No one had ever said anything about my voice.
Did I have time for a cup of coffee, or was my husband waiting for me? Not married, I said. But I had to help my mother and was already later than I’d planned. Did I live at home? I said I did.
More chat, but nothing vital. The fact that I lived at home seemed to lessen her interest, although this, too, may have been my imagination. Maybe she simply didn’t believe me, and was turned off by my lack of interest.
I’m positive she was a dyke. And I was easier with her than I would have been having the same conversation with a man. But I can explain that. I was naive. Didn’t think there was any sexual overture in her conversation at first. (Does seem unmistakable in retrospect.) In any conversation with a man I am aware of sexual interest on his part and guard against it. I am less inclined to suspect it from a woman. And thus was more open to talk with her, even saying where I went to school and that I was unmarried.
Complimenting me on my voice. Did she learn that one herself or read it somewhere? A dead giveaway. No one has ever said anything about my voice.
If she’s a dyke (and I’m beginning to think it matters less and less) it’s interesting she tried to pick me up. No one ever did before. And unless I am imagining it (which is possible) more men are looking at me on the streets.
Perhaps I’m getting prettier.
Perhaps something shows in me. In my eyes, in my walk, in my face. The excitement of Monday night, and the excitement I hope will happen this afternoon.
I have to end this and get over there. It’s a shame, not that I have to go because I am anxious to, trembling with excitement about it. But because this is one of those times when I am really enjoying this diary-keeping. I could go on typing for hours.
Think of the paper Bill is saving me.
14 March — Sunday
Nothing happened today.
Much happened yesterday.
I feel on the threshold of so many things. I sat around not typing this all day and all night, alternating between joy and sorrow. Perched precariously on something high, with joy on one side and sorrow on the other, and afraid to fall in either direction. Read sections of the Times I normally discard on the way home from the newsstand. Read about a species of bird facing extinction and found myself weeping. Read some story of heroism, don’t even remember it, and got weepy with joy at the beauty of humanity.
I’m in no condition to write about yesterday. Chalk up this Sunday as a fat zero. A day at the office should make me a little saner, or flip me out altogether, and I’ll get all of this together tomorrow night when I get home.
15 March — Monday
All day at the office I sat around wanting to be home so I could type this. And Mr. Karlman had to pick tonight to keep me late. I wanted to invent an excuse but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I can’t blame him. The work runs this way, with sudden peak times when everything had to go out at once. Sometimes during the day I sit around for hours with virtually nothing to do, and sometimes it’s necessary for me to work late. They’re very good about overtime pay, and he always pays for my dinner, too.
This time we worked right through instead of ordering sandwiches from Smiler’s. We finished at ten and he insisted on taking me out for dinner. I really didn’t want that. I tried to get out of it but there was no way. It would have been impossibly rude.
I may leave that job.
Isn’t that stupid? Because he was decent enough to take me out for a good dinner?
We went to an Italian place in the Village. The food was very good. I had...
Oh, Christ, the hell with what we had for dinner. I got the impression he wanted to go on the make but didn’t believe he had a chance. I tried to encourage him in this belief by being boring. Which comes naturally. He didn’t go on the make but evidently decided that boring girls make good listeners and talked endlessly about his problems. I was expecting intimate revelations, something tragic like Mrs. Karlman won’t blow him. But it was mostly crap about business and sometimes he wonders if it’s worth it all, because in a sense he’s successful and secure, but when he was in college he wanted to be a poet, and what happened to that poet’s soul that once beat in his breast?
Not that corny, the phrasing, but it might as well have been.
At least I had the presence to fake a phone call to my nonexistent girl friend, so I didn’t have to take a cab home this time. He dropped me around the corner, and I walked here after his car pulled away. Mood he was in, he’d have absolutely insisted on driving me clear to Brooklyn, and that would have been too much of a hassle altogether on a night like this.
Just don’t have the strength to type this. Quick summary of the afternoon with Bill — we looked at dirty pictures, he gave me a dildo for a present, and we watched each other masturbate.
Maybe I’ll feel like rendering the unabridged edition tomorrow night.
16 March — Tuesday
I almost bought a plant today.
Walking home past a florist I pass every day and I noticed the plants and flowers. Tubs of daffodils. Looked at them and thought that something like that would brighten the apartment.
Was going to get daffodils, a bunch of them, and then I thought it might be nice to have a plant, water it every day, watch the new growth appear. Just a fifty-cent philodendron, something like that. Nothing grand. I wouldn’t feel equal to one of those magnificent split-leaf jobs.
Then I caught myself. Remembered something I read, a case of a man who was unable to relate to people and his psychiatrist started him off small, had him grow a sweet potato vine, then had him get a pet turtle, the idea being that he could eventually work his way up to human friends.
Have to keep fighting that kind of impulse. I do not want anything in this apartment for which I will have to be responsible. Don’t want anything that needs taking care of. Enough trouble taking care of Arlene.
Krause the Mouse.
Why?
Not sure.
Too many ways to interpret it. Don’t think I want to bother, either.
Don’t want to bother writing about the day with Bill, either. Wonderful time, wonderful, and I felt wonderful afterward, felt wonderful all day yesterday, too, and would have written about it last night if I hadn’t had to work late for Karlman the Cocksucker but too tired to type so I just summarized it.
Don’t feel wonderful now. Depressed. Down. Don’t know why.
17 March — Wednesday
Still depressed.
Down in the dumps all day and God knows why. Arlene doesn’t know why.
Does Jennifer know why?
Maybe there is no Jennifer.
I can’t get out of this fucking mood.
I didn’t even feel like buying Screw after work today. But I bought it anyway because I thought it might shake my mood for me. Started to go up to Times Square as usual and decided this was foolish. Walked a block to a newsstand I don’t usually pass and bought it and a copy of the Post. The news dealer wasn’t blind and somehow I didn’t care. I don’t know if this is progress or just that I was too down in the dumps to give a damn one way or the other.
Put the sex paper inside the other paper and came home and tried to read the articles, but they just seemed cheap and obscene. Read the ads and had even more of a down from them. Thinking that all these people are perverts and I’m a worse pervert than they are for wanting to do the things they’re actually doing.