Slick

<She does impress me. A lot.>

<And that makes me happy. It makes me jealous. I would love to see the Madison that you see. I only hope you never get the Madison that I get.>

I didn’t hide my frustration. <You make her sound like the Antichrist.>

<Oh, don’t give me that. You know I’d die for her. I’d die without her. What I’m trying to say is that beneath her Greatest Kid in the World exterior is some really dark stuff. She has no friends at school. She’s been suspended a number of times for cheating, cutting, fighting. She gets into trouble with boys. She doesn’t eat. She barely sleeps. She LIES a hell of a lot. And she gets depressed. She gets so goddamn depressed that I get scared for her. I haven’t been sleeping too well either.>

I thought about Madison’s school survey, the one she’d shared with me and Hunta. I could picture her sitting alone in the lunchroom, carefully fabricating the input of classmates who wouldn’t give her the time of day, much less participate in her straw poll. I could see the faculty isolating her, fearing her like she was the sequel to Annabelle Shane in development. I didn’t want these images. Madison certainly wouldn’t want me to have them.

<Jean, why are you telling me this?>

<Because that’s the stuff she hides from you. She seems to be doing a good job, but it can’t last forever. I just don’t want you bailing at the first sign of trouble.>

<What makes you think I would?>

<Because I have this fatal tendency to assume the worst in others. Sorry, Scott. We can’t all be Pollyannas.>

I matched her droll sneer. <I thought you mustered up some faith in me.>

<It wore off.>

<Well, stow it. I’m not going anywhere.>

<Good. It would be a damn shame because beneath all that dark stuff, she truly is the Greatest Kid in the World. So while you’re loving her platonically, you might as well love her unconditionally.>

I stared at her, flabbergasted. <Jean, you wear me out.>

<I know. I’ve got my own problems. I’ve got a failing business, a shattered marriage, a horrible self-image, and a daughter who can’t stand me.>

<Yes, but on the plus side, you’ve got a neat device in your car that blinks every time it hears a siren.>

She grinned. <True. I’ve also got you.>

That didn’t hit me very well. Sensing my discomfort, she frowned at me. <I’m not talking seduction. I’m just talking human connection.>

It still felt like seduction, and I didn’t like it. If she had a problem with her husband, she should work it out with him instead of seeking outside affirmation. Miranda had done the same damn thing, only she happened to catch me tired and jet-lagged on my thirty-fifth birth day. My defenses were down that night. Now they were on full shield alert.

<You still don’t know me that well,> I wrote.

<I know. That’s why I like this. Your real face says a lot more than your typeface.>

<And what is my real face telling you right now?>

She tossed me a dashed pout. <That I’m freaking you out a little.>

<Close enough.>

<Scott, look at MY face. Read my subtext. >

With some trepidation, I closed in to read the fine print. I could see she was disappointed and a little annoyed that I was missing her point. And yet I couldn’t see her point. All I could do was acknowledge the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t playing me against her own frustrations.

Giving up, she spelled it out for me. <I find you a very attractive man, Mr. Singer, but sex is not what I’m about. I was never a big fan of it and frankly, I was never very good at it. Call me a nerd, but I’d rather spend my nights swapping bad puns and double entendres than bodily fluids. I’d rather explore your mind than your body. And you give good mind, my dear. I can fly around in that big, mysterious head of yours for a thousand years and still not hit the edges.>

I kept my eyes on the screen, hiding my reactions deep inside me.

<What frustrates me, Scott, is that I can tell you feel the same way. You don’t want to screw me, you want to know me. I think it’s beautiful the way you want to know me. And what a convenience that there’s no law in church or state that prevents you from knowing me. But there’s something about that. There’s something about the way we’re connecting that obviously scares the hell out of you.>

I looked up at her. <Where are you getting all this from?>

<What do you mean?>

<I mean you’re putting all this stuff on me like we have some profound thing between us. And not just between us, but between me and Madison. You’re telling to me love her unconditionally and to not break her heart. That’s fine but Jesus Christ, I’m her boss. She works for me fifteen hours a week. Where is all this coming from?>

<Hey. If you want to fry me with your eyebeams, fine. But don’t take this out on her.>

I laughed. “Oh, you don’t want me bringing her into this? You’re the one who—”

It wasn’t until she glanced at me askew that I realized I was speaking out loud. I took a deep breath and channeled my thoughts back into my hands.

<Jean, you’re driving me nuts. I mean I like you. I like you both a hell of a lot, but I don’t want to get sucked into your lives.>

<That’s the thing. I think you do.>

<You’re wrong. You are very wrong.>

<Scott, I’m looking at your face. And I can see you’re lonely. That’s—>

I slammed my iBook shut, with the same satisfaction I’d get from slamming her mouth shut. Muted, frustrated, Jean leaned back in her chair and blew cool air at the ceiling.

How strange that I would take that moment to admire her body again. I drank it in. Her wonderfully toned arms. Her sturdy shoulders. Her terrifically humble breasts. She might have given me too much credit. Despite my rage, I couldn’t stop thinking about screwing her. There was something very safe and appealing about sex with an unhappily married woman. Not just any sex but bad sex. Unfulfilling sex. I wanted to make love to her badly. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.

While taking a break from each other, we watched the strangers in the room as they all spoke in hands. I wished I knew a little of the language, at least enough to eavesdrop. Jean was right. This was wearing thin.

Soon enough, a rotund little man flipped the light switch several times, until he had our attention. He climbed the wooden stage and addressed the room with meaningful gestures. Within seconds, he had everyone laughing except me and Jean. She was, however, idly amused.

I cocked my head at her. In response, she slipped me a futile smirk. I can’t help you, buddy. You sealed my lips. I reopened the laptop.

<“What do a duck and a dog have in common?”> she typed.

I shrugged at her. She shrugged back.

<“They both fly, except for the dog.”>

Wincing, I shook my head.

<It works better in signs,> she conceded.

I emitted a soft grin.

<It’s more than a different way of talking,> she explained. <It’s a different way of thinking. ASL is the cleanest, leanest language ever invented. There’s no rhetoric. No hairsplitting. No mincing or prancing or beating around the bush. To speak it is to cut right to the heart of the matter, all the time. It’s wonderful for us, but for people who can hear and talk, even codas…>

Saddened, she tossed up her hands. <I know I’m hard to take. Believe me. I try to censor myself as often as I can. But somehow I always end up snapping back to me. It’s just the way I am.>