says.
I go into my bedroom. It's garlic. That's the smell. Fucking garlic. I take a shower and wash my hair onetwothreefourfive— five times.
That night I meet the red-faced representative at the fish place. "I don't eat fish," I say.
"You should have told me," he says.
Why is his face always red? Is he on medication? "It's okay," I say. "I've always wanted to come here." "We can go somewhere else."
"Stop," I say. And then: "You look nice." His long hair is freshly washed and brushed.
"You always look nice," he says. He's Catholic and from Texas and everything he says comes out straight and with no sexual overtones. I like this about him. The cross above his bed makes me nervous, but I like him.
"In fact," he continues, "I think you're one of the nicest people I've ever met." I blush at my premature nostalgia for this moment. Pre-stalgia .
"Nicest person you've met ever ?" I tease. "Well," he says, "let me think about that."
We end up in his apartment. He brushes his teeth. "Ready for bed," he says.
I get in, loosening the tight sheets. He gets up and lights the candle. He kisses me, I kiss him. The routineness of it all amuses and amazes me. I think, Next he's going to suck on my finger . He lifts my hand to his mouth. Next, he's going to turn me over and bite my shoulder blade. My right one . He does. He's going to trace my navel, say it looks like a coin slot . "Coin slot," he says. He's going to ask me if I'm sure, if I'm comfortable, if I'm okay . "Is this okay?" he says as he enters me.
Everything is precisely, excruciatingly the same as last night. Until: "Oh no," he says.
"What?" "It broke."
I lie on the bed, flat. I am so, so careful, have always been careful, and this has never happened.
"What bad TV show are we on?" I ask.
He moves down to the foot of the bed and turns so he's facing me.
"I think this is a sign," he says. He tilts his head up, making like the answers written on the wall behind me.
"Of what?"
"That I shouldn't be doing this to you," he says. "You're doing this to me?"
His eyes are still staring past me.
I turn around to see what he's looking at: the cross above his bed.
In the morning I go to get the pills. The campus health center is right next door to the mental health center. I have to pass the therapists office to get there. I don't want to run into her. I get a running start and leap past her door.
I wait for two hours to see a doctor. When I complain to the nurse at the desk, she shrugs and says, "Next time make an appointment in advance."
When I finally meet with the doctor, it's behind a curtain. Everyone else who's waiting can hear our conversation. I know because I could hear everyone's before me: "… coughing up phlegm for two weeks …" "… so depressed I can't sleep …" "… don't know if it's an ingrown pubic hair or …"
"Have you ever had an abortion?" says the doctor. He looks at me over, not through, his glasses.
"No," I say.
"Have you ever taken these pills before?" "No," I say.
"Well, it's not uncommon to experience nausea or to vomit," he says. "You might want to make sure someone's there with you."
I nod.
"How long have you been with your partner?" he says. "Twelve years," I say.
The phone rings and a man's voice says: "You sexy thing. You are the sexiest thing. Do you know how goddamn sexy you are?"
I hang up. I know that voice. I lie down on the kitchen floor, my stomach to the tiles. I close my eyes. When I open them I can see under the refrigerator. Underneath, there's dust a magnet, and some loose sheets of paper. And small wheels I should have gotten the police to trace all incoming calls. Then they would know who he was. Why didn't the police know to do this? They are the worst. They are Satan. They are Satan, but stupid.
The voice. I sit up. I know that voice. I press # and then 69 and get an answering machine. "You've reached the home of Wayne Gretzky," says the answering machine.
ROTC moron.
Thank God it
I go into my bedroom. It's garlic. That's the smell. Fucking garlic. I take a shower and wash my hair onetwothreefourfive— five times.
That night I meet the red-faced representative at the fish place. "I don't eat fish," I say.
"You should have told me," he says.
Why is his face always red? Is he on medication? "It's okay," I say. "I've always wanted to come here." "We can go somewhere else."
"Stop," I say. And then: "You look nice." His long hair is freshly washed and brushed.
"You always look nice," he says. He's Catholic and from Texas and everything he says comes out straight and with no sexual overtones. I like this about him. The cross above his bed makes me nervous, but I like him.
"In fact," he continues, "I think you're one of the nicest people I've ever met." I blush at my premature nostalgia for this moment. Pre-stalgia .
"Nicest person you've met ever ?" I tease. "Well," he says, "let me think about that."
We end up in his apartment. He brushes his teeth. "Ready for bed," he says.
I get in, loosening the tight sheets. He gets up and lights the candle. He kisses me, I kiss him. The routineness of it all amuses and amazes me. I think, Next he's going to suck on my finger . He lifts my hand to his mouth. Next, he's going to turn me over and bite my shoulder blade. My right one . He does. He's going to trace my navel, say it looks like a coin slot . "Coin slot," he says. He's going to ask me if I'm sure, if I'm comfortable, if I'm okay . "Is this okay?" he says as he enters me.
Everything is precisely, excruciatingly the same as last night. Until: "Oh no," he says.
"What?" "It broke."
I lie on the bed, flat. I am so, so careful, have always been careful, and this has never happened.
"What bad TV show are we on?" I ask.
He moves down to the foot of the bed and turns so he's facing me.
"I think this is a sign," he says. He tilts his head up, making like the answers written on the wall behind me.
"Of what?"
"That I shouldn't be doing this to you," he says. "You're doing this to me?"
His eyes are still staring past me.
I turn around to see what he's looking at: the cross above his bed.
In the morning I go to get the pills. The campus health center is right next door to the mental health center. I have to pass the therapists office to get there. I don't want to run into her. I get a running start and leap past her door.
I wait for two hours to see a doctor. When I complain to the nurse at the desk, she shrugs and says, "Next time make an appointment in advance."
When I finally meet with the doctor, it's behind a curtain. Everyone else who's waiting can hear our conversation. I know because I could hear everyone's before me: "… coughing up phlegm for two weeks …" "… so depressed I can't sleep …" "… don't know if it's an ingrown pubic hair or …"
"Have you ever had an abortion?" says the doctor. He looks at me over, not through, his glasses.
"No," I say.
"Have you ever taken these pills before?" "No," I say.
"Well, it's not uncommon to experience nausea or to vomit," he says. "You might want to make sure someone's there with you."
I nod.
"How long have you been with your partner?" he says. "Twelve years," I say.
The phone rings and a man's voice says: "You sexy thing. You are the sexiest thing. Do you know how goddamn sexy you are?"
I hang up. I know that voice. I lie down on the kitchen floor, my stomach to the tiles. I close my eyes. When I open them I can see under the refrigerator. Underneath, there's dust a magnet, and some loose sheets of paper. And small wheels I should have gotten the police to trace all incoming calls. Then they would know who he was. Why didn't the police know to do this? They are the worst. They are Satan. They are Satan, but stupid.
The voice. I sit up. I know that voice. I press # and then 69 and get an answering machine. "You've reached the home of Wayne Gretzky," says the answering machine.
ROTC moron.
Thank God it
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