The Master of Seduction chapter 4 I just want to see you run free And to run alongside I drove out to the stables devoid of my usual adrenaline surge, replaced, now, by a cool dread. I thought no more about the meeting of Debra and Jo, but rather Michelle's response to the deal, the expectation that she'd dismiss it out of hand, resent a perceived attempt to meddle in her life, refuse to listen. We sat at the picnic table, her chores, my lesson, done, smoked and talked. I asked how things were going with the owners, Okay, she said, but their attitude had shaken her, her sense of security. Now I'm kind of worried about the clinic, she said, plaintive, weak voice. How come? I asked. She explained that a meeting with the county planning department was imminent, a couple of months or so, and she worried over it, especially now that her primary livelihood seemed threatened. This threw me, but briefly; another opening. Well, you know, I said, there's nobody in the county who understands the planning department better than my partner. Would you like to talk to him about it? It might not make any difference, but he can tell you how it all works. Yeah...okay, she said thoughtfully. That might be a good idea. Thanks. Then I said, as if just thinking of it, Oh, guess who I ran into the other day? Told her I was looking at ranches with a friend, ran into Debra. Michelle furrowed her brow, looked into the distance, puzzled, replying, That's funny. She just called me yesterday. Something registered with her, but I couldn't figure it out. Debra had stopped lessons, had not much reason, apparently, to call. Was Michelle picking up on the little coincidences that pervaded our relationship, the, to me, psychic-seeming incidents? Or did it concern that other woman. No telling, but something. I went on to tell her I'd been looking at ranches with this friend, just a friend, a married woman, and I got an idea. I know this is none of my business, I said in preface, but I want to run something by you. I told her about the ranch, asked about her cash flow and expenses, after telling her what I'd figured them to be. Expected her to bristle at this, violation of her privacy just for thinking about her money. But she was interested, hint of that trance-like state, thinking things, subconscious floating to the surface. I'd been close, but underestimated her income, overestimated the expenses; her situation better than I'd thought. We sat next to each other, writing down numbers, Michelle's brow furrowed again, lips scrunched tight, she was thinking hard, something evaded her, I'm talking downpayment and interest rates, when she blurted out, as if I were an idiot, But Terry, I don't have that kind of money! Yeah, I know, I said. But your investors for the clinic might be interested. No telling what these people might pull on you now, they're so cranky. And it's a better location, even if the owners still want the clinic here. But I'm telling you, I continued, this is so good just as a real estate deal, you can do it on your own. We can find investors. Terry, I don't have the money, and my credit's shit. Michelle, I said, listen. If you can make the payments, we can get the money. This is a great deal, it's the kind of thing people with money are looking for. Yeah? she responded. Thinking again. Tell you what, I said. I'll make an appointment with the realtor for Tuesday afternoon. I can get you together with Billy to discuss the planning meeting then, too. Okay? She agreed. It's a couple of days later, a Saturday night, I'm driving my son home after a day in the city, nine, nine-thirty. The cell phone rings, I answer, Hello? Hi, Terry...It's Michelle. Voice velvety rich, languid. Sexy, very sexy, she's never used this voice on me before. No surge of adrenaline, but ice at the back of the throat, something's happening here. Hi, what's up? Well, I'm just sitting here at the saloon, having a few beers with Karen. What are you doing? I tell her. I just had to call...and...and tell you how great you've been, she said, and how much I appreciate it...You've been so nice to me... Well...thanks for telling me that Michelle...that means alot to me... Okay...I just had to tell you that...good-bye...I guess... And it's over, twenty, thirty seconds, I'd gotten to her, she let me know it, I'm blanking out here, my thoughts aswirl, the ice in the throat now a weight in my stomach, Jimmy's asking who it was, I tell him, he's trying to talk to me, I can't hear him, I see Michelle sitting at the bar, know that if I'd been at home, on the other side of the hills, I coud have joined her, I'd be sitting next to her at the bar, she'd be leaning against me, I'd have my arm around her waist, she'd be a little drunk, leaning against me, her head on my shoulder, she'd nuzzle me, couldn't help herself, and I can't think of any of this anymore, knowing this call, from any other woman, that call a week or so ago when I bought her the spa treatment, that picture she sent that said, Come and catch me. If you can. Knowing that had any other woman sent these messages, we'd be lovers, on the way to becoming lovers, but with Michelle it will be as if it never happened the next time I see her. Knowing that if I should behave as if I'd gotten those messages, presume any closeness, any progress based on them, she'll cut me loose, tell me I'd gotten it wrong, she didn't feel that way about me. I distract myself talking to Jimmy, trying to talk about normal things, act normal, feel normal, but I'm sick inside, I should feel good about these things, these hints from Michelle, but I don't anymore, I'm sick inside, doom, doom, who is this woman, I don't fucking believe it. I don't fucking believe it. I drop him off at the Victorian cottage by the bay, head north to the valley, thinking, not thinking, a void inside, this makes me sick, Michelle makes me sick, but I know she doesn't mean to, she's not just playing me, but is she, no, she really isn't like that, she's just damaged goods, and I don't care, she can't help herself, I can't blame her for anything, can't think badly of her no matter what, but this is making me sick inside. All of this I think on the drive to the mountaintop, all the time thinking how crazy this is, how badly I feel, all because she made that sweet phone call to me, and I can't fucking believe it, I can't fucking believe it. And I think, belatedly, of driving on to the saloon, to see if Michelle's still there, or of calling, but she'll say no, and if Michele's still there, she'll act like I'm imposing, something, or she'll be wrapped around that tattooed cowboy with the battered pickup truck, because I wasn't there when I might have been, and another chance, for something, God only knows what, has slipped away. I do not sleep well that night. Over the next couple of days I straighten up my office in Billy's bank building. Though he and his other partners are all multimillionaires, I am not in their league. I might be able to scrape up a single million if I liquidated my assets at the right time. But I do have the most distinctive office, dominated by a large, gloss black book case full of rare volumes, a pair of Gold Rush clipper ships on its top, the shelves dotted with unique historical relics. The walls bear antique lithographs of San Francisco, maps of early California. Old postcards, photos, graphics sit on the credenza. My intention is not to impress Michelle, but she's heard these outlandish stories from me for months, I was now proposing this big deal, and even though she seemed to realize I wasn't just another guy talking big, I could easily imagine her strained credulity. In seeing my office, meeting Billy, I hoped she might realize she should take me seriously, for her sake. For my sake, too, but that was something different. I knew this commitment she felt for the boyfriend who treated her so offhandedly depended in part on her desire for security, stability, financial and otherwise. With the deal, if we could pull it off, if she could pull it off, I really wanted it to be her success, she'd be fully independent, her own woman. Any relationship, with the boyfriend, with me, with some stupid, imagined cowboy, she could pursue because she wanted to, not because of financial fears clouding her judgment and emotions. She might see also that I was myself reliable, if unconventional, a man to be reckoned with, a man worth her consideration. One of the things I liked most about her was her self-denial of female fripperies, unlike my wife, otherwise so substantial, but a slave to style, propriety. Michelle shoveled shit every day, worked hard, denied herself, disdained phoniness, false appearances, or so it seemed to me. As much as I appreciated her, I thought she might be one of those rare women who could genuinely appreciate me, eccentricities and all. After donning the khakis, buttondown shirt and loafers--no old jeans and boots today, we were doing business--I drove to the stables, again devoid of the usual fevered state. I was killer-cool today, cold-blooded, I knew what I was doing this time, she'd agreed to this outing, was actually going somewhere alone with me, to do business, for her, and I intended to do it right. The hyperawareness kicked in, beyond the scary zone of preliminary anxieties. I was ready for battle. I parked my car, the neutral mental state going hostile, mean cold-blooded, when I noticed Annie's black Jag. I could see her talking with Michelle up by the picnic table, old friends comfortable with each other according to the body language. A wave of disgust washed through me, for Annie, perhaps a bit for Michelle, but I can't acknowledge that, can't think badly of her, but subdued, can't let feelings interfere with the mission. On approaching the two, I tried to mask my disdain for Annie, to sound natural in my greeting. Michelle and I had planned to have lunch before the meetings, and now it seemed, Annie would join us. Do you mind if she comes along to see the place? asked Michelle. Sorry, can't do that, I said. This is business, we'll be talking numbers with the realtor, and I want to keep it simple. I was cold angry, tried to hide it, sound amiable, but that timbre in my voice came through. Well, okay, said Michelle, tentatively. Annie and I have to finish up with the horses, and we can leave in about twenty minutes for lunch. Alright? I assented, sat down in one of the plastic chairs under the overhang with the skull, smoked a cigarette and seethed as I waited, oblivious to the warming sun in the still-crisp air of late fall. Thoughts of that intoxicating phone call the other night entered my head, rendered, as I knew it would be, irrelevant, no chance to refer to it if I had the chance, because the chance is gone, the quiet time before the meeting has been claimed by that, that thing, Annie, and she was going to lunch with us, too, no opportunity to re-establish that intimacy with Michelle, just as there never was, regardless of the signals she emitted in my direction. I don't fucking believe it, I thought, but I knew how hard it was for decent people to handle loathsome scum, people who act like friends, betray you, act like nothing happened, put you into the position of having to tolerate them or risk a scene. That had always been Tricia's major professional flaw, her inability to avoid being taken advantage of, again, by people who used her badly. She believed in forgive and forget, worthy sentiment, as do I, when appropriate. But it's one thing to forgive a mistake, a misunderstanding, with a decent person. You do not forgive and forget the intentional harm meant to be inflicted by a predatory person contrite just because they got caught, or failed, and act as if nothing happened. Demonstrations of bad character have to be recognized and punished, if only by ostracism, if only so they can't do it again. If only to teach a lesson to the guilty. A lesson to everyone else, who will treat you with greater regard after noting the consequences. I usually avoided the scene, my cold manner sending a clear message, but when it didn't, when someone pressed me publicly, insisted on the handshake, the good fellowship of friends, I did not hesitate to tell them I did not consort with their like. Coldly, without insult, but humiliating. Should they ask what it was they did, I would tell them, in succinct detail, reveal their bad or weak character for anyone to hear. It could be devastating, and such victims never approached me again. Vague acquaintances might avoid me as well in the aftermath, but anyone I was interested in knowing usually respected me more, knew not to cross me lightly. Michelle doesn't know any better, hasn't been able to avoid Annie, and I ackowledged to myself sitting there how unfair it was for me to judge her for not knowing what I did, not acting as I did, long life of military, office, bureaucratic politics