lugging his oversized suitcase up the hill and laying it on the bed, he checked the flue, shining the flashlight beam up the chimney shaft. Not seeing anything worrisome— blockages of leaves, bird nests, thick incrustations of creosote— he piled three logs on top of several small pieces of kindling and pulled down a round container of matches from the mantel. To get the fire started, he retrieved the current
New Yorker
from his suitcase, tore out a dozen glossy pages, crumpling them into crushed balls of print, and wedged them under the soot-charred andirons. A few minutes later the fire was crackling, the first flames taking hold in the kindling as smoke pooled worrisomely for a moment before being drawn up the flue.
From the bathroom came the sound of a running shower. Water splashed so loud and distinct against porcelain, he could almost see the blocked flow, the fat, twisting stream in the center where minerals had caked the small, concentric circles of tiny holes. He guessed the bathroom door wasn’t completely closed, and when he went quietly out into the hall, his guess was confirmed. The door was ajar the width of a man’s fist. The red light of the fire, now crackling and snapping, lit up the hallway where he stood. He backed out of the light into a second, smaller bedroom and saw, in the dark, that the bed had not been made, though a fat comforter and what looked like a pillow and sheets were stacked neatly at the foot of the matrress.He went out into the hallway again and slid along the wall into a tongue of shadow, where he saw Jenny’s reflection in a sliver of mirror. She was undressed with her back turned to him, in the process of pulling her hair behind her head and fastening it somehow. She looked to be tying it back, as if with a ribbon or a rubber band. Her arms were raised and he could see the sides of her breasts, full and weighty in muted moonlight coming from a window behind the drawn shower curtain. Half of her back was draped in shadow so that the undulating course of her spine seemed to divide her between light and dark. She had no tattoos. He thought every young woman these days was tattooed. As far as he could see, she had no moles or scars to mar the lines of her body. When she dropped her arms, having finished tying back her hair, he moved away quietly, fearing she might turn and see his reflection in the mirror watching her.
He took off his jacket and lay down in front of the fire on the bearskin rug, looking absently a moment at the mounted head in profile: the dog-like ears, the snout and white teeth that looked sharp enough still to be dangerous. He ran his fingers though the fur and asked himself what he would do if, as appeared to be a distinct possibility, Jenny was planning to sleep with him. He hadn’t had sex in more than two years. His entire sex life these past two years had consisted of occasional, boredom-induced masturbation. He seemed to have lost the ability to successfully fantasize. In his youth, his fantasies were wild. He dreamed of sex with multiple women, a woman on his back with him atop a woman on her back; sexwith couples; sex with dozens; massive orgies. Fantasy after fantasy brought him to crackling orgasm. In his youth. When he woke up every morning of his life with a raging erection. Which had stopped exactly when? At forty? Forty-five? Now he woke with only the need to pee. Now his old fantasies all struck him as ridiculous and shallow. Whereas in his youth the women all moaned with pleasure as he pounded himself to orgasm, now they tended to evaporate within minutes of their conjuring, leaving him holding his halfhearted member in hand as he drifted off to sleep. Now, after seeing Jenny naked in the shower—a beautiful young woman who was apparently interested in him—he found himself more worried about actually having sex with her than looking forward to it.
He conjured again the image of Jenny in moonlight tying up her hair, but the picture faded
New Yorker
from his suitcase, tore out a dozen glossy pages, crumpling them into crushed balls of print, and wedged them under the soot-charred andirons. A few minutes later the fire was crackling, the first flames taking hold in the kindling as smoke pooled worrisomely for a moment before being drawn up the flue.
From the bathroom came the sound of a running shower. Water splashed so loud and distinct against porcelain, he could almost see the blocked flow, the fat, twisting stream in the center where minerals had caked the small, concentric circles of tiny holes. He guessed the bathroom door wasn’t completely closed, and when he went quietly out into the hall, his guess was confirmed. The door was ajar the width of a man’s fist. The red light of the fire, now crackling and snapping, lit up the hallway where he stood. He backed out of the light into a second, smaller bedroom and saw, in the dark, that the bed had not been made, though a fat comforter and what looked like a pillow and sheets were stacked neatly at the foot of the matrress.He went out into the hallway again and slid along the wall into a tongue of shadow, where he saw Jenny’s reflection in a sliver of mirror. She was undressed with her back turned to him, in the process of pulling her hair behind her head and fastening it somehow. She looked to be tying it back, as if with a ribbon or a rubber band. Her arms were raised and he could see the sides of her breasts, full and weighty in muted moonlight coming from a window behind the drawn shower curtain. Half of her back was draped in shadow so that the undulating course of her spine seemed to divide her between light and dark. She had no tattoos. He thought every young woman these days was tattooed. As far as he could see, she had no moles or scars to mar the lines of her body. When she dropped her arms, having finished tying back her hair, he moved away quietly, fearing she might turn and see his reflection in the mirror watching her.
He took off his jacket and lay down in front of the fire on the bearskin rug, looking absently a moment at the mounted head in profile: the dog-like ears, the snout and white teeth that looked sharp enough still to be dangerous. He ran his fingers though the fur and asked himself what he would do if, as appeared to be a distinct possibility, Jenny was planning to sleep with him. He hadn’t had sex in more than two years. His entire sex life these past two years had consisted of occasional, boredom-induced masturbation. He seemed to have lost the ability to successfully fantasize. In his youth, his fantasies were wild. He dreamed of sex with multiple women, a woman on his back with him atop a woman on her back; sexwith couples; sex with dozens; massive orgies. Fantasy after fantasy brought him to crackling orgasm. In his youth. When he woke up every morning of his life with a raging erection. Which had stopped exactly when? At forty? Forty-five? Now he woke with only the need to pee. Now his old fantasies all struck him as ridiculous and shallow. Whereas in his youth the women all moaned with pleasure as he pounded himself to orgasm, now they tended to evaporate within minutes of their conjuring, leaving him holding his halfhearted member in hand as he drifted off to sleep. Now, after seeing Jenny naked in the shower—a beautiful young woman who was apparently interested in him—he found himself more worried about actually having sex with her than looking forward to it.
He conjured again the image of Jenny in moonlight tying up her hair, but the picture faded
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