The Big Dream by Rebecca Rosenblum Page A

you.” He reaches out his arms and she flinches but she’s in the corner by the door and she can’t pull back. She’s afraid, that’s what she is, the stupid cunt, afraid of him , when he loves her and buys her gifts. He puts his arms around her, presses her wet face into the front of his shirt to dry her tears. He hugs her so tight.

THE ANONYMOUS PARTY
    â€œMA, I’M HOME.” Yaël took off her steel-grey trench, hung it carefully on its hook, then bent to unzip her steel-grey presentation boots.
    Her mother was sitting on the hall bench beside her, rubbing her left foot. “I see you. You gonna to eat here tonight?”
    â€œYeah, but early. I’m going out.” She knocked over a boot, bit her lips, righted it, all without looking at her mother. Yaël was anxious. To go to a party with graduate students, to be introduced as Sasha’s girlfriend – these were huge wardrobe questions, a totally new hair problem. And her longest black miniskirt was in the wash and the autumn humidity would get into her hair if she didn’t straight-iron it, and was all this even worth it for another woman? Her mother sat watching Yaël take off her pearl-button earrings, her presentation watch, her hairclip, until Yaël couldn’t stand it anymore and whirled down the hall to turn on the shower.
    When she came back her mother was putting her shoes under the bench, and had to ask over her shoulder, “Did the logo presentation go all right?”
    Yaël started unbuttoning her blouse. “Yeah, of course. Abey home?”
    â€œWorking late again. You know how fall is. I’ll fix your dinner. Who you going out with? Lahley and Jane? Who’s driving?”
    â€œSasha. It’s a party. We’re gonna meet there.” Yaël gave up on the buttons and whipped her shirt over her head, muffling meet
and there. Her mother would have watched Yaël’s whole life on cable, in real time, had there been such a station. Yaël would have been happy to limit their conversations to food and clothes, but when her mother asked, she always answered, an involuntary reflex. She knew if her mother ever asked her point-blank if she was sexually attracted to females, she would answer yes. But her mother probably wouldn’t ask her that.
    Chien came up and since she was taking her clothes off anyway, Yaël gave him a pat and let him rub his woolly head against her nylon leg. “I’ve got to be there by eight. Don’t put sauce on anything, ok?” Then she unzipped her tweed skirt, let it slip down, kicked it up into her hand and marched to the bathroom, wondering whether lesbians said girlfriend or partner, and whether that was the same as what intellectuals said. Probably.

    Sasha had said come any time after eight, but Yaël had spent the day discussing fonts and pantones and swirls for the logo, smiling hard at people she didn’t like. She was tired enough that she’d have to go early to make the preparation worthwhile, if it would be at all.
    She thought of the raised-eyebrow thrill of a man’s face upon seeing her best – hair, breasts, eyebrows, thighs. She would miss those eyebrows, that twist of a man’s desiring mouth before he kissed her. But she was not saying never again to men. And despite Sasha’s sneakers and books and intellect, her face was probably still capable of opening into wonder for a perfect toss of perfect hair. Yaël thought it could happen.

    Yaël came downstairs in her blue silky robe and blue Chinese slippers, her blonde hair dripping polka dots on her shoulders. Her
mother was waiting in the kitchen, surrounded by food. Yaël ignored the boiled potatoes in the sink and opened the oven to stab one of the turkey cutlets with a fork. The oven door crashed shut and her mother sucked in a breath but didn’t say anything. Yaël dumped broccoli onto her plate, then put a tiny spoonful of sauce over