t. It’s demeaning, outdated, a step away from ‘my betrothed’ or ‘intended’ or ‘future slave.’ Maybe not that bad, but do I go around calling you my fiancé?” “Do, I’d love it; then ‘my husband, my beloved, the love of my life.’ What the hell else is it for? But you didn’t like it because it was the realization that by the designation people had the expectation we’d eventually get married, and at that moment it sunk in.” “You’re being silly. But we’ll talk later, or we’ll be late for work.” “I’m being realistic. If I can see, then I say what I see, and I can see it, on the wall, the freaking end-of-getting-married and end of everything else between us, so stop hiding it to make it so-called easier for me. Because if I’m to start getting the jitters about you dumping me, I want to starting today.” “All I can say—” putting on her coat, “Don’t you want something to eat?” “No.” “Is that you’re acting all out of proportion to the situation. But after the way you acted, perhaps it would be best if you got your things together this weekend and moved out for the time being.” “And you’re saying you weren’t going to tell me that before we had this rotten talk?” “I probably would have, if you didn’t leave on your own in a week or so.” “Bullshit. Horseshit. I could kill you. Sorry, I don’t mean that, but I hate you for what you’ve done. Sucking me in, leading me on…” He’s punching his palm, biting his knuckles now. “Go yourself. I’ll throw my junk together while you’re out and that’ll be it for us.” “No, I don’t want you wrecking the place. Besides, I don’t want to leave it like this. Come on, Howard, really; stick another tie in your pocket and let’s go.” Does, muttering “Fuck you, you bastard, go screw yourself,” under his breath. They take the subway, don’t speak. Didn’t when they walked to the subway, he always a few feet ahead of her, “Boy, you really want to be rid of me,” she said. “Why don’t you just race on ahead?” I would, I would, if I didn’t want to, he thought. Didn’t know if he should stick the coins in the turnstile for her, as he usually does, but did, after he went through, without looking at her. She touches his hand while they stand hanging on to a pole during the ride, but he pulls it away, looks at the ads around, can’t stand looking at anything and shuts his eyes. I hate her. I’m going to go crazy without her. If it’s bad now, what’ll it be when my stuff’s all out of her place and I don’t have an excuse to see her? I’ll call, she’ll be nice on the phone, but won’t see me. Maybe in a few weeks, she’ll say. She’ll start with some other guy, probably one from her church. Seemed to be a lot of good-looking bright guys there and a lot more fun-making in the sense she likes than him. Jolly, healthy, gay. I’ll drink too much to get to sleep, wake up a few hours after I pass out and feel even worse because I won’t be able to get back to sleep besides being a little stomach-sick, so I’ll just think of her, the bitch, hours before with her apron on, cooking dinner for some guy, later on top of him in bed, at the same moment he’s thinking all this, that smile on her puss when she’s up there doing it that way, taking this subway with him next day. Shakes off the thought. “Anything wrong?” she says. “No,” closes his eyes again, recalls her as the smiling usher, escorting one of the elderly congregants down the aisle, that phony and fake. “Aren’t the stained-glass windows here beautiful?” first time she took him. No, they’re not, he thought, they’re churchy, depressing, but said yes. I should be glad to be rid of her. If they had children, what fun would it be bringing them up if she led them to church every Sunday? This business with medicine. Dinner with her boring church friends, no wine, or a bottle only in front of him, and after, Sanka or herbal tea, though if he likes, real coffee. What’ll I say to my folks, brother and friends? Who am I going to move in with? I’ll have to get my own place quick. That’s not easy. Everyone wants a cheap place in the Village. But I want it to be near hers but not in the same neighborhood, so I can bump into her or plan it so it looks that way. Forget that. I’ll get one, anywhere in the city that’s cheap, show her I don’t need her. Show her nothing. Tell friends it’s over and you want to go out with other women and then go out with them, find someone else — that’s the best cure, and staying away from her. Opens his eyes, looks at her. So goddamn beautiful, it kills him. Would love for it to be like it’s been, handholding on the train, if they get seats each reading a different section from the same newspaper and occasionally commenting on it, parting kiss. “Listen,” he says, and puts his mouth to her ear, “I love you too much, that’s the problem.” “That’s not it,” she says, “believe me.” “Then what is?” “Let’s talk about it later,” as it’s her stop they’re pulling into, and she puts out her cheek, he says “Oh shove it. I’m not going to just take everything you dish out,” and she shrugs and goes. He’s at work but can’t work, calls her after lunch and says “So where do I stand? Can I come by later to at least pick up the stuff I need?” “Hold it. Don’t go to extremes again. We should talk, Meet me after work?” Meet, dinner out, grabs her hand when they walk to the restaurant, she clutches his, puts her head on his shoulder, over