behind me. She doesn't get it, I thought, can't help herself sometimes, Annie was a reliable drinking buddie, follower of the packs Michelle led, though they'd never think of it like that, she was always the real star, and I wondered how she might handle it if she got the ranch, and I knew I'd be thinking long and hard about it before I set her up with certain investors, if it came to that. She has all the talents to make anything work, but there's that wild, flakey side to her, and in her personal life it's her business, but business is something different. Will she be able to keep the demons out of it? I watched the two women put away the tack, take the horses off to stall and paddock, and as Annie continued to the latter, Michelle returned to where I sat. Is something wrong? she asked, pretending to rearrange things by the horse-washing hitch post. No, I lied, apparently without conviction. Why do you ask? Something's bothering you, she said. I can tell. C'mon, what is it? Really, Michelle, nothing's bothering me. I'm just thinking about these meetings this afternoon. Alright, she said, if you say so. And then, Hey, I didn't know we were meeting the realtor. I thought we were just going to drive by the place. No, we're talking to Billy about the planning meeting first, then we meet the realtor, go out to the place, and meet the owner. Geez, she said, I wish I'd known. I would've brought something else to wear. She had known, I thought, but it didn't matter, told her so. Don't worry, I said, You look just like you're supposed to look. You look like a woman who runs a stable. We drove off in separate cars, Michelle with Annie, and the whole way to town I cursed her absent-mindedly, jealous, actually, that Annie had Michelle, not me, imagining, without much effort, the toxic dialog probably passing between them, concerning men, perhaps, or me, and I don't suppose Annie has much good to say about me, I certainly detest her. I'm angry that the first time we see each other following that phone call, tipsy, sexy Michelle, calling me, that was my chance, my chance, maybe, to make love, make progress but I'll never know, and the first time we see each other after that heart-melting call, I'm in a nasty mood, and Michelle can tell, light followed by darkness, and I'll never see that light again. And I wondered if I'd imagined that phone call, knowing I hadn't, but as so often happened now, I questioned the nature of reality, my reality with Michelle, what passed between us, what it meant, the cocoon enviroment of that world at the stables, behind the hill along the highway, outside world kept out, but not enough. I drove with a sense of resignation, mild amusement, frustration, tried to keep reminding myself that, whatever was going on, it was fascinating, a great story of some sort, I just had to figure out a suitable ending and hope Michelle didn't interfere too much. We met at the bank, left our cars in the lot, walked up the block for lunch. I tried to be pleasant with Annie, think I pulled it off well enough, certainly wasn't effusive with her, but we got through it. She left after returning to the bank, Michelle and I went inside to my office. I'd told her once about the history-oriented non-profit I hoped to form, had mentioned my library, indicated it to her on entering. She seemed hardly to notice it, certainly didn't comment, uninterested in the curios, prints on the wall, all of which I noted, wondering what it meant, if anything at all. People usually said something on seeing my offices or abodes, but Michelle behaved like no one I ever knew generally, I'd seen her suppress her curiosity concerning me before, as if to express interest in what I was doing was to show interest in me, and I knew that. As we waited for Billy to finish a phone call we talked, distractedly, Michelle perhaps nervous, mutual innocuous comments, me thinking about her lack of reaction to the office, thinking about one day at the stable, when she noticed a sketch in my journal, I was making a list on the opposite page. She asked, What's that? I told her I sketched, had actually chosen that page so she might see that sketch, and she did, but it was upside down from where she stood, she asked about it, just as intended, and walked off, without bothering to really look at it at all. An accumulation of observations of that behavior, the apparent stifling of interest in things I was doing, despite the initial flicker, served only to convince me further of her attraction to me, after I started to notice it, along with other manifestations of her visibly forcing herself to withdraw, pull back, after a hint of spontaneous enthusiasm. Fun Michelle, open Michelle, making herself refocus. Not on me. Billy already knew the outlines of the plan for the clinic out by the stables, and after introductions, I launched the discussion between them and got out of the way. Michelle crossed her legs after sitting down, propped the notepad on her knee, prepared to take notes. She wore horseshit stained boots, faded jeans smudged with dirt, a tight t-shirt, a worn baseball cap, ponytail sticking out the back. She looked great. I blanked on the words for a minute, they didn't need my help, my interference, they were still talking generalities, but Michelle diverted me from her appearance to her manner, what she was saying. I'd seen her cut many deals with people at the stables, with students, rich horse owners, cowboys, saw her do business, had been mildly impressed at her facility, but they involved simple matters. Now I'd known her seven months, thought I'd seen everything, but I'd thought that before, too, in reference to Michelle. But here was another new Michelle. Billy asked about environmental impact reports, traffic studies, if they had a consultant, Michelle displaying in her responses a complete mastery, as far as I could see, of every aspect of the process, asking, in turn, all the right questions, in one of her voices, not now the rich velvet, but close, a pleasing voice, making appropriate notes, very neatly. Professional seeming, poised, I couldn't have done better myself, couldn't have done as well, I sat, marveling again, at Michelle, her performance. I lost track of the conversation in the musing, lost in the land of Michelle, lost in the recent memories of all those other times she impressed me somehow, sitting there, the drone of their voices conveying no real words, sitting there, thinking, Who is this woman? I don't fucking believe it. I don't fucking believe it. It was over in less than half-an-hour, evident from the meeting that Michelle and her partners had done everything they should have, had fulfilled all the requirements, could do nothing now but wait for their hearing. From the bank we walked up the street to the realtor's office. He was ready to leave on our arrival, we got into his SUV, drove out to the ranch. I sat in the back seat so they could talk, they hit it off well, old friends in minutes, she'd been a bartender, after all, and he was a salesman. He mentioned a recent trip to San Diego with his girlfriend, said one day a week or two earlier, Let's do something fun, decided to hop on a flight, spend a weekend out of town. Michelle revelled in the idea, sounded as she had, voice of slight wonder, when she queried me about the day at the Grand Canyon. So you just decided to fly to San Diego on a whim? And I thought of the phone call a few nights ago, that picture she sent, Come and catch me. If you can. Enigmatic smile, blue eyes looking directly into mine, that night I lost her in the square, walking off into the twilight, thought of all the fun we didn't have, thought, Jesus Fucking Christ, Michelle, say the word, we can fly anywhere you want, do whatever you want, No you don't have to fuck me, it's not about that, but it would be nice, but we can do whatever you want. We meet the owner, a good-looking woman ten years Michelle's senior, a woman not unlike her, a Western horsewoman, easy, open, they could probably be friends, and, again, Michelle asks all the right questions, she's perfectly poised, again, charming, again. There's nothing for me to say, I don't really want to, I stifle my tendency to facilitate when it's not necessary, shoot my mouth off, instead space out in the musing over her ability to surprise me, good reason or bad, but I'm overwhelmed at how sharp she is, how wasted she is in her small-minded small town. On people of small-spirit. This woman could thrive, I'm thinking, walking behind the trio at a distance, Michelle--How can I buy a ranch Terry, I don't have any money!--Michelle in complete command, Michelle could be a deal maker in her own right, this woman could thrive if only she didn't have to work so hard to survive. I've been in hundreds of meetings, seen every kind of performance, been in on countless deals, and Michelle's a natural, better, in her way than I am, better prepared, smoother, completely charming, that's the only word to describe her. Or seductive, perhaps, sexy without the sex, just because she's so natural, appealing in her manner. I'm besotted all over again. The recently observed images flood my consciousness, of a composed, articulate Michelle, never quite seen before, if suspected, glimsped. Head's spinning, can't really hear Michelle, though I'm listening, she's talking about the ranch, pros and cons, I say, uh huh, though preoccupied, try to snap out of it. She is really something, I think, gets better and better the more I see of her, and God she's such work, she's never had a real break, though, and what that woman could have done if she'd had a break. What she could still do if she knew one when she saw it. I have to pay attention, something nags at me, however, something I wanted to say, Oh, yeah now I remember, I'm thinking, and stop the day dreaming. Michelle's still talking, likes the place, sees the potential, with the work, wonders about the money to fix it up as required. I tell her you borrow an extra couple of hundred grand more than you need in the financing, so you have the money for repairs, a reserve to pay unexpected bills, make a mortgage payment when things are slow. You know, Michelle, I say in a lull, don't want to forget it again, I must say this, for her sake, you really might be able to get this place, but there is one risk. You might not get it and be disappointed. It's still worth it, though. Just getting comfortable with the process will make it easier the next time. You learn how deals work, and get better at selling them and figuring out the details. To myself, even, I sound pedantic, wooden, trying too hard to be helpfully wise, Michelle looks as if she's thinking the same thing, thoughtful generally, too, obviously about the deal. On the way back to the stables I drive toward my place, we're not far, I tell her I'm going to show her my new forest, my new forest if the deal ever closes. See if I can get her to the barn on the mountain, too, show her where I live, No, I'm not trying to seduce you, I'm thinking, you can trust me, should know that after all the time alone we spend together, and months after plans to have lunch up there, two or three times, she still has not come through, won't allow it for some reason. She's telling me she doesn't have enough time, has to pick up her daughter at school, and I know that's never a problem unless she wants it to be, can always make an arrangement, pick her up at the square later, but it's always a problem with me, like now. It'll only take a minute, I say, and I know we won't make it to the house, I wonder if I detect actual, low-level panic in her demeanor, but I do drive up the private road far enough to indicate the stretch of redwoods and ferns, turn around and drive back, and she says nothing. And I think that's funny, too, most friends would say, Gee, that's nice, if only to be polite, and this is, in fact, a beautiful patch of woods, expanse of woods, most people go to national parks to see. I'm glad you like the place, I say, referring back to the ranch. It would be nice if it worked out somehow. Yeah, she says, doubtful about something. Well, I'll try to get everyone to come over and see it over the weekend. Okay, great, I say. But you know, Michelle, you can do this without them. You really can. Let's just take it slow, and see what happens. You keep saying that, Terry, but I don't see how. I don't have the money! Michelle, trust me, we can get the money. The phrases keep running through my head, I don't see how, I don't have the money, I'm exasperated with Michelle in my thoughts, Trust me, I respond to myself, you can do it, I know you can do it, I'll do everything possible to see you do it, No you don't have to fuck me, it's not about that, I just want to see you get a break. Trust me. I want to see you successful, on your terms. Trust me. With me or without me. Trust me. She can't