window, flicking his tongue, following her home and parking outside her building to do God knows what out there under his coat in full view of her back window while she hid inside and called Lydia. Celia was not making this up, it had happened. They’d screamed with laughter. Choked.
Gross!
Lydia had said, laughing until she snorted.
Call the cops
,
she’d said. But Celia didn’t. They both knew it was more complicated than that. She’d liked it, too. Not him, exactly, just the thrill of it, the desire she’d inspired.
Celia had read recently that some researcher—a woman—did an intensive study over many years that involved hooking people’s private parts up to sensors and determined, after all that, that women’s sexual desire was sparked by men’s—and other women’s!—desire for them. The much-pondered secret behind what women wanted, the doctor had concluded, was
narcissism.
Women wanted to be adored.
Celia could have told her that. What a disappointment, though, to see it in black and white, in
The
New York Times
. To hear it quantified like that by a woman of science. Women had been demystified at last and by one of their own. Celia had felt a little ashamed, reading it, knowing it was true. What a bunch of low-minded, self-absorbed characters we turned out to be, she thought. She’d wanted to talk to someone about it, and not Peter. In the old days she would have called Lydia. Maybe she’d bring it up tonight.
• • •
Celia pulled into the strip mall parking lot and waited for a crowd of teenagers to pass in front of her car. All these tightly swathed, sure-footed young people—in high-heeled boots, on this ice!—demoralized her. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t still nineteen. Aging is
natural
, she told herself. She didn’t even look that bad—did she? Though sometimes she thought if only she’d managed her life differently things wouldn’t have turned out this way. She’d be a different kind of middle-aged person, she thought, pale maybe, but one of those
fulfilled
pale people.
She saw them everywhere around town. She saw them at the pharmacy, stocking up on midwinter sunscreen for jaunts to exotic locales or, in the summer, extended stays with their large happy families at handed-down-through-generations lake houses, where they probably worked jigsaw puzzles and played board games while sipping drinks, but not too many. Not a mean drunk among them, or so you’d think, they were so avid to go back and do it again.
Celia was personally acquainted with people like this. She knew for a fact that they cooked together.
Can you imagine?
Celia wanted to say, to Lydia. And they enjoyed it, or claimed to. Everyone had families, everyone cooked, but the Fulfilled People got along. Or so Celia imagined. She imagined if you shook out the maps in
their
glove compartments no index cards that said
privacy is a vacation
would come slipping out to spoil the day.
Celia saw them all over the place, out here in the suburbs, where she was marooned. She couldn’t remember seeing them in the city, though she’d been younger then, and single, not so sensitive to this sort of thing. It had been a mistake to move out here, she saw that now. Peter had wanted trees, and she’d liked the idea, too, but these people were all around them here. Celia saw—heard!—them at the library, certain the
Quiet, please
signs didn’t apply to them. She saw them at the hardware store buying fancy replacement knobs for their kitchen cabinets, in the specialty aisles at the grocery store, shopping for obscure condiments.
But do we have nori on the boat?
she’d overheard a khaki-clad woman say recently.
Nori!
• • •
Celia, who’d been cruising up and down the parking lot lanes looking for a space, had stopped to wait for another troop of teenagers to pass when she felt the idling car shudder, then shut off. A little red light in the shape of a battery flashed on her dashboard. Now the
Gross!
Lydia had said, laughing until she snorted.
Call the cops
,
she’d said. But Celia didn’t. They both knew it was more complicated than that. She’d liked it, too. Not him, exactly, just the thrill of it, the desire she’d inspired.
Celia had read recently that some researcher—a woman—did an intensive study over many years that involved hooking people’s private parts up to sensors and determined, after all that, that women’s sexual desire was sparked by men’s—and other women’s!—desire for them. The much-pondered secret behind what women wanted, the doctor had concluded, was
narcissism.
Women wanted to be adored.
Celia could have told her that. What a disappointment, though, to see it in black and white, in
The
New York Times
. To hear it quantified like that by a woman of science. Women had been demystified at last and by one of their own. Celia had felt a little ashamed, reading it, knowing it was true. What a bunch of low-minded, self-absorbed characters we turned out to be, she thought. She’d wanted to talk to someone about it, and not Peter. In the old days she would have called Lydia. Maybe she’d bring it up tonight.
• • •
Celia pulled into the strip mall parking lot and waited for a crowd of teenagers to pass in front of her car. All these tightly swathed, sure-footed young people—in high-heeled boots, on this ice!—demoralized her. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t still nineteen. Aging is
natural
, she told herself. She didn’t even look that bad—did she? Though sometimes she thought if only she’d managed her life differently things wouldn’t have turned out this way. She’d be a different kind of middle-aged person, she thought, pale maybe, but one of those
fulfilled
pale people.
She saw them everywhere around town. She saw them at the pharmacy, stocking up on midwinter sunscreen for jaunts to exotic locales or, in the summer, extended stays with their large happy families at handed-down-through-generations lake houses, where they probably worked jigsaw puzzles and played board games while sipping drinks, but not too many. Not a mean drunk among them, or so you’d think, they were so avid to go back and do it again.
Celia was personally acquainted with people like this. She knew for a fact that they cooked together.
Can you imagine?
Celia wanted to say, to Lydia. And they enjoyed it, or claimed to. Everyone had families, everyone cooked, but the Fulfilled People got along. Or so Celia imagined. She imagined if you shook out the maps in
their
glove compartments no index cards that said
privacy is a vacation
would come slipping out to spoil the day.
Celia saw them all over the place, out here in the suburbs, where she was marooned. She couldn’t remember seeing them in the city, though she’d been younger then, and single, not so sensitive to this sort of thing. It had been a mistake to move out here, she saw that now. Peter had wanted trees, and she’d liked the idea, too, but these people were all around them here. Celia saw—heard!—them at the library, certain the
Quiet, please
signs didn’t apply to them. She saw them at the hardware store buying fancy replacement knobs for their kitchen cabinets, in the specialty aisles at the grocery store, shopping for obscure condiments.
But do we have nori on the boat?
she’d overheard a khaki-clad woman say recently.
Nori!
• • •
Celia, who’d been cruising up and down the parking lot lanes looking for a space, had stopped to wait for another troop of teenagers to pass when she felt the idling car shudder, then shut off. A little red light in the shape of a battery flashed on her dashboard. Now the
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