dinner she says she was much too hasty this morning and didn’t think through lots of what she said, his reaction didn’t help matters but she takes part responsibility for that, she still wants the marriage postponed, she doesn’t know till when, but please stay, she’s almost sure it can all work out. “I’ll stay, no question about it,” kisses her hands, she kisses his, stare at each other and cry. Few weeks later, while they’re dressing for work, he says “By the way, have you had any more thoughts, either way, about the marriage being postponed or anything regarding it and us? Just asking, you don’t have to answer.” “Truth is, after careful consideration, corny as that has to sound to you, and talking it over with some people good for that—” “Your practitioner?” “Among others. That’s all right, isn’t it?” “Really, what more important decision could you make, so anything you say.” By her expression and she’s looking right at him and that “corny as that has to sound” remark, he thinks everything’s going to be OK. “Anyway, you asked, so I’m saying, though I hate for it always to be the first thing in the day — I don’t know when the right time for it could be—” “Wait, what are you saying?” “You must have sensed something’s been wrong between us since the last time.” “No, nothing, what?” can hardly speak, “everything’s been great.” “It hasn’t. Quite the opposite. I’ve been withdrawn from you, melancholic to downright depressed most times the last two weeks. It’s because it isn’t working, and I also knew what I’d be saying now would hurt you, which made me feel even worse.” “Why? You’ve been happy, gay, moody occasionally, but not for long and no more than me — natural moodiness, comes and goes. And we’ve been fine together, same as ever whenever it’s gone well, and it has, joking around, sleeping together—” “Not fine; not happy or gay. If I seemed liked it then it was an act not to show how I felt but one I wasn’t even aware of. And sleeping with you is what you wanted so I gave in but not with any enthusiasm or joy. You had to know that too.” “I didn’t. That’s not at all what I caught.” “Then I’m not saying any more. We’ll talk tonight. I don’t want to ruin your day or mine as I did the last time.” “You saying you definitely can never think of marrying me?” “I think so. Or at least that’s what I think now. And without that direction, we shouldn’t live together. Something isn’t clicking with us, I don’t know what. You’ve been wonderful, have put up with me and my moods, but I need time to be by myself and think things out. Maybe, but I doubt it, I’ll discover—” He pushes her, wants to hit her, she sees it, fist up and his face, and backs away. “Don’t worry, I never would. Never you. Not that precious face. Oh no, I couldn’t,” and smashes his fist through a panel of the closet door. She says “Now who’s going to pay for that?” “Fuck it, you moron, your goddamn door.” “All right, I will fuck it. I’ll fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, you fucking fucking curser. You crazy man. For the first time, though you’ve given signs, I’m truly afraid of you,” and goes into the bathroom and locks it. He listens at the bathroom door. “You crying in there? Well if you are, cry all you want; just think of what you’ve done to me,” and runs water over his hand, wants to put antiseptic on it but that’s in the bathroom, wraps it with a dishtowel and leaves. Calls her at work and says “Sorry about the door. Tell Mrs. Young I fell with such force or something that my head went through it, but that I’ll pay for it.” “I saw blood in the kitchen. How’s your hand?” “My hand deserves what I did to it, so don’t worry. I also want to say, if it’d help things, and I don’t think it’d be a bad idea for me — I’m interested in it and I need — you saw — some additional spiritual discipline in my life like this — I’ll convert to Science.” “Do it only for yourself, not me. It won’t change anything between us. It’s not the issue. Be Jewish; even be Orthodox Jewish.” “But I need you to stay with me and guide me in it. I’m serious about it. It’s not just for you.” “Go to any Science church other than mine and ask them for advice. But nothing related to me.” “Ah, you just don’t love me, that’s all. You maybe did a little once — now and then — but not enough.” “Anyway, I’ll stay somewhere else tonight and you can start moving out. I’ll give you till around six tomorrow. But please go? And promise you won’t wreck anything else or take whatever’s not yours?” Gets an apartment. Gets drunk a lot. Calls her late at night a lot, for anything. “The Auden book I said I didn’t want? I need it back. Not only because I’m starting to love his work again but there’s something in it I have to find and copy down to go into my own writing.” “I’ll send it.” “I have to have it by morning. Can I come right down?” She’s on her stoop with the book. “Here. Please don’t bother me with little things like this again. You want anything more of yours I might have, tell me now and we’ll go upstairs and get it and that’ll be all.” They go upstairs. He grabs her on the third-floor landing to kiss her. She puts her hand between their mouths. “Please. I feel nothing but sympathy for you now.” “Fuck you, you rat. You can have whatever I’ve left up there, or throw it out the window for all I care. Plus this book,” and