trust me, that's the problem, I know that, and I distrust everyone she has confidence in, questioning their motives, their worth, and I can't say that to her, I especially doubt this uncaring boyfriend, resent him a little more as I hear glimmers of conversation, Michelle to other clients at the stable, talking about selling this horse, because he insists, or that horse, because he insists, though she doesn't quite say it like that. I'm getting a little pressure to get rid of Ty. As she puts it. She seems to talk to him on the phone alot, sounds like she's receiving orders, I can't stand it, it angers me, can't stand watching this fine woman nod her head to the voice I can't hear, Okay, if you say so, and I find something to do somewhere else when she gets the calls. All this I'm thinking that night of the trip to the ranch, I'm pacing and smoking and drinking, and listening to the Mamas and the Papas, and thinking about pacing and smoking and drinking, and how, now, it seems, I've been smoking and pacing and drinking for months, thinking mostly about Michelle, and how the thinking has changed, and what the hell happened. How I started, hoping maybe I'd get laid by a nice enough woman, and how to do that. Recognizing a fine woman, one of the finest I'd ever met, and wanting to get laid and have a relationship with her. And how to do that. Later still, when she seems to engineer a meeting somewhere between us, to snub me, to show me bar Michelle, bait Michelle. How I started with cold calculation, and descended to fevered confusion, the realization, at some point, that all the rules of attraction had changed in this world, her world, our world, how cause had no effect, effect came from no cause, sometimes. Nothing made any sense with her, nothing I'd learned in fifty years of observing people, and their behavior, closely, mattered. A nice gesture could provoke hostility, a thoughtless gesture, respect, no gesture at all, a wisecrack. Pacing and smoking and drinking, I'd spent months trying to figure things out, what to do next, I could not. We were friends, now, I thought, after a fashion, but not really, and I think of friends, now, friends from the past, how closely I'd bonded with people in a few days, others a few weeks, others a few months, and how with Michelle, after the best part of a year, after innumerable demonstrations to each other, of our mutual decencies, of reliability, after shared intimacies, innumerable, we remained strangers. I can't calculate, or manipulate, anymore, I've lost the energy, lost faith that anything can work, let alone just acting normal, any normal man would have walked a long time ago, in frustration, and none of it matters, because Michelle's in control here, needs to be in control here, and the one thing she can control is how much she lets me have of her and she's not giving that up even if she controls herself, controls me, to her detriment. And I don't care if we become lovers, but I do, but it's not about that, I've committed myself to her regardless of that, but I'm frustrated now, blind now, with a rage, not at Michelle, never with Michelle, but with the fates, and I can't walk out on her, whatever she does, because I know she needs me, whether she knows it or not, and I wasn't looking for a woman to rescue, don't need to find people to rescue, don't need to be needed, but destiny has thrown us together. And she needs me. Yeah, that's right, responding to myself, destiny, I'm thinking, don't fool yourself, but it doesn't matter. We're together, and if there's anything I can do, I will, no matter what, until she makes it impossible. Because she can't trust me, and I'm thinking of how she's avoided coming up to the house on the hill, because she can't trust me, and all of a sudden I think I get it, No, she can't trust herself. Thinking, that's funny, I wouldn't make a move on her if I got her there, just so she'd trust me, but if she'd assented to go with me, she was saying, Yes, take me, but this is just another attempt to make sense from chaos, and with Michelle, the chaos always prevails. And I'm thinking of the boyfriend again, and I know he knows about me, wonder what he might think of us, Michelle and I, but I do know he's a control freak, controls Michelle, somehow, she's oddly deferential to him, I can't figure this independent woman being controlled like this, but there's the security thing, and I understand, but I see a false security undermining her every step. And I'm thinking the unthinkable, please, Dan, don't discourage Michelle from this deal, please let her have something of her own, for herself, her own success. Please, and I worry he'll ruin the deal if she doesn't, but I don't know anything. And I think of that phone call she made, what? two, three days ago, the sexy, vulnerable voice, Michelle saying, Come to me now, please, but I'm too far away, all of my life's experience fails me, bold acts effected in split seconds, but I can't exploit this opportunity, missed that moment, and now, a few days later, as if it never happened, just as I knew it would be as it happened. Oh my fucking God! I yell at the crucifix hanging high on the wall at one end of the barn, the big, elaborate crucifix from the old woman who died the night before I was born, turn to pace the other way, look at the crucifix on the opposite wall, the crude, wooden crucifix I took from a cemetary in Guatemala, no one to visit since depopulated by the army, artifacts of recent dead, unburied, hiding in the rubble, stuffed into a pocket, and I feel small and silly agonizing over Michelle, reminded of the pillaged village, Jesus regarding himself face to face in death, from opposite walls, and I yell again, Jesus Fucking Christ! Sobbing uncontrollably, now, I stagger to the couch of my life, the couch in the family Christmas picture, I'm five and happy and grinning, and I collapse onto the couch, doubled over, holding my shoulders with my hands, hugging myself, rocking back and forth, convulsing, sobbing uncontrollably, animal wailing. On the following Friday afternoon, I was sitting in one of the plastic chairs under the overhang with the skull, smoking, watching Michelle, just as I had on dozens of days now, maybe a hundred days by now, after six, seven months. Just Michelle and I, she caught up with the maintenance around the stables, she shoveled manure, looked cartoon-funny bouncing around on the little tractor, put away the tack, expelled hay from the barn corridor with a leaf blower. I mused again, as I had for an eternity it seemed, mused again about how sweet this was, it was a romance story, if only it ended right, even if we didn't become lovers, we had become friends, and I was touched by my own devotion to her, the idea that whatever happened, I'd be satisfied if I behaved well, even if we didn't become lovers. I'd been sitting there so long, thinking, thoughts the same, thoughts different, the ongoing evolution of what I thought was happening between us, over the months, this rare opportunity to be with a woman, like this, get to know her like this, and now I wasn't even paying much because there never seemed to be a horse available for lessons, but Michelle never managed to tell me that until after an hour or two of waiting, of talking and being together, and being pals, sometimes, and I didn't mind at all. Tricia had arranged for me to take Jimmy to a heavy metal concert in a town an hour north of the valley, reserved a hotel room, Jimmy would get to see his favorite band that night. I dawdled, knowing it would be alright to be late, these things never started on time, and I just sat and watched Michelle, the stray comment or short conversation passing between us, between the chores. She walked toward me as I sat, hands full of lead lines, a horse blanket, walked toward me, came within twenty or thirty feet, curving off to my right, to the sheds up the little hill I watched her ride the red bicycle down, yelling, Yahoo!, legs akimbo, unrestrained little girl joy, just a month ago, and as she made the gradual turn, she yelled, Shit! and threw everything to the ground. Her face scrunched up in anger, she glanced at me, and then away, walked back in the direction from which she'd come. What's that about, I wondered, couldn't have been me, we'd been getting along fine, and I should have left about then, but I stayed where I sat, had to see what happened next. A minute of speculation, I bestirred myself, walked to the pile Michelle had pitched into the dirt, picked everything up, dusted it off, stacked it on the white plastic table between the white plastic chairs, resumed my position. A few minutes later she returned to retrieve the gear from the dirt, saw that it was gone, that it sat next to me, glanced again at me, lingered long enough to say thanks in a subdued tone, as she walked toward me, took up the pile in her arms, stowed it in the equipment room down the rank of stalls from where I watched. Retracing her steps, she sat next to me, lit a cigarette. Is everything okay? I asked, cocking my head in her direction, regarding her from the corner of my eye. Yeah, she said, resigned, directing her words toward the barn. Sorry about that. I just get so pissed off at all the bullshit I'm dealing with right now. She changed the subject, we sat and talked about the ranch a bit, her taking the vets by on Sunday, my continuing refrain, Yeah, Michelle, that's great, but remember. You can do this without them. But Terry, I keep telling you. I don't see how I can do that. I don't have the money. Trust me, Michelle, you can do it. I'll show you how. We can get the money. Trust me. The refrain continues after leaving, continues for the half-hour it takes to drive to my son. The deal's running through my head, random thoughts onrushing, specific bouts of clear thought as something emerges to consider. I think of how just a week or so ago I worried about the encounter between Jo and Debra, Michelle discovering, thinking of an explanation, the recognition of this incredible opportunity for Michelle to transform her life, achieve all her dreams, maybe, with me or without me, trust me, the rapid evolution of events in the course of a week. A pipe dream, literally, a drug-induced pipe dream, researched, acted upon, and now, a week later, prospects of incipient realization. This other Michelle so recently observed, this charming, professional, woman, at the mention of her name, the realtor says, God, she's beautiful; and sharp. Nice lady. I'd learned her cash flow was better than I thought, I learn we can get the ranch for a few hundred grand less than asking, the deal is achieving its own momentum, can fall into place if we just let it, the perfect self-financing investment, two million dollars profit in five years, maybe, probably, Michelle, herself, the only visible obstruction on the horizon, Michelle, getting in the way of her every dream, my every pipe-dream, maybe, probably. The renewed presence of Annie piqued my internal alarms, evidence of Michelle's bad judgment, but she doesn't know any better, can't help herself, and I believe that to be true, even so, my best instincts tell me Michelle's are all bad, my best evidence the way she continues to treat me, as dubious predator, treats Annie, as good friend. Unloving boyfriend as devoted lover. I question my motives, again, and yes, I want her as a lover, but I'd do this anyway, whatever I could, to see her free, for once in her life, of niggling concerns, free of insecurity, free to see what she can do given a chance. Reluctance to threaten her relationship, distant memory, must escape this small, stifling man, undeserving man, no matter the man who follows, but I hope it's me. And it appeals to my sense of power, my occasional ability to perform tremendous feats with little effort, to lift a finger and move a world, and never in my life have I stumbled on such an opportunity to transform a life with so little effort. In twenty years I never had such a chance to find its like for Tricia, couldn't do this for myself, Michelle is the one person who can exploit this opening, and there is destiny in this, despite my discounting it. I've given away publishing careers, promotions, raises, assignments, by the dozens, matched worthy people to deals for its own sake, just because I could, just because there was no reason not to. And benefitted manyfold, months after sending someone to a job, finding myself on the outs, living off the assignments they give me for years. Placing people, resources, connections everywhere, for their benefit, for my own. Michelle doesn't know this, presumes she's the only recipient of my largesse, my gifts, hates feeling indebted, wants her independence, just doesn't get it. Most of what I have derives from someone giving me a break, an opportunity, Billy just did it, I know the exact extent to which personal