A Stranger Like You by Elizabeth Brundage Page B

length he asked, “What are your plans?”
    “My plans?”
    “What do you want?”
    She repeated his question without answering.
    “In life,” he clarified.
    “I have no idea what I want. I don’t know.” Then, like it was a joke, she said, “I want a husband and a little house in the country with a picket fence and a whole gaggle of kids.” He watched her, trying to figure out if she was serious. “I want a high-paying job where I get to be nasty to people.” Then she added, “I want a flat in Paris.”
    None of those things seemed to fit her destiny.
    “I suppose I want what most women want.”
    “Which is what?”
    “Tranquillity.”
    “Sounds like a perfume.”
    “I want to feel at peace. In here,” she tapped her heart. “I want to stop feeling like I’m second rate.”
    “You always say that. It’s not true.”
    “I don’t know why I say it; I feel it.”
    “Maybe you should get out of L.A.”
    She shrugged. “I like it here. I like the sunshine.”
    “Maybe you’ve gotten used to being second rate.”
    “Maybe it’s another one of my bad habits.” She turned onto her side and looked at him. “What about you? What do you want?”
    He had never really thought about it—not really—at least not nearly enough. The truth was he didn’t have a clue. Instead of prolonging the conversation he leaned over and kissed her. He pushed his tongue deep into her mouth as if the words he needed to answer the question might be inside of it somewhere, waiting for him to fish them out.

3
    Back in his motel room, he lay on the bed watching TV with the sound turned off, drinking warm whiskey. The bedspread was gold and shiny, with a design that reminded him of something you’d find under a microscope. It frightened him to think that bugs might crawl on him while he slept. He watched the television, the onslaught of images, one after another. On the way home from Santa Monica he’d stopped at a package store and when he’d come out he’d caught someone pissing on his car. For the next half hour, he’d driven around looking for a car wash, the smell of urine filling his nostrils, but none of the car washes were open. He’d showered, but he could still smell it. The incident had upset him. The world outside his window seemed too loud. The barking dog across the street. The crowds down on the sidewalk. Strange laughter coming from one of the rooms. He dozed off and woke to the sound of something banging against the wall in the room next door. It came to him, in his drowsy state, that his neighbors were having sex. It was a sound that you knew when you heard it, he thought. When he could no longer stand it, he left the room and went down to the street. He considered calling Ida, but thought better of it. She hadn’t invited him over after their date. Instead, he had kissed her leisurely and helped her into her car. He walked down to Hollywood Boulevard and watched the people on the sidewalks. Kids walking in groups. Sunburned girls with long straight hair, smelling of shampoo. Boys in baggy jeans, dripping chains, their underwear sticking out. Tourists; people from faraway lands, speaking languages he could not understand.
    The freeway out to the airport was thick with traffic. It was only eleven o’clock, people were still going out. The night was young. He realized he was in a desperate frame of mind. He had to concentrate very hard on the road. His mouth was very dry and had the sour aftertaste of the whiskey. Drinking had been a mistake, he thought. His evening with Ida, too, had been an error of judgment, for he was in no position to be in any sort of a relationship with any woman other than his wife.
    His cell phone rang. Hugh glanced at his watch. It was half past eleven, three hours later in Montclair.
    “I need to know what’s going on,” his wife said.
    “Marion, what are you doing up so late?”
    “I can’t sleep. I want you to come home.”
    He didn’t say