heaves it downstairs, kicks it out of his way as he leaves the building. Weeks later wishes he hadn’t; one about Yeats and another about suffering he wanted to go to; also the shortie where children die in the streets. He was drinking and in a sad serious mood. Meets her two years later at an art gallery she’s working at. Saw the review and that afternoon had nothing to do. “Fancy this,” he says and she looks up from a textbook and that smile and big hi. “I didn’t mean to just spring up on you. You’re I swear a complete surprise.” She’s no longer a Christian Scientist, is living with an artist who exhibits here but nothing of his up this moment, courses in anthropology, paleontology, ancient Greek, given up theater for good. News quit him when the show went off the air and he’s living on unemployment and writing a book. They kiss each other’s cheeks good-bye. “Wait a sec, I haven’t even looked around,” does, says he wasn’t disappointed and it’s a nice walk back through the park. “By the way,” and invites him for dinner. Accepts but hour before just can’t see himself there, sitting, wanting, coming back, and calls to say he suddenly got a stomach flu. The artist answers, says she’s in the can now, he’ll relay the message. “Too bad, it would’ve been interesting. Most of our pals can’t talk anything but dealers or painters, when they’re not descanting on Chinese food and movies. In fact I’ve tried to bring some writers onto the scene to change that, but another time, hey? and feel good,” and he says “That’s very kind, thanks.” Months later goes out of his way to pass their building. Looking through all the store windows around there just in case and sees her on one of the checkout lines of the supermarket on her block. Goes in, says he was heading for the subway, looked left just for a second and couldn’t believe his eyes. “Watch out,” she shouts as the conveyor belt moves her food and she jokes how she sometimes thinks her hand’s going to move with it when she’s thinking about something else and disappear under the belt. “Who knows what’s under there; I imagine teeth.” Laughs, at the same time realizing he’s being phony since he doesn’t think it funny. Invites him upstairs for coffee; Ricardo’s in Germany for an opening of his work. Carries both bags, despite her protests, and remembers shopping with her when they lived together; always liked it. Coffee’s rich, ground just for this brewing; king- or queen-sized mattress on the floor behind a screen. Very little furniture, all the lighting fluorescent except for two student lamps by their bed pillows, most of the place seems to be his studio. “Where do you work when you’re home?” and she says in bed or at the kitchen table. “Ricardo pays the bills and is the at-home artist and it was his place so gets most of the space.” Lots of expressionistic nudes, still lifes, sunsets or rises over some Mediterranean fishing village it seems with mountains in the back and big storms boiling behind them. None of the nudes look like her except a little in the face: heavier breasts, larger aureoles, bigger bushes, darker hair, thinner legs, squarer buns. “Interesting; nice; good; exciting; terrific color, any of you?” and she says “Zillions, in every kind of pose, clothed and unclothed, including some frankly pornographic ones and a few unerotic nudes with him—’Artist and His Model’—but they go straight into the gallery or on the road. These are all early works to hide the cracks.” Books piled up against the walls, bunches of tiny dried flowers throughout the loft, bathroom smells from her soap; in it a life-sized mirror-image self-portrait, he supposes, looking as if he’s about to break the mirror with his brush; dark, handsome, bearded, angry, long fat semierect penis; only painting so far he really likes. “That him in there?” and she says “It’s embarrassing, that one. I like to tell people it’s his nonexistent identical-twin brother, but maybe that doesn’t help,” and he laughs when she does, again thinks he’s a phony. Wants to throw her down and rip her clothes off and rape her. Give her time only to put her diaphragm in if that’s what she still uses — looked for the case in the bathroom but didn’t find it — but to tape her mouth if he has to and flatten her to the mattress, grab her ass from behind with both hands and push her up to him as far as she can go and to come fast and for the whole thing to be over with forever. Maybe for them to stay locked like that for a few minutes but without him looking at her and then if he can to come again the same way or with her turned over. To go to jail for it, long as they’d want to stick him in it — he wouldn’t give any resistance. Kiss on the cheeks good-bye. “We really should do dinner,” she says. “Ricardo would enjoy meeting you.” “Sure he would.” “Why wouldn’t he? He’s interested in anyone with a serious purpose, doesn’t have to be art, and says the two of you are much alike. He’s punched his hand through a door and wall a few times too.” “I only did it that once and would like to forget about it.” He calls and they meet twice in the next two years, for coffee, the next time lunch. Ricardo sold the loft and went to Paris to live and work and she’s following him in a month. She’s studying art history now, also figure drawing. He says he’ll take her to the airport by bus; she says