connections, goodwill, work in this world, how valuable the good old boy networks, in my own life, opportunities given to those worthy, capable of exploiting them, people of good reputation, people you know, can trust. And I start thinking of the conversation I'll have to have with Michelle as this moves along, if she allows it, to move on, that it's not just about her, anymore, but me too, and if this comes off, if this comes of with investors I supply, she has to do right by them, by me, because my reputation's at stake in vouching for hers. Romance doesn't apply here, this is business, and it doesn't matter if I want her love, she wants to deny it me, she has to behave, personal denizens, inclinations, be damned, and why the hell do you scare me with Annie, a woman who damages your reputation, makes even me question your reliability. Especially me. Jimmy's in the car with me now, we're on our way to the concert, late, but it's okay, these things never start on time, and we catch up on the last week, and I tell him about this deal with Michelle. He's the only one in the world who knows the depths of my calculations in pursuit of Michelle, who's heard my speculations, hopes, fears, plans of attack, contingency plans, everything I can think to tell him about the arts of seduction, my intrigues, shifting perceptions. The knowledge that no matter how I play it, I can lose, how the woman I thought I was chasing keeps changing, mother, goddess, amazon, whore, I don't know who she really is, I don't know anymore, never did, but I do know there's a great woman in there somewhere, and it's worth it to me, and that's how it is with women, can't trust them, their hearts, your own heart, treat them well as you can, accept the suffering, gracefully, because they're the ones who always get fucked in the end. We arrive at the concert an hour late, separate, he's joining his friends, guided by cell phone, we hear, as he disappears from me into the crowd, we hear the last thirty seconds of the last song played by Anthrax, Jimmy's favorite band in the world, that's why we're here, why Tricia arranged and paid for this whole outing, and I'm glad I don't have to face him as they say good night, leave the stage. For once, the concert started on time, Jimmy cheated, by me, because I dawdled to be with Michelle. Oh, well, I think, he has it pretty good, an occasional disappointment like this will do him good, if only to learn how my proclicities, eccentricites, can ruin things, learn to question his unalloyed admiration for me. Hollow consolation, the best I can do, all nonetheless true. Judas Priest comes on, dramatic entrance, roaring motorcycle engine, the real thing, reverberating through the arena, taxing vibrating eardums, pounding inside the head, and I'm back at that concert with Michelle, Venus revealed, hugging me, her body flowing into mine, because the Doobie Brothers opened with the same motorcycle sounds, but canned, delivered by my acquaintances on the sound board, after she yelled, to reveal me, my secret, Terry crashed the party, attempt to embarrass me, hurt me, before she decided not to go home with some stranger, and she was so happy, and my head's pounding, Jimmy's out there, somewhere, and he hates me right now. He tries to act satisfied that he at least saw Judas Priest, but he wants to cry, won't let himself, he's fourteen, doesn't want me to think him less of a man, doesn't want me to feel guilty, and I tell him how it is. That I was late because of hanging around Michelle, I should've been right about the concert starting late, my failure was understandable, doesn't matter, I screwed up. You've already been to more concerts than most kids in a lifetime, deal with the disappointment, like a man. And be as angry at me as you want, hate me for as long as you need, guilt-free, because I failed you, and get over it. No, I'm not perfect, about time you learned that, I don't lose sleep over it, you shouldn't either. We're back at the car, it's late, I check my phone, message from Michelle. Hi, Terry, she says, not tipsy this time, same rich, warm voice, hesitating. I just had to call and apologize for this afternoon... I don't know... my period's starting, I'm moody and emotional... all these things are going on... I'm sorry. I just had to tell you that. Good-bye... I guess... Ice at back of my throat, cold seeping downward to my core, I'm getting to her, have been getting to her, getting closer, but it's more dangerous than ever, know the perceived progress can dematerialize in an instant, these calls are her subconscious reaching out to me, next time I see her it never happened, we're not friends, never be lovers, elation mixed with defeat. Jimmy's unhappiness means nothing, he'll get over it, I'll never get over Michelle, this bait dangled, jerked away, again and again, but there's hope, and I must admit I've played it pretty well to have gotten to this point, and how do I compose, execute, the next elements of the story, and will Michelle cooperate? I awaken early the next morning, leave Jimmy to sleep in the hotel room, walk and smoke along the street of the small resort town, seedy, decayed. And I walk and smoke and think of yesterday's events, Michelle's meltdown, performed, for my benefit, right in front of me, what did she expect to evoke, telling me about her period coming, too much information, I want to hear it all, she's really trying to reach out to me, in her way, ever more desperately, and how do I close this last, infinite distance, to her heart. A phone call is called for, I need to respond somehow to these displays of hers, heating up, her reaching out, but should I really call, that was last night, it's morning now, she's not the same, those night sentiments gone by the light of day, subconscious vanquished by unreasoned thought, will I provoke her, provoke another backlash? Should I call or not, call or not, and what will I say. A cafe opens, I can get some tea, finally, to drink in the cold lakeside air, and I wonder, call don't call, and I walk into the cafe and the woman behind the counter greets me and says, What'll you have? and at that instant I see her name tag, Michelle, I'll take Michelle, please! did I say that out loud? no, but I'll take Michelle, yes, and it's settled, I have to make that phone call, and this Michelle looks askance at the man across the counter, Is this guy another nut? why does he look so confused, I just asked what he wanted, and he says Michelle under his breath, and, again, May I help you? I apologize for the mental lapse, she's reassured, pleasant banter, I leave, thinking, definitely going to call Michelle a little later, what to say? Jimmy and I have breakfast eventually, I leave him inside, go outside to make the call. She's not there, I leave a message, Michelle, thanks for calling, thanks for the apology, but you never have to apologize to me for anything. I know how hard it is for you. And that's that. So I think. She calls me back, fast, eager to talk, we're best friends, never had a conversation like this on the phone before, never really in person either, all easy, comfortable, no Michelle undercurrents, I can't believe it. It's so very normal! She asks what I'm doing today, I tell her about an invitation to a winery run by a friend, a big event, unique, and though I'd planned to take someone else, I see oppotunity here, I say, I'd invite you to go if I thought you'd say yes, and she chuckles says she'll think about it, call her back a little later. We go back and forth through a few exchanges before she decides to take her daughter shopping at the factory outlets; I knew she'd talk herself out of it, but at least she considered the possibility, consciously, of going somewhere with me. Breakthrough. I hadn't expected to invite her to begin with, had some other women to take, could hold off to the last minute. Spending the morning flirting with the idea of going with Michelle tarnished the notion of attending with anyone else, and I was less interested in other relationships in direct proportion to the extent I thought things might progess with her. I'd slow those down, see if something was happening, finally. I'm in a pleasant, wistful mood when I arrive late at the winery, detached from the other guests, but content thinking about what the latest developments portend. Michelle's shaking loose from Dan, at least in her head, and she's enjoying my attentions, feels comfortable in my presence, though she sometimes seems to revel in making me feel the opposite. I run into the man who invited me, he laughingly comments that I should have invited Jo, as if to suggest that I go after her. He's oblivious to how far things have already gone, along with everyone else in the coffeehouse gang. I smile enigmatically, an oh, well smile, little hint of the reality. We wander through the tree-shaded grounds, glasses of red in hand, apart from the excited guests, this is a real treat for them, to us another day in the Valley. We discuss everything but wine, though he finds me less engaged than usual. If he's a little behind the curve as to developments with Jo, he's completely unaware of it as regards Michelle. Through the next morning, through the day after and night beyond, I remain in that detached, pensive state, thinking, doubting, that there was real hope, maybe. And the deal couldn't help but bring us closer together, somehow, certainly as friends, and if it came down as it looked it might, she'd be free of some of insecurities still binding her to that wretched relationship. Things looked as if they were going well, as well as could be expected given Michelle, I maintain that equanimity, find a peace in my lack of excitement, absence of fear. It's Monday morning, I meet the coffeehouse gang, alternate between sipping tea, provoking arguments, and pacing and smoking out front. God, I'd love to know how things went with her boyfriend and other vets, what they thought of the ranch. But I won't call, don't want to be pushy, too eager, I'll wait till my lesson tomorrow. I walk to my car, check my phone messages, as I lean on the roof, foot propped on the edge of the floorboard. Message from Michelle, heart starts beating fast. Hi, Terry, it's Michelle, she says, matter of fact, her business, I'm in control voice. The vets didn't think the place was quite right. Anyway, I already called the realtor, told him to forget about it. Just wanted to let you know. Bye. I'm resting my elbows on the car top as I listen, and hearing this, I drop my arms onto the car top, and drop my head onto my arms, eyes blanking out on the blue sheet metal. I don't fucking believe it, I say out loud to myself, low tones, a complete sense of resignation, defeat. I don't fucking believe it. A howling, insensate desolation seeps into my core, I'm a zombie for the rest of the day. She got me again. No doubts were entertained that this would be easy, knew Michelle might balk at following my advice in this, no surprises there. It never crossed my mind, however, that she would manage to preempt the discussion with such crushing finality. What a fucking dumbass, I thought, not because she turned down the deal, it was a big one, there were sure to be barriers along the way, good reasons, perhaps, for her to decline. She refused even to explore it, though, she killed it just because she could. She didn't need my help, didn't want my help, she had her own support network, she could get along fine without me. She was in control, and let me know it, if only to refuse the opportunity of a lifetime. I found fascinating my lack of emotion under the circumstances, thought odd the lack of distress. Indeed, I was relieved. The continued association with Annie, the way she called the realtor without giving me a warning, talking to me about it first, if only out of consideration, indicated, again, her bad judgment. What if it had come to fruition, I'd sucked some investors in, and she decided to run off with that tatooed cowboy? The fear she might do something screwy plagued me, now the fear gone. She took herself out of the deal she couldn't handle. What a fucking dumbass. I repeated the words in my head, muttered them outloud, but without any sense of hostility or condescension, no anger, just resignation. It had so much to do with the way she said it, as if to say, I can do whatever I want, and there's nothing you can do about it. I can throw away whatever opportunity you send my way, and there's nothing you can do about it. I'd devoted so much of my own life to creating opportunities, keeping options open, adjusting goals, successfully, that I couldn't fathom someone choosing to kill an opportunity so thoughtlessly. She could have pursued the ranch deal in addition to her other plans, could have owned her own ranch, still married the boyfriend, still become partners with the other vets in the clinic. In