out this affection for someone avoiding the one topic that is certain to send me over the edge since Ethan last brought it up over greasy hamburgers, but I take a deep breath before heading into the salon.