apparently had the mind of a middle-aged pervert, as she visited and revisited my most far-flung creations, declaring “brilliant” and “so fucking hot” the sterile fantasies I had composed one-handed while gobbling my tuna sandwich.
“I thought I was crazy,” she told me on the phone. “I thought I was the only person in the world who had these feelings. I’d give my math teacher what I thought were like smoldering looks—he was fat and ugly, but the pool of older men was really limited—and he just looked at me like I was nuts.” Her voice was bright and clear and somehow more troubling for being so straightforward. “I’d drop hints to my friends, like did you ever hear about people doing this or that, but when they got grossed out, I’d pretend to be kidding and be like, yeah, isn’t that weird, while inside I was dying. Then I saw your stories. They were exactly like my fantasies, but better even, things I’d never imagined. I got so excited it was like I had a fever. Then later I’d feel guilty. I’d think, who does this guy think he is, and get mad and report you and demand you be taken down. Then I’d go read it again. I got older and I moved to Brooklyn and went to college and met some guys, but I was always comparing them to you. Or like I imagined you. You were like my secret. And now here you are. The dirtiest man ever.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I think.” I told her what my ex-wife and Leticia had thought.
“They didn’t understand you,” she assured me.
“They didn’t? I was afraid that they did.”
“Or maybe they’re really reading them right now. I bet there’s hundreds of women, all over, who read your words in secret.” She said she’d found Leticia’s previous articles online and emailed me the link to a six-month-old academic journal. There was a photo of me, with the caption “Personaje ficticio difunta”: Dead Fictional Person.
“But I love the beard,” delayeddelights told me. “I like you scruffy.” She hesitated. A puppy yelped in the background. “Do you think, maybe, we should finally meet? Talk or whatever? Have a drink? We can do whatever you want.”
Should I go? It was late. I was already in my pajamas. How would a guy like MFA dress, anyway? In a mask and cape? I was tempted to ask her to wait and then call Rivka, but there wasn’t time. “I don’t even know what I want,” I told her truthfully.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I do.”
I could hear the excitement quivering in her voice. I imagined her body pressed against mine, fierce little heart beating like a bird. The one thing I knew for sure was that I would ruin it somehow. I would lose it all. I agreed.
“Hurry,” she said. “I love your writing! Take a cab. I’ll split it.”
“No problem,” I declared, counting my singles, “I got it.” I told her about my experimental
Psoriasis
and offered to bring the manuscript.
She thought about it. “That’s OK. Maybe another time.”
O dirty love! O dawn! O darkness! The heartbreak of this world is that it could be so perfect, if not for me. And then, like a phantom, like a dark master of the finest arts, like a ghostwriter from the invisible world, I set out to cross that river and touch the unknown shore.
Su Li-Zhen
On a rainy day in April, my ex-girlfriend Nina called me for help.
“What kind of help?” I assumed it would be money or lifting things.
“Research,” she said. “I need to look up something and you’re the biggest brainiac I know.”
“Am not.”
“Are so. You’re all quotey and everything.” She was teasing me for the bookish references that compulsively peppered my speech. Frankly, it hadn’t to do with brains so much as a lack of outside stimuli. I’ve spent my life in a room, reading. All I had to report at dinner is what Genet or Nabokov said that day. Nina’s own favorite authors were a heady brew: Ayn Rand, Rumi, and Aleister Crowley.
“What’s this about anyway?” I
“I thought I was crazy,” she told me on the phone. “I thought I was the only person in the world who had these feelings. I’d give my math teacher what I thought were like smoldering looks—he was fat and ugly, but the pool of older men was really limited—and he just looked at me like I was nuts.” Her voice was bright and clear and somehow more troubling for being so straightforward. “I’d drop hints to my friends, like did you ever hear about people doing this or that, but when they got grossed out, I’d pretend to be kidding and be like, yeah, isn’t that weird, while inside I was dying. Then I saw your stories. They were exactly like my fantasies, but better even, things I’d never imagined. I got so excited it was like I had a fever. Then later I’d feel guilty. I’d think, who does this guy think he is, and get mad and report you and demand you be taken down. Then I’d go read it again. I got older and I moved to Brooklyn and went to college and met some guys, but I was always comparing them to you. Or like I imagined you. You were like my secret. And now here you are. The dirtiest man ever.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I think.” I told her what my ex-wife and Leticia had thought.
“They didn’t understand you,” she assured me.
“They didn’t? I was afraid that they did.”
“Or maybe they’re really reading them right now. I bet there’s hundreds of women, all over, who read your words in secret.” She said she’d found Leticia’s previous articles online and emailed me the link to a six-month-old academic journal. There was a photo of me, with the caption “Personaje ficticio difunta”: Dead Fictional Person.
“But I love the beard,” delayeddelights told me. “I like you scruffy.” She hesitated. A puppy yelped in the background. “Do you think, maybe, we should finally meet? Talk or whatever? Have a drink? We can do whatever you want.”
Should I go? It was late. I was already in my pajamas. How would a guy like MFA dress, anyway? In a mask and cape? I was tempted to ask her to wait and then call Rivka, but there wasn’t time. “I don’t even know what I want,” I told her truthfully.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I do.”
I could hear the excitement quivering in her voice. I imagined her body pressed against mine, fierce little heart beating like a bird. The one thing I knew for sure was that I would ruin it somehow. I would lose it all. I agreed.
“Hurry,” she said. “I love your writing! Take a cab. I’ll split it.”
“No problem,” I declared, counting my singles, “I got it.” I told her about my experimental
Psoriasis
and offered to bring the manuscript.
She thought about it. “That’s OK. Maybe another time.”
O dirty love! O dawn! O darkness! The heartbreak of this world is that it could be so perfect, if not for me. And then, like a phantom, like a dark master of the finest arts, like a ghostwriter from the invisible world, I set out to cross that river and touch the unknown shore.
Su Li-Zhen
On a rainy day in April, my ex-girlfriend Nina called me for help.
“What kind of help?” I assumed it would be money or lifting things.
“Research,” she said. “I need to look up something and you’re the biggest brainiac I know.”
“Am not.”
“Are so. You’re all quotey and everything.” She was teasing me for the bookish references that compulsively peppered my speech. Frankly, it hadn’t to do with brains so much as a lack of outside stimuli. I’ve spent my life in a room, reading. All I had to report at dinner is what Genet or Nabokov said that day. Nina’s own favorite authors were a heady brew: Ayn Rand, Rumi, and Aleister Crowley.
“What’s this about anyway?” I
Similar Books
