Hating Olivia: A Love Story by Mark Safranko

to that.” “You mean like you?”
    “Me, I’m different. A completely different case. Leave me out of it.”
    “Since when are you so concerned with my professional career? I thought you and I were going to live. Travel. Write. I thought we weren’t going to get caught like all the rest of them.”
    What she was saying was true—there was no denying it. Like I said, I could certainly talk a great game. It was just that I was of the mind that when you started a project—and were so close to finishing at least some portion of it—you should push through to the end. On occasions like this my working-class values still had the habit of rearing their ugly heads.
    “Yes, but … why not at least finish the semester out and decide what to do later? That way you don’t waste what you’ve already done. Not many people are lucky enough to win fellowships.”
    Livy shrugged. “You’re not afraid, are you, Max?”
    “Afraid of what? Hell, no, I’m not afraid. ‘Course I’m not afraid.”
    “Because you can’t be afraid to take chances in life.”
    “I just told you—”
    “Look—we’re going to be artists, and that’s that. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, attend a graduate program.”
    “Right.”
    I shut my trap, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her toward me. Then I helped her out of more of her clothes. In her black brassiere and panties, she was a model out of the lingerie advertisements in the New York Times Magazine.
    I forced my tongue deep into her mouth. I wanted her to shut up, too, and there was no better way to make her stop talking. There was always plenty of time for talking later.
    A few days pass. One morning when I shake myself out of a deep coma I find myself alone. I feel the mattress besideme—cold. I shuffle out to the breakfast nook and rummage for a note. Nothing. I pull on my clothes and head out for the morning newspaper and a pack of smokes. When I get back, still no Livy….
    I went about my business, which on that day, as usual, did not include anything of particular importance. I killed time in all the usual ways. Late in the afternoon there was a thump on the door.
    Here she is, finally, her arms laden with boxes and shopping bags.
    “Jesus Christ, Liv, where the hell have you been? I was actually starting to worry,” I said, helping her in with her stuff. “Looks like you’ve been shopping.”
    Shopping, nothing. It was more like she’d looted a few stores, and all the best at that: Bloomingdale’s, Lord & Taylor, Neiman Marcus, Macy’s.
    “Want to see what I bought?”
    “Sure, why not…. ”
    She disappeared into the bedroom. A long half hour later she reappeared in a revealing but elegant Givenchy evening gown and shiny new black heels. She was ravishing, with her luxuriant Asian hair pinned up in back, her bronze shoulders bare, and the flesh of her luscious melons bulging delicately.
    “What do you think?”
    “What do I think? Come over here, I’ll show you what I think. Let me get my hands on you…. ”
    “No, no, no. You have to wait until the show is finished.”
    I grabbed a beer and resumed my seat on the sofa. For the next hour or so I was treated to a catwalk of sweaters and skirts, dresses, slacks and jeans, more gowns and evening dresses, shoes and frilly underwear, including garter belts and fishnet stockings.
    “So now what do you think?” she asked after stripping nudeand planting herself in front of me, hands on hips, in nothing but a pair of stiletto heels.
    “I’m speechless.”
    “Which did you like best?”
    “The getup you’re in right now.”
    “No, I’m serious, you jerk!”
    “Listen, they all look incredible on you.”
    “You seem less than overwhelmed or something.”
    “No, I am, really. I’m totally overwhelmed…. I’m just a little amazed you bought so much.”
    Her eyes sparked with irritation.
    “You don’t understand anything. You don’t understand me.” “Come on, Liv. You know that’s not true.