Michelle's mind, however, keeping the ranch deal alive was a distraction from her plan, as if even to consider it threatened her focus on the grand strategy, threatened its realization. And in that, I thought I saw the answer. It was a matter of belief. To pursue the deal acknowledged that there were doubts about the course on which she'd placed all her hopes. By staking everything on the vets and the clinic, Michelle would guarantee her success in the enterprise. These were just random thoughts popping into my consciousness uninvited, I really didn't try to entertain them, try to figure anything out. Rational thought in reference to Michelle was a waste of time; she did what she did devoid of reason, and any understanding I had, thought I had, was useless. She'd just do something unpredictable. And it occurred to me at one point, just after the expression, fucking dumbass, ran through my mind again, that I'd never before articulated such a sentiment about Michelle, never saw her in such a light. I shook my head, still thought no less of her, saw it as more evidence of how warped had become her view of the world, how limited. It was too good to be true, why bother believing, why risk the disappointment. Kill the deal. Fucking dumbass. I thought of my stiff little lecture about nothing to fear but disappointment, no problem with that now, nothing to fear at all but success, kill it. I thought of a conversation I'd recently had on the phone with my sister Kate, about our land, when I mentioned the deal. Even she was excited, had wanted to bring horses to California from Florida to race, just had no one to really trust. If this worked out, she could keep some thoroughbreds at Michelle's. Kate suggested I get a trainer's license, Kate trains trainers, we could all do business together. Michelle could have ended up with more boarding revenue, an entry to horse racing, a loyal associate, me, and an opportunity to play the horse game at the highest levels. Breeding, sales, training, she could have become a much-needed, much appreciated equestrian institution in a region full of money. She could have achieved financial independence, status, who knows what, and she'll never know. I imagined the comments made by her boyfriend, sister, friends, about the deal I proposed for her, Fat chance Michelle, you, no money, buy a two-million dollar ranch, are you nuts? You believe that guy? Get a grip. The snarky, dismissive wisecracks, the mild insults to which they treat each other with routine banter, best friends always willing to be honest with you, tell you how stupid you are. I invited skepticism, I knew, told those outrageous stories, but she'd seen me deliver, had reason to trust my credibility. Created and launched a website for her, pain-free, in less than a month. She saw my offices, met my partner, saw tangible proof of my operations, good evidence that regardless of how outlandish my assertions, I meant what I said, could make things happen. She knew and liked Billy's hotel, especially liked one of the restaurants housed in the complex. She saw my forest, she saw that I was a man to be reckoned with, to take seriously, and killed the deal all the same. I lost faith in her. Or, more to the point, renewed my growing conviction that despite her many talents, gifts, I could depend on her, faithfully, to do the self-defeating thing, to insure, somehow, that she'd sabotage herself. I couldn't understand, I understood too well. Fucking dumbass. I paced and smoked in front of the coffeehouse between sips of tea the next day, contemplating my drive to the stables in an hour or so, thought about that hopeful weekend just past, the temper display on Friday, the call that night, the possibility of going somewhere with me, finally, the hope I felt, but refused to credit, the knowledge that it would turn out badly, again, somehow, she'd done it again. I thought, again, about this strange evolution of our relationship, my feelings, maybe a casual relationship, growing attachment, deep affection, I just wanted to see things work out for Michelle, with me or without me. She'd guarantee they didn't, with me or without me. And on the drive up the highway, as I pulled off to the stables, winding around, again, the hill hiding the facility, through the now almost naked vineyards, vines devoid even of the dried-out leaves, I remembered the harvest just completed, I'd watched these vines start empty around me, six months ago, saw them empty, again, just like with Michelle, emptiness to emptiness, in six months, but no sweet fruit in between. No raging hormonal responses to control, attempts to remain cool unnecessary this time, a frigid calm suffuses my being, all passion gone dormant. Emotion is wasted here, will just hurt, nothing I can do but stand and watch, helplessly, and I accept this. It occurs to me not at all to attempt to change Michelle's mind, I've already decided that, in part because I suspect that she'll reflexively go out of her way not to do anything I might want or advise. I become afraid of getting her to do the wrong thing by encouraging the right, I need to back off, for her sake as well as mine. On arrival, I take my usual seat, sit and smoke, wait for Michelle to join me, as I have these many months, we touch on the ranch deal briefly, the vets didn't think it was quite right, she says, oh well, I say, that's the breaks, do not say, again, as I had so many times in the previous ten, twelve days, You can do this without them, Michelle, she's made it obvious she can't. As we talk about other things, a comment here and there, nothing important, I imagine the boyfriend telling her, after seeing the ranch, Just tell that guy to forget about it Michelle, call the realtor Monday morning, tell him to forget about it, don't know how accurate my maunderings, but I see it, hear it, as I talk to her about insignificant things, know that man she's so devoted to helped kill her chance for independence, because she trusts him, and she has no clue. The boyfriend, the other vets, they're all set, have their lives in order, but not Michelle, and it seems not to occur to any of them that it might be good for her regardless of them, and why should they care. She'll just be the flunky who makes everything happen when they want it, the one without the credentials they'll never have to take too seriously, and she obviously has no business thinking of buying a ranch, especially resulting from the encouragement of some guy Michelle knows, there's always a guy with Michelle, just forget about it Michelle, and if the deal should come through, well, where would they find another flunky like Michelle? And I have no way to know how true my assessment, but I'm comfortable with it anyway, suspect there's enough truth in it, seen it already too many times, it's happened to me, but I know all the games. And sitting there, talking with her, about everything but the deal, just trival banter, I feel the slightest guilt for not trying, but I know she'll redouble her resistance, it doesn't matter what I say, but it still bothers me that I won't even try, but I don't. Michelle starts to make phone calls, do some business at the picnic table, I become aware for the first time that morning that I didn't experience that rush coming to see her, how since I seemed to be making progress on some level, on yet another, I'd shut down emotionally. I no longer hummed Michelle, absent-mindedly, basking in a subconscious feeling of well-being, no longer felt that same spontaneous melting inside, that pleasant, mushy vulnerability. This woman's a heartbreaker, I'd told myself sometimes in months past, but I never expected it to hurt so badly like this, never thought she could break my heart so badly by what she would do to herself, not even knowing it. I'd become inured to the pain, however, had prepared myself for the worst, and as it happened, some kind of worst never expected, I managed it, sent the pain somewhere I couldn't feel it. We go to lunch at the deli, we've been doing that alot in recent weeks, at my suggestion, my treat, and after the initial resistance to letting me buy all the time, she succumbs, Hey, Michelle, I have the money, you don't, don't worry about it, we almost always have lunch together now if she isn't otherwise engaged. We're pals, almost, sometimes, when she allows it, but I'm still not a real friend, and I'm returning the distance today, after the deal denied, I'm withdrawing even as I recommit myself to her. This could get really ugly, I'm thinking, as I eat my BLT, she, an egg salad, and I have no reason, really, to believe that, I'm just disappointed I couldn't show off for her with this deal. Make her a million dollars. Set her free. And it's worth being disapointed about just because she refused to try, felt compelled to kill off an opportunity before she had to make a choice. And that, I decide, is what bothers me. She wouldn't try, and no one around her, no one she trusted, encouraged her to try. We sit and talk at the deli, we end up talking about a once-famous Napa ranch, a showplace in the valley gone bankrupt, and Michelle alludes to the deal now dead, something about not wanting to be saddled with a mortgage, all that responsibility. Aren't you lucky, I think, no mortgages to worry about for you, no one's going to trick you into owning anything. Fucking dumbass. The winter rains impended, Michelle and I settled into a quiet, dreamy association, more alone than ever. Fewer of the boarders came out in any frequency, I seemed hardly to ride at all anymore, and the number of hours I spent with her assumed the proportions of a part-time job. She caught up with the maintenance she'd deferred during the busy summer months, sorted and rearranged the tack, attended to the corrals and broken fence posts or loose boards, fixed the plastic water pipes the horses were always breaking, myriad little things that kept cropping up. We lunched together often, and she even took to asking me help out with small favors in her absence, moving a horse from stall to paddock, or taking shin guards off, though she still resisted the tendency. She'd gone out of her way to let others at the stables know that I enjoyed a special status of sorts. I was the only riding student she allowed to help with the grooming of the horses I rode, to get or return them to a stall, and when a student would ask about doing the same, Michelle would say, in a voice loud enough to insure I heard it, Terry's the only student I let do that, and I heard the words with a bittersweet twinge of progress achieved, progress threatened. I spent hours sitting in the white plastic chair under the overhang with the skull, regarding Michelle as she continued those routines I'd espied for months, images of previous days, encounters with her, running through my head, aimless thoughts of what happened, what was happening, what would happen, merging into a jumble of past, present and future. I'd achieved a meaningful relationship with Michelle, so far removed from anything I'd intended, however, that I was disoriented beyond measure. The long-sought happy ending, becoming her lover, remained deferred, still a possibility, but these emotional desires paled as the story took shape in my thoughts. I'd worried about a suitable resolution, worried that I might have a great beginning, middle, but no end, and there was no end in sight. The deal nagged at me in the weeks ensuing its demise, and I found new annoyances in the speculations of what could have been, especially with the insight that Michelle getting that ranch was some kind of perfect happy ending, the woman achieving her goals with the assistance of the eccentric stranger, what happened next left to the imagination of the reader, my own imagination, only hints of consummation, but a tantalizing conclusion all the same. That fine woman I'd identified half a year before had grown in complexity, my view of her ever-changing now, these other, troubling sides, but anything I might ordinarily perceive as a shortcoming endeared her to me even more, her every self-defeating quirk evidence of a vulnerability I cherished. I wanted to protect her more than ever, but she most needed defending from herself, and that, I knew, to be a losing game. I resolved to play it anyway, I had no choice, I sincerely believed that, in some fundamental way I could not yet understand, I believed that I was the only one she could depend on, and she would need me, regardless of our innate desires to avoid neediness in ourselves or others. And a tragic end to a love story is just as good an ending as a happy one, better according to some tastes, and prospects boded well for the worst. With that as my new set point, the deal behind us, we entered a period of languid, comfortable intimacy, punctuated by her occasional attempts to put me back into a more distant place. When