Why You Should Never Get Into a Staring Contest with Your Cat, Part 02
I am thirty-three, she says. I’m too old not to know what I want to do with my life.
I would tell her that she will figure it out, but I hate to lie—I cannot guarantee this. I know nothing of her.
You did not take me from behind, she says as though I disappointed her.
Sorry, I apologize jokingly.
We will have to do it again, she says.
We begin again with her riding me. Then she is on her knees and elbows in front of me. Her back is arched. The sound of my thighs against her is loud, constant, continuous, and steady. I hold onto her waist. Again, she moans. I come.
We talk more, until she says she is cold. She asks for my telephone number and e-mail address. I give it to her, but do not take hers. She falls asleep under the covers. When we entered, I saw that the door locks automatically when closed so I do not wake her when I go. Through the darkness of downtown, I smoke as I walk to my apartment. The cat meows when I enter. He is angry that I have been away for so long. I am in another epoch now.
Those horrible weeks stretching between Thanksgiving and New Year’s—parties, gatherings, presents and mild panics about having enough time to buy them, the threat of eviction that has hung over me since May. Every year I loathe the being alone surrounded by husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, children—the end results of whisperings and silhouettes of bodies in the dark before mystery is replaced by the earthliness and mortality of babies. I know none of it. Even more unbearable this year because she is not here. She has teased me by spending one holiday with me, and leaving me alone for the other two.
I sit at a desk at this day job I have been reduced to. I now do the busywork of others, with red pen I correct the mistakes of others, by pressing buttons I draw pictures for businessmen—it is demeaning, it is forty hours per week. My film will be done soon, and I must end this.
I must imagine what I would say to her, because she is not here. On Thursday I received a reply to two e-mails I had sent her—one inviting her to join my friends and I for dinner on New Year’s Eve, the other tell her to come with me to several performances by a chanteuse acquaintance of mine. She will think about the former, is intrigued by the latter. She is leaving for several weeks—for business and family rea