“Oh, Frank, be serious,” his wife said.
“I wish I were being less serious,” Lipscombe said, a faintly offended look on his bearded face. “Who among us has not considered the thought of flight to a commune, no more catching of the commuter train at eight-oh-seven, no more mortgages to worry about, or tax bills or fuel bills, or kids to send through college...”
“Well, there’s the crux of it,” Jeff Landers said, clearing his throat. “Once the kids are gone, the tendency is to relax a little, loosen the restraints of the moral code, consider entertaining the fantasies that...”
“Precisely my point,” Lipscombe said.
“Well, maybe that’s the way men begin feeling when their children go off to school,” Diana Blair said, “but I don’t think women get the urge to wander, or even begin to consider entertaining...”
“Yes, their fantasies,” Lipscombe said.
“I just don’t think so,” Diana said, and smiled.
“Well, perhaps the inclination toward straying is strongest in the male,” Lipscombe conceded, and here he glanced at Jamie with what seemed more than casual interest. “And in the case of the middle-aged man who’s been married half his lifetime and who can hardly be considered a novice in the field of connubial stress, we’ve got to assume that before embarking on a philandering course he has taken into consideration the risks involved and the possibility that a marriage of considerable duration may be severely undermined should the relationship with the intruder force—”
“The what?” Diana asked.
“The intruder force.”
“Oh.”
“Should the relationship with the intruder force become something more than casual and in fact assume dimensions that might eventually destroy the existing marriage.”
“Oh,” Diana said again.
“In short, the middle-aged man can be forgiven for ogling the pair of teeny-bopper tits thrust at him by every highway hitchhiker he passes — and excuse me, ladies, if you have teenage daughters, as I know some of you have — and can be forgiven further for assuming these young ladies are not entirely blameless for arousing...”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Frank,” his wife said, “you sound like a fucking sexist pig!”
“I do? Forgive me, darling. I’m only saying that there really isn’t much danger in the menopausal male’s fantasies or even his acting-out of those fantasies with an occasional partner — usually younger than he is, I might add — provided the relationship doesn’t take.”
“Take?” Connie said.
“Take,” Lipscombe repeated. “As with an inoculation for smallpox. We inquire whether or not it has taken, whether or not the toxin-antitoxin has been effective. In the same way, a middle-aged man’s philandering can mean everything or nothing at all. If the romance takes, it will oftentimes result in the dissolution of a marriage of many years’ duration. End of lecture, and I would like another martini.”
“Jamie?”
“Mmm.”
“Are you asleep?”
“Mmm.”
“What did you think of Frank?”
“Frank?”
“Lipscombe.”
“What about him?”
“What he said.”
“What’d he say?”
“Always talking about male menopause and middle-aged men running around after...”
“He’s boring and he’s full of shit.”
“Always the same stuff, isn’t it?”
“Always. But tonight he had a new audience.”
“Do you believe any of the things he says?”
“Not a word,” Jamie said.
“Not any of it?”
“None of it. Why? Do you?”
“Well, maybe it’s just that he keeps saying it over and over again. After a while...”
“Connie, I’ve got a nineteen-year-old daughter. When I hear Frank talking about teeny-bopper tits...”
“What’s she got to do with it?”
“Lissie? Well, if you can’t see what she would have to do with... with... with... with whatever it was Frank was implying...”
“He was implying, he was stating, actually, that men past the age of forty...”
“Well, I certainly would qualify for that, I guess.”
“Yes, you would, Jamie. Are prone was what he said. To having affairs.”
“Mm. Well, I’m sleepy, honey, so if you don’t mind...”
“But you don’t think so, huh? That middle-aged men are susceptible to having affairs.”
“I guess some middle-aged men are susceptible and others aren’t.”
“How about you, Jamie? Are you susceptible?”
“I told you...”
“Do you find younger women attractive?”
“Younger than whom?”
“Than meem, for example.”
“No. Besides, it wouldn’t matter. If you’re asking me...”
“Yes, whether you’d be susceptible.”
“The answer is no.”
“Because your nineteen-year-old daughter in Boston would magically prevent...”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What did you say?”
“That it wouldn’t be seemly for a man with a nineteen-year-old daughter...”
“Ah, seemly.”
“Yes, what’s wrong with seemly?”
“It’s just that it’s such an old-fashioned word.”
“Well, maybe I’m an old-fashioned person.”
“Do you find Diana Blair attractive?”
“Diana?”
“Yes, Diana Blair. Remember Diana? She’s the one with the big tits who said women don’t fuck around when their kids go off to school. When Frank was explaining how middle-aged men...”
“Connie...”
“Yes?”
“I’m not sure I like being pounded over the head with all this middle-aged shit. I’m forty-four years old...”
“Yes, I know how old you are.”
“I’ll be forty-five in July, and I’m not sure I really enjoy being reminded of it so vigorously. I mean, if there’s some reason you’re harping on that asshole’s dissertation...”
“No reason.”
“Then if you don’t mind...”
“But you haven’t answered my question.”
“What was the question?”
“Do you find Diana attractive?”
“Yes, all right? In a cheap sort of way.”
“What does that mean, a cheap sort of way? Does that mean you’d like to screw her?”
“No.”
“I think you are,” Connie said. “Screwing her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then who are you screwing?”
“Nobody.”
“Because it sure as hell isn’t me,” Connie said.
“Connie, I’d like to go to sleep now,” he said. “Really. If that fucking dope Lipscombe can provoke this kind of discussion between a man and his wife...”
“Jamie?”
“Mm?”
“You are having an affair with someone, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Because if you are, you can tell me. Really. It won’t be the end of the world.”
“I am not having an affair.”