Michelle once mentioned that she loved a good steak, I told her of a wine bar I frequented that had an excellent steak for two. The place enjoyed repute as a scene, I suggested we should have dinner there sometime. Michelle, I added, friends do have dinner together, you know, and it shouldn't be such a big deal. That would be a date, Terry, and I have a boyfriend. She went out drinking to flirt with men, went out with other men friends, like Bruce, the horseshoer, on the escorted blind dates, but it was beyond comprehension for her to have a drink with me, go out to dinner, despite our lunches together, the time we spent alone together, why doesn't she trust me I'd think? Before I realized she probably couldn't trust herself. More unmediated speculation, Michelle can't go out alone with a man without sleeping with him, I concluded, she was one of those women who couldn't help herself after she got to a certain point, after going out on a date, having a drink, being alone, it all led to sex, and I had to wonder, then, what it meant just a week or so before, when she consciously considered going out with me to the winery event. All her little quirks and rules had reasons, hid vunerabilities, and she was a bundle of them under the toughness. We'd talk about where we went the other night, or over the weekend, and while I studiously avoided asking too many questions about who accompanied her, didn't want to bring to light some man, give her an opportunity to dangle a competitor before me, she often asked about my escorts. I was just vague enough to suggest the presence of other women, but without saying so, my way of letting her know that I had things going on, too, make her a little jealous, and I could see her thinking, wondering myself, the whole time, whether I made myself more desirable because of the others, or less so, an unreliable cheat. We continued to circle each other warily, trying to figure each other out, me trying to discern what moves to make next, Michelle, presumably, trying to determine whether she wanted to take a chance with me. But she would never admit as much, I was sure. Meanwhile, she took to eliciting my assistance, without quite asking for it, and I eagerly took the hints. Michelle began to prepare selected horses for a coming year of shows or sales, cutting their coats with electric clippers. Some of the animals needed sedation, and for that Michelle often required help. It began with Lucy, and the skittish little filly betrayed her every fear from the moment she saw Michelle enter the stall, me standing just outside. Careful, Lucy doesn't trust men, Michelle reminded me when I approached. I held Lucy's lead line just under the halter as Michelle tried to work around toward her rump with a syringe full of sedative, released the little horse when she hinted at rearing, as Michelle commanded, hanging on to the end of the lead-line so we could start over again. It's okay, baby, Michelle cooed in the voice, gently stroking Lucy's flanks, me keeping my distance, leaving lots of slack in the rope. We repeated the drill several times, both of us baby-talking at Lucy before she settled down long enough for Michelle to plunge in the needle and empty its contents as the horse jerked away. Despite the sedative, however, Lucy promised difficulties in the shearing, and I asked Michelle if she wanted me to stay and help. If you want, she said, unable to simply accept assistance, unable to accept my favor to her. It had to be her favor to me. If I really wanted to help, she'd let me. As a favor. Which I gladly accepted. It took the best part of two hours, clippers humming, as Michelle started on the horse's barrel, the least sensitive regions, as she worked her way to the legs, and then, the head, Lucy standing impatiently, fidgeting in place. The whole time I listened to the voice, mesmerized, as Michelle explained what she was doing and why, as she reassured Lucy, Oh, that's a good baby, as we talked, randomly, of many things. She looked at me from time to time, the blue eyes, the slight smile, from the other side of Lucy, her face a foot or so away, the face I'd fallen asleep to so many times, on the computer, the photo of her hugging the little horse and looking into the camera, into my eyes, the soft, rich voice dripping, dripping, honey into my heart. No adrenaline rush, no confused thoughts, just a feeling of longing and sadness, vague romantic feelings, and resignation, emotions I indulged to the full every time we repeated the process with another horse to be shorn, and these were our sweetest moments together. The voice, always the voice, meant to sooth the horses, as it reduced me, the voice, sharing secrets, teaching me, questioning me. I know the voice wasn't meant for me, but she talked as if she were talking to a child, to calm, to nurture, as she taught horse lore, explaining how the coat would grow in just right just in time for the coming season, why she cut the way she cut, imparted information about horse physiognomy as appropriate, or pointed out idiosyncracies of one horse or another. And I asked gratuitous questions, not only to learn, but to have her teach me, so I wasn't always the know-it-all, so she could show off what she knew, and she never disappointed me. And there were all the other things. Growing up on a lesbian commune out in the country, no men in her life at all except when her mother decided she wasn't a lesbian, no friends at school, no sleepovers, because she lived with the perverts. The land her mother meant to keep in the family, but sold off, and Michelle resents it, I can tell, I know how she feels, I've been fighting for my family land my entire adult life, I'm fighting for it now, but at least I have it, and I know how she feels, but not really, because she lost hers, and lost more in killing our deal, she'll never know how much she lost, but I hurt enough for both of us. She talked about her boyfriend, their relationship. Since knowing her, I was aware of the regular Sunday outings, when they went with her daughter to a dinner and movie, the oft-repeated allusions to things never going quite right, I noted that she attended at fewer of his Friday surgeries than when we'd first met, I knew he was more interested in his career than he was in her. I knew she often spent hours driving to his town just to feed his dog, and return, while he traveled, knew she dutifully performed his errands, knew he didn't deserve it, even before she filled in the squirm-making details. She told of making the hour-long trip to his house for some reason or other, and being left on the porch, outside, repeatedly, as they discussed business or exchanged whatever it was that dictated the trip, and leaving, without ever being admitted to the house, which she described as a squalid mess. She told me that he'd tried to get into riding for a while, for her, but he didn't really like horses, and he gave it up. Michelle, evidently, wasn't worth the trouble. She described his dullness, his preoccupation with his work, his obsession over details. How he called her three times a day, morning, afternoon, and night, to check-up on her, make her explain herself. And more of the same, and the more I heard, the more I wanted to hold her, this woman, so valuable to me, treated as worthless, by so many others, most of all by Dan. The dialogs usually transpired at the crossties outside the arena, between its railing and the row of stalls, a horse separating us. On the wall, under the clock, hung a calendar, each month's page displaying a shirtless young cowboy, lean and ripped, prototypes of her ideal, I'm sure, and every time I listen to her laments about her boyfriend, voice of defeat devoid of self-pity, I glance at the picture of the month's hunk, and think of the image of Dan, the man she tries to love, the picture I found on the internet after discovering his full name, a big, beefy creature, and I can't figure it at all. Even as I thought the thought I laughed at myself, my vanity, the thought that I was as lean and ripped as those young cowboys, that they were probably models, probably couldn't ride as well as I could, but she preferred her fantasy than my reality. And my competition, a man who thinks of her as a domestic when he thinks of her at all, a man from whom she receives no joy, no love, no interest, a lump of a man, and it's no competition at all, she'll stick with Dan, won't give me a real chance even though she wants to. I was beyond that, though, now I just had to cut her loose from the man, regardless of my chances, even at the risk of her anger, of a breach. Michelle, I said, as we finished with a conversation and a horse one day, you can't go on like that. Dan treats you like a leper. That's horrible for your self-esteem; you don't need that, and you don't deserve it. I know, she said, voice squeeky and breathless as she brushed the horse. I know. Her visage puzzled, betraying a slight distress, she continued for a minute in silence before adding an afterthought. You know, she said, I think I'd be a millionaire now a few times over if I'd spent half as much time on business as I did on romance. I felt guilty as soon as I articulated the thought in my head, instantly, without thought, Yeah, millionaire, right, especially considering your great success at romance. Fucking dumbass. I paced and smoked and drank that night, thought about those uncounted other nights I paced and smoked and drank, thinking of Michelle, plotting to win her heart, jubilant and despondent by turns, as I considered perceived progress, setbacks, compared my speculations, emotions, of a recent past, with the emptiness I felt as I paced and smoked and drank that night. Listened to Puccini, the music and disconnected thoughts of Michelle merging into a deep, distant melancholy I observed now, rather than quite felt. A picture of myself on the wall caught my attention, my crew and I in El Salvador, after an operation, a self-conscious reminder I'd pinned up on finding it, to remind me of my other lives. I thought of the months of fear and exhileration experienced down there, all over Central America, the games my mind played, allowing me to function, avoid paralysis, cowardice, the continual awareness, on the edge of consciousness, of all the worst that could happen, how all the anxiety resided somewhere apart from me, feelings I submerged, but observed, as if belonging to someone else. Something like that happened with my feelings for Michelle, muted by the distance of that place where I'd relegated them. At the same time I had Jo to deal with. Increasingly erratic, she'd taken to calling after she'd been drinking, late at night, to tell me she didn't want to see me anymore, to ask me not to contact her, to spare her the heartbreak of not meeting her expectations, for not loving her as she loved me. And calling again in the morning, to say Forget what I said, you know me, no big deal. You have to stop doing that, Jo, I'd tell her, and she'd respond flippantly, make light of it, all a joke, I took it too seriously. I couldn't help but take it seriously because I kept seeing in her everything I feared for Michelle, ten, twenty years hence, a frustrated woman in the habit of playing games with her men, because she could, and excusing it as drunken silliness. I also had to consider whether I was doing to Michelle what Jo was trying to do to me, forcing unwanted attentions on her, too much, too fast. Just as I'd accepted Michelle as a friend regardless of whether we became lovers, Jo had claimed to accept me in the same light. But I made no demands on Michelle, didn't try to buy her affections, didn't manufacture any dramas. Indeed, I'd given up expectations of becoming lovers now, had almost no expectations at all, despite any hopeful hints she threw my way, I expected nothing but more missteps between us, nothing but frustration and sadness. All I expected now was to be the friend she needed when she most needed one. My scrapbook lay on the table opposite the couch, a stack of loose photos next to it. I sat down, drank some Jack, smoked some more, shuffled through the pictures trying to decide what to add or exclude, to distract myself. More images of girlfriends confronted me, women who provided love, affection and good memories, and I pondered my luck in connecting with them, remembered that it wasn't luck at all, but rather the result of endless calculation, intrigue and ceaseless attempts to meet every attractive woman I could. I played the numbers game, realizing early that the more women I met, the better chance I had of finding someone really special, and, short of that, availing myself of lots of wonderful lovers. I looked at the pictures, thought of those women, the great times we had together, mostly trouble-free, I got up and started pacing again, thinking something, but I didn't yet know