is the best she can do: three desultory shots – all out of focus, and all with that queer Beirut-hostage quality of pictures snapped against the subjects’ will. What
does it say about a marriage, when, after a decade, there is only one photo of husband and wife in the same frame?
I stare at that one, that photo of me and Libby on the couch together. We’re in a stylish loft, in front of an exposed brick wall. Behind us hangs an art deco poster – a wine
advertisement, from 1920s Italy. It says ‘Vini di Lusso’ and shows a grotesque red satyr, with curved horns and a hooked nose, hungrily gobbling a bunch of grapes. In the photograph,
Libby and I stare at the camera, creepily oblivious to the creature behind us. My arm is wrapped around Libby, but now – in hindsight – it looks as if she’s shrinking from my
touch.
I remember the night that photo was taken. It was seven years ago. We were in San Francisco. The condo was owned by my friend, Bob Parker, and it was his New Year’s Eve party. Bob was a
buddy from Lantek, one of my best friends at the time – but also one of the friends who disappeared after the death of my son, either too embarrassed to know me, or too suspicious of what
happened that night.
The evening the picture was taken, I was a walking disaster: aware, hazily, that I had a problem; but still drinking, still gambling, still getting high. At the end of the night, Libby dutifully
escorted me home, but not before I had made a drunken pass at Bob Parker’s wife while she leaned over and served me canapés.
Now, in our bedroom, Libby comes up behind me, takes the photograph from my hand, and lays it back on the dresser. ‘I wanted one of us together,’ she says, as if to explain why she
chose one that brings back bad memories.
I turn. She’s standing very close to me. I feel her breasts against my chest. She smells of sweat, and peat, and talcum powder. A line of dirt is smudged on her face. I lick my finger and
wipe it across her cheek. The smudge disappears. I feel the stir of an erection.
‘How’s the bed?’ I ask.
‘Soft.’
‘Want to break it in?’
I look past her, out of the window, past the oak tree, and I’m surprised that the sky is dark. The first drops of rain fall.
We make love. Until we start, I think it’s going to be quick and animal – tearing off her clothes, throwing her down, pounding into each other after seven days of
abstinence. But it’s not like that at all. We stand at the foot of the bed. She undresses me slowly, one shirt button at a time. She unzips my pants, unfastens my belt. She drops my clothes
to the floor. I slide the straps of her sundress from her shoulders, let the fabric fall. We remove our underwear, stand naked in front of each other, in the chill of the air-conditioned room.
Without words, we step to the bed.
We lie on our sides, face each other. We stroke each other’s skin. I run the back of my hand over her abdomen, her nipples, her pubic hair.
She pulls my fingers to her face. She kisses each finger, starting at my thumb. When she gets to the pinky, she puts it in her mouth, sucks on it. She takes it from her lips, stares at it.
Now might be a good time to mention that, on my left hand, I’m missing the first two segments of my pinky. It happened eight years ago, due either to a slammed car door one drunken night,
or an angry bookie named Hector Gonzales. In either case, I blacked out, and don’t remember exactly what happened. Libby tells the story this way: that I arrived home one morning at three
o’clock, with a dish towel wrapped around the stump of my finger. But rather than remark upon my curiously missing digit, I complained that I was starving, and needed to find a good
hamburger. To lure me into the car, she lied and told me she would take me to Jack in the Box, but she took me to the emergency room, instead.
Now, she grabs my half-pinky, brings it down between her legs, strokes her pussy with it.
does it say about a marriage, when, after a decade, there is only one photo of husband and wife in the same frame?
I stare at that one, that photo of me and Libby on the couch together. We’re in a stylish loft, in front of an exposed brick wall. Behind us hangs an art deco poster – a wine
advertisement, from 1920s Italy. It says ‘Vini di Lusso’ and shows a grotesque red satyr, with curved horns and a hooked nose, hungrily gobbling a bunch of grapes. In the photograph,
Libby and I stare at the camera, creepily oblivious to the creature behind us. My arm is wrapped around Libby, but now – in hindsight – it looks as if she’s shrinking from my
touch.
I remember the night that photo was taken. It was seven years ago. We were in San Francisco. The condo was owned by my friend, Bob Parker, and it was his New Year’s Eve party. Bob was a
buddy from Lantek, one of my best friends at the time – but also one of the friends who disappeared after the death of my son, either too embarrassed to know me, or too suspicious of what
happened that night.
The evening the picture was taken, I was a walking disaster: aware, hazily, that I had a problem; but still drinking, still gambling, still getting high. At the end of the night, Libby dutifully
escorted me home, but not before I had made a drunken pass at Bob Parker’s wife while she leaned over and served me canapés.
Now, in our bedroom, Libby comes up behind me, takes the photograph from my hand, and lays it back on the dresser. ‘I wanted one of us together,’ she says, as if to explain why she
chose one that brings back bad memories.
I turn. She’s standing very close to me. I feel her breasts against my chest. She smells of sweat, and peat, and talcum powder. A line of dirt is smudged on her face. I lick my finger and
wipe it across her cheek. The smudge disappears. I feel the stir of an erection.
‘How’s the bed?’ I ask.
‘Soft.’
‘Want to break it in?’
I look past her, out of the window, past the oak tree, and I’m surprised that the sky is dark. The first drops of rain fall.
We make love. Until we start, I think it’s going to be quick and animal – tearing off her clothes, throwing her down, pounding into each other after seven days of
abstinence. But it’s not like that at all. We stand at the foot of the bed. She undresses me slowly, one shirt button at a time. She unzips my pants, unfastens my belt. She drops my clothes
to the floor. I slide the straps of her sundress from her shoulders, let the fabric fall. We remove our underwear, stand naked in front of each other, in the chill of the air-conditioned room.
Without words, we step to the bed.
We lie on our sides, face each other. We stroke each other’s skin. I run the back of my hand over her abdomen, her nipples, her pubic hair.
She pulls my fingers to her face. She kisses each finger, starting at my thumb. When she gets to the pinky, she puts it in her mouth, sucks on it. She takes it from her lips, stares at it.
Now might be a good time to mention that, on my left hand, I’m missing the first two segments of my pinky. It happened eight years ago, due either to a slammed car door one drunken night,
or an angry bookie named Hector Gonzales. In either case, I blacked out, and don’t remember exactly what happened. Libby tells the story this way: that I arrived home one morning at three
o’clock, with a dish towel wrapped around the stump of my finger. But rather than remark upon my curiously missing digit, I complained that I was starving, and needed to find a good
hamburger. To lure me into the car, she lied and told me she would take me to Jack in the Box, but she took me to the emergency room, instead.
Now, she grabs my half-pinky, brings it down between her legs, strokes her pussy with it.
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