his diagnosis in the late winter, the possible repercussions of his approaching surgery laid out before him, he sent Christine an e-mail: I wonât miss it. Sex, that is. I feel like Iâve been drifting away from sex these past monthsâI donât know whether itâs a case of testosterone collapse or just too much on my mind. The doctors had told him it was not a symptom of his cancer, nor had there ever been a connection between loss of desire and the disease. Itâs purely mental, or hormonal, or whatever. But (how to put this) my desire to feel desire isnât there anymore. Itâs a relief, in many ways. Maybe for you as well, though I guess itâs a bit late for that.
So many of lifeâs decisions were based around sex. Consciously or otherwise. Hilarious, really, how pliable a manâs life was, how easily it was tipped and upended, blown off course by lust. Before Christine there was Naomi, a participant in his study of the cyclists. Bubbly, idealisticâand young, bordering on too young, that was his first mistake. She was the one whoâd complained to his department about unethical behaviour. Theyâd been sleeping together for weeks already, but then heâd made some suggestions, a little high or drunk or both, maybe pressured her to do certain things. Or sheâd found out about other womenâthereâd been a strange sexual dynamic within the cycling club that any sensible person, a good researcher, would have avoided or documented from afar.
There had also been Sweden. Christine had not been around when he arrived home from the excavation, a small mercyâshe missed the spectacle of Tamba openly mocking him at the pub, the final blow to Paulâs rapidly diminishing reputation in the department. She was away writing her paper at a cabin sheâd rented (she did not say exactly where) and had plans afterwards to climb in Squamish with friends. He couldnât tell her over the phone about his night in Skinnskatteberg, in the alley behind a bar. He would later, in person, after sheâd returned from her trip with her hair cut short and a torn ligament in her wrist. With or without his confession, their end was inevitable. Chasing whims, chasing women: she found them equally distasteful, equally damning. They sat on his bed one last time and tried to look back on things with a fondness they didnât feel. Their relationship had become so coldly physical. âWe had good sex,â she said, as if that were all, and he said that was true. After the breakup, Paul had gone to his parentsâ place on Salt Spring and prepared to teach another semester. Tamba and Christine became a single person in his mind, a figure of disapproval who made him feel crass and low.
Fall semester came and dragged on. He reached a plateau in his parkour training and couldnât push himself any higher. He had hit his peak, and it was underwhelming. This shouldnât have affected his research, but it did. Around the same time, urinating became a painful, difficult, and frequent adventure. Or, really, hadnât it been a little difficult for a long time, a year or more, and heâd just been ignoring the faltering, stop-start stream? Then there was blood and he wondered if heâd caught something in Sweden. Avoidances, tests, finally the Centre. Patients he met there identified themselves with their Gleason Score, the results of their biopsyâhis was a Score 7, mildly aggressive. This earned him a solemn high-five from Tim Holcomb, Score 8, whom he met in the waiting room. âYouâll do well,â Tim said.
After the night count, unable to sleep, he looked for distractions. The things Tanner had left behind in the trailer were the dregs an old roommate leaves behind: half-empty packs of matches and melted-down candle nubs, playing cards stained with cola, a wine cork. There was a book of local history, published twenty years ago by a press
So many of lifeâs decisions were based around sex. Consciously or otherwise. Hilarious, really, how pliable a manâs life was, how easily it was tipped and upended, blown off course by lust. Before Christine there was Naomi, a participant in his study of the cyclists. Bubbly, idealisticâand young, bordering on too young, that was his first mistake. She was the one whoâd complained to his department about unethical behaviour. Theyâd been sleeping together for weeks already, but then heâd made some suggestions, a little high or drunk or both, maybe pressured her to do certain things. Or sheâd found out about other womenâthereâd been a strange sexual dynamic within the cycling club that any sensible person, a good researcher, would have avoided or documented from afar.
There had also been Sweden. Christine had not been around when he arrived home from the excavation, a small mercyâshe missed the spectacle of Tamba openly mocking him at the pub, the final blow to Paulâs rapidly diminishing reputation in the department. She was away writing her paper at a cabin sheâd rented (she did not say exactly where) and had plans afterwards to climb in Squamish with friends. He couldnât tell her over the phone about his night in Skinnskatteberg, in the alley behind a bar. He would later, in person, after sheâd returned from her trip with her hair cut short and a torn ligament in her wrist. With or without his confession, their end was inevitable. Chasing whims, chasing women: she found them equally distasteful, equally damning. They sat on his bed one last time and tried to look back on things with a fondness they didnât feel. Their relationship had become so coldly physical. âWe had good sex,â she said, as if that were all, and he said that was true. After the breakup, Paul had gone to his parentsâ place on Salt Spring and prepared to teach another semester. Tamba and Christine became a single person in his mind, a figure of disapproval who made him feel crass and low.
Fall semester came and dragged on. He reached a plateau in his parkour training and couldnât push himself any higher. He had hit his peak, and it was underwhelming. This shouldnât have affected his research, but it did. Around the same time, urinating became a painful, difficult, and frequent adventure. Or, really, hadnât it been a little difficult for a long time, a year or more, and heâd just been ignoring the faltering, stop-start stream? Then there was blood and he wondered if heâd caught something in Sweden. Avoidances, tests, finally the Centre. Patients he met there identified themselves with their Gleason Score, the results of their biopsyâhis was a Score 7, mildly aggressive. This earned him a solemn high-five from Tim Holcomb, Score 8, whom he met in the waiting room. âYouâll do well,â Tim said.
After the night count, unable to sleep, he looked for distractions. The things Tanner had left behind in the trailer were the dregs an old roommate leaves behind: half-empty packs of matches and melted-down candle nubs, playing cards stained with cola, a wine cork. There was a book of local history, published twenty years ago by a press
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