what. I thought of other women I'd known in those days, women with whom I felt a spark, but had dropped because they were a little too much trouble, demanded too much work. Women I knew were attracted to me, women I knew offered something unique to me, but I wasn't willing to submit to their sensitivities, their needs, their games, as I considered them. And I thought of Michelle, how I never would have wasted a moment on her had I first seen her in a bar, the way she behaved toward men, how I would have summarily disregarded her as a candidate for romance, but since I knew her as a good woman first, a good woman who I knew even at that point to be trouble, no father, string of bad relationships with questionable men, how I'd allowed myself, allowed myself, to become infatuated with her even though I knew better, eyes wide open, how I persisted, knowing that simple friendship of a conventional sort would be impossible with her. Those other troublesome women I avoided, the girl with the Saab who kept testing me, reaching out, pulling back, almost-black brown hair, dark eyes, high cheek bones, great ass, who called me finally, to invite me into her bed, lying next to each other in her bed, on our sides, I'm naked, wrapping myself along her back, my cock in the crack of that ass, protected by the smooth fabric of her panties, holding each other closely, putting my hand between her legs, If you don't move it I'll break it, she said. Slowly, deliberately, I climbed out of her bed, dressed and left, saying only, as I walked out the door, to the fetal form constricting into a ball under the sheets, saying only, I'm not playing those games, and I never called her again, I avoided her completely, and I still feel bad knowing she was doing the best she could, she wanted me, would have done anything for me eventually, but I couldn't give her the time, couldn't accept her desperate needs, and walked out on a woman who wanted me, a woman I wanted, but she wouldn't conform to the behavior I demanded. The married Christian woman who protected her virtue despite making out with me, exchanged kisses but nothing more, until the day she needed a ride after delivering a car to her grandmother, when she leaned over, unzipped my pants and started to suck me off, that beautiful face, that thick blonde hair, bobbing, slowly, up and down in my lap, and I was stunned and grateful and available to give her a ride whenever she wanted. And she would have done anything for me too, But don't let me fall in love with you, she said, or you'll be sorry, and I didn't but I was sorry anyway. There were always others, less complicated, just as pretty, so I abandoned them, the Saab and the Christian. I avoided trouble, followed my head, as much as my heart, and as a result, finally met my wife, the great love of my life, played it all just right, amazed her when she learned of the subterfuges employed against her, the subtle ploys that led to her bed after the first time we kissed, a Thanksgiving weekend, and I was thankful. All perfection, years of bliss, got to watch my marriage deteriorate, little by little, day by day, month by month, year by year, until we could hardly stand each other, for no very good reason. So much for all the planning, the good omens, the shared reliability, the woman I loved, who treated me worse, I believe, than any other human being in her life, and she couldn't help it. Toward the end, it was enough to express the slightest preferance, the greatest desire, whether on a major issue concerning us as a family, a trivial matter concerning me alone, there was no want of mine big or small she wouldn't go out of her way to stifle, on principle alone. He must not be satisfied, he must not be satisfied, and nothing hurt so much as watching her fall so far beneath herself, to treat me so badly. And I'd do it all over again, the love was worth the heartache, and I wish I could do it over again with the Saab and the Christian, they would have been worth it, too, especially knowing, as I knew then, that night, pacing and smoking and drinking, that all love is fraught with risk and pain, and it's all worth it in retrospect, even the pain, especially the pain, and it's worth it now with Michelle, no matter what, because I never thought I could feel anything so intensely again. Get over it, I tell myself, thank God you're lucky enough to be in the game, you've got nothing to lose, and you've seduced tougher women than Michelle. What a great puzzle, what a challenge, rise to it, figure it out, show what you can do, I tell myself, figure out the plot from here, what a great story, even if it has no good end, even if I can't bring myself to write about it, ever, and I have my doubts. She's weakening, she's vulnerable, and she knows it's over with Dan, she just needs a push. I wasn't deluding myself, she was interested in me, I had, indeed, received those phone calls, heard that voice, reaching out to me, obliquely, perhaps, but reaching all the same. I had not imagined that, had not imagined those almost meetings she contrived, had not imagined that she elicited my interest in her, but to what end? I have to make a move, know what I'm going to say when I say it, a few days later, I'm sitting on a stump as she empties horseshit onto the manure pile. She signals she wants to talk, small talk commences, moves on, I move in. Cold determination, hyperawareness, the slightest flush of adrenaline. Hey, Michelle, I say. You describe Dan as a boring, jealous, anal-retentive slob. He keeps you on a cell-phone leash, treats you like a servant, and you argue every time you get together. Why do you stay with him? He's not jealous, she says, and I try not to laugh at the pathetic defense. Whatever, I say, but this is horrible for you, and it's not going anywhere. I know, she says, in that newly characteristic, hollow, breathless voice, hints of hyperventilation. I know. You need out, soon, I say. And I wouldn't want you to do anything shabby to Dan, but you should give us a chance, too. What do you mean by that? she asks. Well, I say, measuring my words, is this going how I planned it the other night, what's happening here, keep cool, Well, I say, it shouldn't be such a big deal for us to have a drink or go to dinner or a movie. Friends do that, you know. I'm not proposing marriage, Michelle, but you should give us a chance. I have to work things out with Dan, she says, desperately, breathlessly, again. I just want to get through the holidays now; then I'll do something. Give us a chance, I'd just said, twice, this Us I contrived, I'm not asking her to give me a chance, I'm no chump begging her for a chance, I plant the idea, the seed, that she should give herself a chance, Michelle, the other third of Us, Michelle, me and the relationship, you're not just depriving me, you're depriving yourself, depriving the friendship. Give Us a chance Michelle, give yourself a chance. Give me a chance. Please. We have lunch at the deli, an easy lunch, no references to the conversation I precipitated, and when I leave that afternoon, we hug, as usual, my clean-shaven cheek sliding against hers, my lips brushing her neck, and she says, softly, into my ear, as we withdraw, Please, Terry, don't you go all weird on me too. Don't worry, Michelle, I say. I won't. Just give us a chance. I drive off feeling better than ever. I'm getting to her, despite her denials, and she just let me know, again, that she needs me and wants me. But who else, I begin to wonder, might be going all weird on her? The big storm fronts blew in from the bay now, gray skies and intermittant rain our new companions at the stables, all of Michelle's chores made more difficult by leaking water and mud. She struggled with the heavy muck buckets, the sawdust and manure from the stalls soaking wet, doubled in weight, and still she rejected my offers of help, rejections I disregarded, helping her despite herself, a friend helping a friend, shouldn't be an issue, but with her it is. It's a matter of her independence, independence from men, I presume, and every time I help anyway, a begrudging Thanks is my reward, a smell of resentment in the air. The hay in the shed needs to be covered with plastic to keep dry, uncovered to get at the bales, I regularly watch her fighting the flapping blue tarps, she can't reach, the tiedown isn't long enough, I come along, help make it right, no, she's not a weak woman, it's just easier two people doing this. Michelle displays a feeling of defeat every time, but I can't help myself, help anyway, incur more of that resentment for my troubles. She's lost some boarders, one of her hay guys isn't showing up as regularly, the cheap hay guy, and she develops cash flow problems, she's not whining about it, but I know things are tight for her. One day I write her a check for a hundred dollars, advance payment on lessons, I tell her, don't worry, and she takes it, she doesn't like it, she takes it, and I know I'm acting like a guy trying to buy his way into her heart, I know how that can distort everything between a man and a woman, blows all the subtlties of seduction I so honor, but I don't care. I'm going to help her out even if I do make her angry, resentful, even if it works counter to my cause. I'm going to help this friend any way I can, do all I can to relieve some of her burdens. Even to my detriment. Our relationship deepens, she gets even more comfortable around me, but can't refrain from putting me in my place whenever she has an opportunity. Over the last couple of months, the months since that lunch when I first queried her about going out, she'd invited me to run into her places just so she could reject me, she invited me to house sit in order to withdraw the offer when I accepted it, she encouraged me to go to the concert where she tried to embarrass me, she called me late in the evening to tell me how great I was, in that voice, only to act as if we were strangers on the next meeting. She considered going out with me, consciously, acknowledged it, and then responded as if it were absurd for me to suggest that we might try again. She's scared, I tell myself, it's that head and heart battle going on, she needs me somehow, she knows it, lets me know it, yet does all in her power to contrive opportunities to snub me. I see it all, accept it, accept the challenge. And on occasion relish it. I often wonder if we've become too intimate emotionally now to get romatically engaged, if she feels she's revealed too much, the safe stranger, on the edge of her life, she can talk to about everything without the confidences interfering, the result a reluctance to get more involved because I know too much, too many of her vulnerabilities, weaknesses, to risk surrender to me, a man, and she doesn't trust men, doesn't trust herself. That's all irrelevant now, I tell myself, I decided I'm going to try to be the best friend she ever had, regardless of how badly she might treat me, she can't help herself, she needs a friend, I know it, she needs me, and I think she knows it. And she'll resent me every time the thought enters her mind, and I'll pay for it, somehow. When she tells me one day her ex-husband wants to get together again, try to make amends, I hear her suppressed distress, she's trying to be brave, she can handle it, I can see the stress, almost hear the churning in her stomach. I wonder, again, about my role as that safe outsider, whether she tells anyone else these things, displays her fear or problems to others as she does to me. I think not, I've seen her friends in action, seen the sister, in action, I've observed the boyfriend's treatment at a distance, I don't think Michelle has anyone to talk to, except me, who won't use her confidences against her, fodder for a joke, or a putdown, a means of manipulation, but she does have me, and I'll be there for her. I obsess over the ex-husband, worry about their encounter, worry that she may fall for him again, worry that he'll hurt her, worry about a variety of things not my business but I can't help worrying over Michelle, I see her strengths, her weaknesses, and they're all so askew, out of synch, I trust only that she'll get it wrong somehow, and I can't fix that. So when the inevitable happened, inevitable to me, anyway, I knew fate had sent me here, for a reason, when the inevitable happened and she got the eviction notice, I was not at all surprised, said to myself, I knew it, but there was nothing I could do anymore, I couldn't fix it, the deal was dead, and I had no inclination to raise the issue again, so sad I thought, that missed opportunity, and I won't lift a finger to bring it back to life, because Michelle would merely kill it if I did. All this I thought as she delivered the news, in a split second, before she added that she had a line on some new stables, everything would be okay, she was in control, everything