The old Chrissy had sometimes been inspired.
“I used to think I needed someone…” He paused, thinking. “Right.”
“‘Right’?” I repeated, clever as a fox.
“You know. The right image. The right apartment. The right friends.”
I steepled my fingers. “And now?”
“Now…” He looked wistful and tired when he turned back toward me. “Now I think I might be an ass.”
By the time Jacob left, the new Chrissy was a little confused. Weren’t we supposed to be fussy? Weren’t we supposed to aim high? By lunch she was only hungry. Turns out raisins don’t stick to your ribs like, say,…food.
So I trekked to the coffee shop early, obsessing over a Bacon Brava sandwich on a croissant with extra mozzarella and potato chips. I ordered a turkey on rye and returned to the office feeling smug and a little resentful. Damn freakin’ poultry.
I saw four clients back to back without even coming up for air.
At 5:51 I heard Howard Lepinski talking to Elaine in the reception area. I finished updating Peggy Shin’s records and dutifully set the rest aside. The old Chrissy wasn’t real concerned about punctuality. Five minutes late was spot on time as far as she was concerned. But I was different now. I opened the door at six o’clock on the dot.
Lepinski settled onto my couch like a little old lady protecting her pocketbook, knees pressed primly together, back straight as a pin.
I said hello. He managed the same. A few seconds ticked away in silence before I decided to give the proverbial ball a shove.
“So how was your—”
“I’m thinking of going back to my wife.” The words sped from his lips like 220 sprinters.
I sat dumbfounded. If I had been Lepinski’s mistress this might have been bad news. Or maybe if I had been his wife. As things stood, I wasn’t sure what to think.
Mr. Lepinski was a little man with a twitch, a mustache, and eyeglasses thick enough to render them bulletproof. I’d been counseling him for almost a year.
“Are you certain that’s what you want to do?” I asked.
Lepinski shrugged and blinked twice. He was extremely fond of blinking…and shrugging. Sometimes it was a little disturbing, like watching a palsied zebra finch. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Lepinski had, some months earlier, decided to do the Mattress Marengo with the guy who sold her pork ribs on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But there may have been other reasons.
“She’s not seeing
him
anymore.”
I assumed when he said “seeing,” he actually meant screwing, but neither Chrissy was too excited about asking. I nodded and refocused. Lepinski had problems, but compared to some men, most of whom I’ve dated, he’s got his pencils all in one box. “Did she tell you that?”
“Yes.” He glanced up, twitched. “She says it’s over.”
I couldn’t help wondering if the missus had called it quits with the pork-rib guy because she desperately longed to return to the connubial bliss she’d once shared with her beloved spouse, or because Porker had belatedly come to his senses. I’d met Mrs. Lepinski. She was marginally better-looking than a rump roast, but not quite as charming.
“So you miss her,” I said. It was not quite a question, but left the door open for a response. Sometimes I surprised even myself with my spectacular cunning. Go, new Chrissy!
Lepinski’s myopic gaze flitted toward the door and back. “She’s my wife.”
I sat in intelligent silence. Sometimes I sat in idiotic silence, but I tried to avoid it at the office.
“I mean, of course I miss her.” He was looking defensive and fidgety, darting his attention from my framed Ansel Adams to my nearly empty desktop. It boasted one photograph, a magnet thingie with geometric metal pieces stuck to it, and two files aligned just so.
“You’re living alone since the separation, aren’t you, Mr. Lepinski?”
“Yes.”
“In an apartment?”
He twitched. Maybe he saw where I was heading and didn’t like the direction.
“I used to think I needed someone…” He paused, thinking. “Right.”
“‘Right’?” I repeated, clever as a fox.
“You know. The right image. The right apartment. The right friends.”
I steepled my fingers. “And now?”
“Now…” He looked wistful and tired when he turned back toward me. “Now I think I might be an ass.”
By the time Jacob left, the new Chrissy was a little confused. Weren’t we supposed to be fussy? Weren’t we supposed to aim high? By lunch she was only hungry. Turns out raisins don’t stick to your ribs like, say,…food.
So I trekked to the coffee shop early, obsessing over a Bacon Brava sandwich on a croissant with extra mozzarella and potato chips. I ordered a turkey on rye and returned to the office feeling smug and a little resentful. Damn freakin’ poultry.
I saw four clients back to back without even coming up for air.
At 5:51 I heard Howard Lepinski talking to Elaine in the reception area. I finished updating Peggy Shin’s records and dutifully set the rest aside. The old Chrissy wasn’t real concerned about punctuality. Five minutes late was spot on time as far as she was concerned. But I was different now. I opened the door at six o’clock on the dot.
Lepinski settled onto my couch like a little old lady protecting her pocketbook, knees pressed primly together, back straight as a pin.
I said hello. He managed the same. A few seconds ticked away in silence before I decided to give the proverbial ball a shove.
“So how was your—”
“I’m thinking of going back to my wife.” The words sped from his lips like 220 sprinters.
I sat dumbfounded. If I had been Lepinski’s mistress this might have been bad news. Or maybe if I had been his wife. As things stood, I wasn’t sure what to think.
Mr. Lepinski was a little man with a twitch, a mustache, and eyeglasses thick enough to render them bulletproof. I’d been counseling him for almost a year.
“Are you certain that’s what you want to do?” I asked.
Lepinski shrugged and blinked twice. He was extremely fond of blinking…and shrugging. Sometimes it was a little disturbing, like watching a palsied zebra finch. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Lepinski had, some months earlier, decided to do the Mattress Marengo with the guy who sold her pork ribs on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But there may have been other reasons.
“She’s not seeing
him
anymore.”
I assumed when he said “seeing,” he actually meant screwing, but neither Chrissy was too excited about asking. I nodded and refocused. Lepinski had problems, but compared to some men, most of whom I’ve dated, he’s got his pencils all in one box. “Did she tell you that?”
“Yes.” He glanced up, twitched. “She says it’s over.”
I couldn’t help wondering if the missus had called it quits with the pork-rib guy because she desperately longed to return to the connubial bliss she’d once shared with her beloved spouse, or because Porker had belatedly come to his senses. I’d met Mrs. Lepinski. She was marginally better-looking than a rump roast, but not quite as charming.
“So you miss her,” I said. It was not quite a question, but left the door open for a response. Sometimes I surprised even myself with my spectacular cunning. Go, new Chrissy!
Lepinski’s myopic gaze flitted toward the door and back. “She’s my wife.”
I sat in intelligent silence. Sometimes I sat in idiotic silence, but I tried to avoid it at the office.
“I mean, of course I miss her.” He was looking defensive and fidgety, darting his attention from my framed Ansel Adams to my nearly empty desktop. It boasted one photograph, a magnet thingie with geometric metal pieces stuck to it, and two files aligned just so.
“You’re living alone since the separation, aren’t you, Mr. Lepinski?”
“Yes.”
“In an apartment?”
He twitched. Maybe he saw where I was heading and didn’t like the direction.
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