compared their own bodies to them, lifting their blouses, examining one another and later, standing alone before their mirrors, naked, posing, puckering their lips, mussing their hair, smiling. Alone.
They were always photographed alone, those women: beautiful and naked and unafraid in a world where everything was masculine, where the men were kept behind the camera, in the next room, in some shadow.
It was not pity alone that had made her do it. It was because he didn’t touch her that night as she stretched out on the couch and felt her own golden skin. It was because he stayed behind his desk, in shadow, admiring her, while she alone was in the light. Because it was a perfect moment of selfishness, self-love, a moment she’d been taught all her life to long for.
That’s why she undressed for him that night, why she enjoyed it so.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Maybe, she thinks, she’s only making excuses. Maybe she is merely perverse, maybe the night was merely sick, her own problem, her own weakness.
It all sounds so much like an excuse: I did it because I’m a woman, because I’m a repressed Catholic, because my father was never home.
Maybe she is simply sleazy and would, given the opportunity, take her clothes off for every old man, in every office. Maybe she was simply afraid to say no, too lazy to say no.
Maybe, she thinks, it was just me, my fault, and any other interpretation is merely an excuse.
Ann is standing in her doorway, smiling. “How was your Tupperware party?” she asks.
“Fine,” Elizabeth says.
Ann moves into the office. Her matching skirt and blouse, navy blue and white, billows.
“Why is it,” Elizabeth asks her, “that as soon as I figure out why something I’ve done shouldn’t make me feel guilty, I feel guilty for making up excuses?”
She frowns down at her, her green eyes puzzled. “You mean like working here?” she asks.
Elizabeth returns her look.
“You know,” Ann explains, “we tell each other, ‘Look, we’re not robbing these people, we’re giving them what they want and getting paid for it. If we didn’t publish their lousy books and take their lousy money, somebody else would.’ Which is true, of course, but sounds an awful lot like an excuse for robbing people.”
Elizabeth shakes her head, not pleased with the analogy. “I was thinking more of women,” she says. “We’re really not responsible for so many of our attitudes about ourselves, but”—she slaps her desk—“Jesus, even a statement like that sounds like an excuse. Of course we’re responsible.”
“Okay,” Ann says, nodding. “I’m beginning to get your point. Like last weekend, when I met that guy Ray, remember? The one who was so nice and so good-looking and he bought me a drink and we talked for a while and then he said, ‘So, you want to go someplace and fuck?’ Remember I told you?”
She laughs. “I remember.”
“So, when I asked him if that was all he was interested in and he said, ‘You’re fat, what else is a guy going to be interested in? Showing you off to his friends?’ That was his problem, right? He was a rude moron, right?”
“Of course.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “So why did I starve myself for the next two days?” She pinches her rear. “I’m all hips and breasts, I know that. It’s the way I’m built. But I watch what I eat and I exercise and I like the way I look. At least, I thought I did. But then some jerk in a bar tells me I’m fat, and I starve myself for two days. I kept telling myself he was an asshole, but something else kept telling me that I was using that as an excuse for my lousy shape. That it was really my fault—like if I were skinny he wouldn’t be a jerk.”
Her voice is high now, shrill. Her eyes are sparkling. They both begin to laugh.
“I mean it,” Ann says. “I ate nothing all weekend but a grapefruit and a bowl of soup. I kept thinking, ‘If you weren’t fat, you wouldn’t think he was such an
They were always photographed alone, those women: beautiful and naked and unafraid in a world where everything was masculine, where the men were kept behind the camera, in the next room, in some shadow.
It was not pity alone that had made her do it. It was because he didn’t touch her that night as she stretched out on the couch and felt her own golden skin. It was because he stayed behind his desk, in shadow, admiring her, while she alone was in the light. Because it was a perfect moment of selfishness, self-love, a moment she’d been taught all her life to long for.
That’s why she undressed for him that night, why she enjoyed it so.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Maybe, she thinks, she’s only making excuses. Maybe she is merely perverse, maybe the night was merely sick, her own problem, her own weakness.
It all sounds so much like an excuse: I did it because I’m a woman, because I’m a repressed Catholic, because my father was never home.
Maybe she is simply sleazy and would, given the opportunity, take her clothes off for every old man, in every office. Maybe she was simply afraid to say no, too lazy to say no.
Maybe, she thinks, it was just me, my fault, and any other interpretation is merely an excuse.
Ann is standing in her doorway, smiling. “How was your Tupperware party?” she asks.
“Fine,” Elizabeth says.
Ann moves into the office. Her matching skirt and blouse, navy blue and white, billows.
“Why is it,” Elizabeth asks her, “that as soon as I figure out why something I’ve done shouldn’t make me feel guilty, I feel guilty for making up excuses?”
She frowns down at her, her green eyes puzzled. “You mean like working here?” she asks.
Elizabeth returns her look.
“You know,” Ann explains, “we tell each other, ‘Look, we’re not robbing these people, we’re giving them what they want and getting paid for it. If we didn’t publish their lousy books and take their lousy money, somebody else would.’ Which is true, of course, but sounds an awful lot like an excuse for robbing people.”
Elizabeth shakes her head, not pleased with the analogy. “I was thinking more of women,” she says. “We’re really not responsible for so many of our attitudes about ourselves, but”—she slaps her desk—“Jesus, even a statement like that sounds like an excuse. Of course we’re responsible.”
“Okay,” Ann says, nodding. “I’m beginning to get your point. Like last weekend, when I met that guy Ray, remember? The one who was so nice and so good-looking and he bought me a drink and we talked for a while and then he said, ‘So, you want to go someplace and fuck?’ Remember I told you?”
She laughs. “I remember.”
“So, when I asked him if that was all he was interested in and he said, ‘You’re fat, what else is a guy going to be interested in? Showing you off to his friends?’ That was his problem, right? He was a rude moron, right?”
“Of course.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “So why did I starve myself for the next two days?” She pinches her rear. “I’m all hips and breasts, I know that. It’s the way I’m built. But I watch what I eat and I exercise and I like the way I look. At least, I thought I did. But then some jerk in a bar tells me I’m fat, and I starve myself for two days. I kept telling myself he was an asshole, but something else kept telling me that I was using that as an excuse for my lousy shape. That it was really my fault—like if I were skinny he wouldn’t be a jerk.”
Her voice is high now, shrill. Her eyes are sparkling. They both begin to laugh.
“I mean it,” Ann says. “I ate nothing all weekend but a grapefruit and a bowl of soup. I kept thinking, ‘If you weren’t fat, you wouldn’t think he was such an
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