would work out, but I doubted it. Her fortitude in the face of the turbulence impressed me all over again, how many times had I thought that, her spirit seemed never to break, but her face was tighter than ever, the tension visible, the timbre of her voice betraying her own doubts. I listened helplessly, she didn't need my help, made that clear, and I made the obligatorily positive noises in response. Oh, Michelle, I thought, Oh Michelle, why couldn't you give us a chance, give yourself a chance, why did you have to kill that deal? I saw the end of our private little Eden on the horizon, I saw the distance that would separate us, things would never be the same when this was over in a month or two, no matter where she ended up, I was still a stranger despite the intimacies, she would escape to her peril, my despair, and I lost all hope. Much to my relief. Having exprienced the complete futility of expecting anything to come of this, having seen how her every encouraging overture resulted in disappointment, I felt almost liberated by the prospect of a final break. I'd never encountered anything like this, anyone like her, the real yearning for each other, on some level, the artificial distance she created, whenever she could, to fight it. It was maddening, crazy-making, I questioned reality, my judgment, questioned whether I really got those phone calls, received those signals she sent, and I wouldn't have spent this time if she hadn't shown interest in me, the interest she denied, and I kept going in circles, without end. The routine continued at the stables, I went through the motions of showing up for lessons that seldom occurred, we sat and talked and smoked, had lunch at the deli, but I was empty inside, watching our relationship go nowhere, if it was a relationship at all. And despite all we'd been through, we'd known each other now for seven, eight months, demonstrated fine qualities to each other, weaknesses, we'd shared secrets, all the elements of friendship, most of the aspects of lovers, and I knew that if I didn't have a stable to go to where I'd find Michelle, I'd never see her again, she'd never go out of her way to remain friends, to allow me to try to remain friends, when this was gone it was all gone, and I would never have existed for her. Then, of course, she offered new hope. One of her boarders owned a horse she didn't have time to ride, an Arabian she leased to a couple of women who paid the fees, one riding during the week, the other on the weekends. The rider who had him during the week didn't want to renew the lease; Michelle asked if I was interested, I could ride whenever I wanted, even ride in the vineyards, open only to horse owners or their proxies. You can try him out on Friday, she said, and over the next few days I pondered again over what it all meant, beyond, perhaps, a simple desire to maintain her cash flow by keeping a boarder happy. But the cost was negligible, less than what I'd been paying for a month's worth of lessons, Tuesdays and Thursdays, usually, when a horse was available, and I interpreted it as a good sign. During the interim, I had an opportunity to talk to the woman who'd had the lease I intended to take over. She helped out around the stables in lieu of the boarding fees for her own horse, a nice woman who filled me in on Jaxon's eccentricities. He tested you, she said, and demands a firm hand, but lacked any real malicious streak. But he disliked being saddled, the only real problem, alleviated by taking time, cinching him up in stages, a matter of a few extra minutes per ride. Oh, yeah, and he has a really bumpy trot. I drove out to the stables on the appointed morning, giving it little thought, I'd ridden quite a few different horses at Michelle's, though always in the arena, but I did have a history of sticking on horses, even if I was largely ignorant of so many aspects of proper riding. As I parked my car, I noticed more vehicles than normal, several people were on hand, including Jaxon's previous rider; in the arena, a big, strapping cowboy rode a horse around the perimeter. I walked toward the picnic table under the overhang with the skull, Michelle got up, walked up to me, hugged me, hard, whispering in my ear, My ex-husband is riding my horse and it's so weird. Breathlessly, and she disengaged and kept walking, thoughts racing in my head, adrenaline pumping. She had to tell me that, I think, she needed to tell me that, she turns to me when she has no one else to share her sentiments with, and it avails me nothing, but I'll take what I can get. And we're all watching him ride her horse, he guides it expertly with indiscernible movements of his knees to its flanks, he's the perfect cowboy, big hat, snap-button shirt, a vest with his name embroidered on the back, identifying him as a professional horse trainer. He gets off, Michelle gets on, and she's riding the arena, he's telling her what to do, and it's so odd hearing him tell her to do the same things she tells me to do when I ride, Don't let him drift inside, Use your knees more, in a clipped drawl, no extra words, all horse business, and I'm hyperaware, absorbing data without thinking, this is the guy she loved, this is the man who really taught her how to ride, blind-folded, bareback, she fell off over and over again, hurt herself, he made her get back on and he really taught her how to ride, really taught her how to hurt, really taught her to take her lumps and accept it. This dumbass cowby is the man of her dreams, fucking dumbass. She's done after ten, fifteen minutes, just wants some pointers on style, fine-tuning her horse, the riding of him, and she tells me I should get Jaxon ready, and I retrieve him from the stall thinking with every step that I'm having to audition this Arab, this Arab with issues, and Arabs are trouble without any issues, and a bad trot, and I get to audition this horse in front of a woman I care about while her expert cowboy ex-husband looks on, and don't I have a marvelous opportunity here to look like a complete idiot. The hormones pump, I'm wired, but it's cold-blooded wired, I'm ready to kill or die, calmly, and I can ride this fucking horse, and I take my time picking his hooves, putting the saddle on, slowly, cinching in stages, don't want to piss him off unnecessarily, and I talk to him, gently, soothingly, out of the others' ear shot, I'm going to fucking ride you, and you're not going to fuck with me, do you understand, Jaxon, and I'm gentle in handling him, thoughtful, but I make him do what I want, move him where I want, and it's time for the show and I feel that cold at the back of my throat, down to my gut. I mount him, and we begin to walk, slowly, around the arena, everyone's watching, Michelle, the ex, Becka, the woman giving up the lease, a few others, everyone watching, and after a circuit or two in each direction, I make him trot, and it's bouncy as hell, I hate this, can't post worth a damn, but I'm doing okay, the horse is doing what I want, but I can't stand this trot. Another couple of circuits both ways, I kiss at him, knock his flanks with my heels, make him canter, and he takes off, wants to go faster than I do at this point, I feather the reins, slow him down a bit till I want to go faster, got to control him, I see everyone's eyes following me around the ring, all a blur, can't focus on anyone, have to ride this horse, can't look like an idiot, but I'm not really thinking any of that, I'm in the moment, riding the horse, in control. The horse knows who's boss now, I'm the boss, I let him loose, and we're moving about as fast as you can move in the arena, he's cantering briskly, I run him in both directions. I do figure eights, he missteps in the changing of direction, could've thrown me but doesn't, I'm in complete command, and I finally slow him down to a walk. I'm riding him toward the gate, near where everyone's gathered, the ex looks disgusted, starts pacing in the background, God, I'd love to know what he's thinking about me, Becka appears puzzled, thoughtful, Michelle, expectant. What do you think? she asks, looking up at me. I love him, I say. Good answer! Michelle says, beaming. I dismount, she drifts off with the observing horse people I didn't know, business to conclude. Becka approaches. You did really well there, she says. I had him for six months and never took him into a canter. He always scared me. Jaxon, it turns out, is the horse that threw her when I cracked the whip months ago, and when she took her husband trail riding not long after, the horse pitched him off as well. I discover that the woman who leases him weekends is afraid of him too, that everyone, save the owner who's ridden him for the twelve years of his life, is leery of riding him. That's interesting, I'm thinking as I talk with Becka, nice of everyone to warn me, I'm thinking, but I'm long used to the old ranch trick of putting someone on a difficult horse, old practical joke, broken bones be damned, and it's happened to me before in Colombia, and Mexico, and Florida, and I always stayed on, got thrown just once, long time ago, in Nevada, total fluke, the horse was as surprised as I was, we just got out of rhythm. So was this an oversight, I wonder, still chatting with Becka, or maybe a subconscious setup, the women want to see how good I really am, the arrogant bastard, Michelle calling me fearless, contrasted with her female students, still scared after years of riding and lessons, let's see how he does on Jaxon, and gee, we don't want to prejudice him against the horse, lets just see how he does without any warning, and I'm glad I didn't know because it would have thrown off my instincts. But would Michelle do that to me, set me up like that, consciously, she woudn't test me like that, would she, and yes, she probably would, and, yes, she never stops testing me. Becka heads into the ring, Michelle's still doing business, the ex continues to pace in the corridor between the stalls and the arena fencing, and while watching Becka ride the perimeter I attempt to engage the cowboy in small talk, take his measure, knowing he's thinking about me, the city wimp who looks like shit on horseback working on his wife, still my wife goddammit! But I did stay on the horse. He can barely bring himself to talk to me, he's a real cowboy, nothing but, a monosyllabic, one-dimensional creature grunting answers, avoiding conversation, and this is Michele's dream guy, I'm thinking, this cowboy, a real cowboy, nothing but, and good for nothing else, kind of like that one-dimensional vet she's wasted a couple of years on, and this is my competition, I'm thinking, these narrow men who want a sprited woman just to break her. Break Michelle, and the dumbass won't give me a chance, us a chance, but she's vulnerable to every stunted brute-man who comes along and treats her bad just right. We don't have a chance I'm thinking, the girl can't help herself, and all I can do is watch. Michelle returns, negotiations over, Becka leads her horse out of the arena, the ex leaves to pace elsewhere, I'm still cleaning up after Jaxon, getting ready to put him up, the women start talking, I'm on my way out, and I hear Michelle say to Becka, for my benefit I'm sure, Well, Terry had just the right answer when I asked how he liked Jaxon. He said he loved him. Isn't that great? And Michelle catches up with me a minute or so later, after I put Jaxon in his paddock, I'm heading back toward the barn, Michelle stops me to say, Now you can come out and ride Jaxon whenever you want. And you can ride in the vineyards now. She looks into my eyes as she says this, using the voice, that voice, her big, bright blue eyes shining on me, her big smile, just for me, nothing ambiguous here, I'm thinking, our eyes are locked, I'm melting all over again, how many times have I melted all over again? I'm melting again, and what does it all mean, if anything? You can come out and ride every day! she says. And if you want, I can show you around the vineyard trails on Tuesday. Her gaze lingers. Of course I want her to show me around the vineyard trails, we've never been riding together, I want more than anything to go riding, alone, with Michelle, over these hills, just the two of us, and I can't wait till Tuesday. We continue with our respective chores, go separate ways, I'm sitting under the overhang with the skull, smoking, thinking, again, in this same chair, where I'm always thinking, again, What does it all mean? and Michelle's talking to the ex, there's something furtive about it, I heard her say something to Becka about having lunch with him, and all of a sudden they're gone, she doesn't say good-bye, seems to avoid me, I wonder if she's embarrassed talking to him in front of me, maybe wants to avoid the hug of departure that's become routine, in his view, but there's something funny about it, I don't know what.