“So?”
“I was just wondering how you like your new space.”
“Space?” He snorted. “It’s the size of a thumbtack. Don’t even have a toaster.”
“I couldn’t live without English muffins,” I said.
He shot his gaze back to mine. “What?”
I smiled and leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees. They were stylishly garbed in dove gray Chanel trousers. Secondhand, but still classy as hell. “Tell me what you miss most about Sheila.”
“Well…” He scowled, looking angry—or constipated. “She, uh…I don’t understand the question.”
I shrugged. “Does she make you laugh? Do you like the way she smells? Is she a master chef?”
Definitely angry, but maybe constipated, too, and more than a tad defensive. “She doesn’t like the kitchen.”
“Oh.” I leaned back and
uh-huh
ed. “How does she feel about the bedroom?”
He froze. His mustache twitched and he darted his gaze away as if he hoped to do the same. “What?”
“We haven’t spoken much about your relationship with your wife, Mr. Lepinski. I’m wondering what makes it special. Is it…say…sparkling dialogue, a mutual love for buffalo nickels, or something more intimate?”
“Intimate?”
He said the word as though it were being dragged out of his throat with a garden trowel.
“You were intimate, weren’t you?” I asked, and smiled to break the tension. No go.
“Of course. Of course we were…intimate.”
The room went silent. I waited. Nodded. Waited some more. He didn’t expound, leaving me to wonder, what kind of person doesn’t like to talk about sex?
History and personal experience immediately suggested that it’s the kind that’s not getting any. Just about then,
I
could think of forty-seven subjects I’d rather discuss. Forty-eight if you count asphalt. I do.
“How often?” I asked finally.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s between Sheila and me.”
“Is it?”
“What?”
“Listen, Mr. Lepinski, I’m not a voyeur.” And if I were, I sincerely hoped I could find a better subject than a little man who favored rainbow-colored socks and considered collecting coins as exhilarating as skydiving. “I’m just wondering if, perhaps, you’ve misplaced your affections.”
“Huh?”
“Might it be possible that you don’t miss your wife so much as you miss…warm toast?”
“I don’t eat white flour anymore.”
I refrained from grinding my teeth. “Then perhaps it’s something else associated with Sheila that you long for. That is to say, your own home…comfort.” I paused, daring myself to terrify him again. “Sex.”
For a moment I thought he might actually launch himself out my window and thwap into the coffeehouse next door. But he remained where he was, clawed hands holding his knees in place lest they skitter across the room like south-of-the-border fleas.
“Have you been seeing anyone?” I ventured, cautious now, for fear he’d do himself bodily harm in his haste to escape.
“Seeing…?”
“Dating,” I explained.
His eyes went round with panic. I’d like to say I found his reaction ridiculous and melodramatic. But the new Chrissy’s no idiot.
“No!” he said. “No. I mean…I’m married. I can’t. I wouldn’t know…how….” His voice trailed off.
“It’s just a thought, Mr. Lepinski,” I said. “You don’t have to run right out to a singles bar or anything.”
“Singles bar?” For a moment I thought he might burst into tears, which, from my perspective, was the most normal reaction I’d ever seen him exhibit. Anyone who doesn’t want to cry at the thought of a singles bar is either a hopeless masochist or just…hopeless.
“That is to say, I think it’s important that you examine your true feelings for your wife before you make any firm decisions.”
He twitched and glared. The clock ticked. He twitched again.
“Perhaps returning to her will make your life a living Utopia—or perhaps it will only further degrade your
“I was just wondering how you like your new space.”
“Space?” He snorted. “It’s the size of a thumbtack. Don’t even have a toaster.”
“I couldn’t live without English muffins,” I said.
He shot his gaze back to mine. “What?”
I smiled and leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees. They were stylishly garbed in dove gray Chanel trousers. Secondhand, but still classy as hell. “Tell me what you miss most about Sheila.”
“Well…” He scowled, looking angry—or constipated. “She, uh…I don’t understand the question.”
I shrugged. “Does she make you laugh? Do you like the way she smells? Is she a master chef?”
Definitely angry, but maybe constipated, too, and more than a tad defensive. “She doesn’t like the kitchen.”
“Oh.” I leaned back and
uh-huh
ed. “How does she feel about the bedroom?”
He froze. His mustache twitched and he darted his gaze away as if he hoped to do the same. “What?”
“We haven’t spoken much about your relationship with your wife, Mr. Lepinski. I’m wondering what makes it special. Is it…say…sparkling dialogue, a mutual love for buffalo nickels, or something more intimate?”
“Intimate?”
He said the word as though it were being dragged out of his throat with a garden trowel.
“You were intimate, weren’t you?” I asked, and smiled to break the tension. No go.
“Of course. Of course we were…intimate.”
The room went silent. I waited. Nodded. Waited some more. He didn’t expound, leaving me to wonder, what kind of person doesn’t like to talk about sex?
History and personal experience immediately suggested that it’s the kind that’s not getting any. Just about then,
I
could think of forty-seven subjects I’d rather discuss. Forty-eight if you count asphalt. I do.
“How often?” I asked finally.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s between Sheila and me.”
“Is it?”
“What?”
“Listen, Mr. Lepinski, I’m not a voyeur.” And if I were, I sincerely hoped I could find a better subject than a little man who favored rainbow-colored socks and considered collecting coins as exhilarating as skydiving. “I’m just wondering if, perhaps, you’ve misplaced your affections.”
“Huh?”
“Might it be possible that you don’t miss your wife so much as you miss…warm toast?”
“I don’t eat white flour anymore.”
I refrained from grinding my teeth. “Then perhaps it’s something else associated with Sheila that you long for. That is to say, your own home…comfort.” I paused, daring myself to terrify him again. “Sex.”
For a moment I thought he might actually launch himself out my window and thwap into the coffeehouse next door. But he remained where he was, clawed hands holding his knees in place lest they skitter across the room like south-of-the-border fleas.
“Have you been seeing anyone?” I ventured, cautious now, for fear he’d do himself bodily harm in his haste to escape.
“Seeing…?”
“Dating,” I explained.
His eyes went round with panic. I’d like to say I found his reaction ridiculous and melodramatic. But the new Chrissy’s no idiot.
“No!” he said. “No. I mean…I’m married. I can’t. I wouldn’t know…how….” His voice trailed off.
“It’s just a thought, Mr. Lepinski,” I said. “You don’t have to run right out to a singles bar or anything.”
“Singles bar?” For a moment I thought he might burst into tears, which, from my perspective, was the most normal reaction I’d ever seen him exhibit. Anyone who doesn’t want to cry at the thought of a singles bar is either a hopeless masochist or just…hopeless.
“That is to say, I think it’s important that you examine your true feelings for your wife before you make any firm decisions.”
He twitched and glared. The clock ticked. He twitched again.
“Perhaps returning to her will make your life a living Utopia—or perhaps it will only further degrade your
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