The Master of Seduction chapter 5 I see a thing of beauty within I can't watch it wither and die The speculations flow endlessly over that weekend, what's it mean that she's arranged for me to come out every day, specifically invited me to come out, every day, now, it looks like progress, but apparent progress has left me as bewildered as ever, and I can't help wondering if she's spending the weekend with the ex, she'd do something like that I think, but how about that celibacy thing, what's with that, this woman who lusts after men, men's bodies, the attentions of men, strange men, she'll go out with anyone, I think, except me, but she wants me around, and God we're involved in a strange game here, never seen anything like it. It wouldn't surprise me at all if they went back together, the dumbass cowboy, the dumbass woman who loved him, and how could she settle for a man like that? I see that face, that smile, those blue eyes, looking at me, I hear that mesmerizing voice, You can come out every day now, whenever you want, she hugged me reflexively when she saw me, she came to me for strength, support, something, when she needed it, left without a word, I don't fucking believe it, I don't fucking believe it. The detachment's abandoned me again, I'm scheming hard, just don't know what to scheme, nothing works as planned, yet she keeps surprising me with her timing, could she be playing me, conscously, no, I don't believe that, she does this stuff without even trying, her own instincts, tortured instincts, but she does manage to keep me around, even if she doesn't want me to get the wrong idea, I'm not interested in you like that, but she keeps acting as if she is, especially considering the conversation we'd had, don't shut the door on us, was she opening it now? The adrenaline's pumping hard as I drive to the stables, I've got to work Michelle just right, and I have this horse, a real firecracker, and between Michelle, and the horse, I can barely contain myself, I'm welcome here whenever I want, Michelle said so, specifically, smiling, in that voice, and I drive around the hill protecting the stable from the world outside, drive in and park, the same drill repeated dozens of times, scores of times, and I sit and smoke while I wait for Michelle to finish her chores and come up to talk. She joins me by the picnic table, she's sitting down, I ask, So, you and the ex getting back together? trying to be flippant, nonchalant, no, I'm not threatened by some other guy, and she says, Oh, yeah, right. He really wants me back, though, she says. My daughter was really upset, him back around and all. I thought he was before she was born, I say. No, she was little then, though. It was horrible. He got drunk, and beat me, and he screwed everyone he could at every ranch we worked at, the wives, the students, the boarders, and we kept getting kicked out. And she's telling me this in that breathless little girl voice she reverts to in her weak moments, she doesn't look me in the eye, she's looking off into middle distance, or down, at the ground, and she keeps talking. I really loved him, and it makes you afraid to fall in love again after something like that. You just don't want to go there, get hurt like that again. Yeah, I'm sure, I say, saying as little as possible. You remember Peter? she asks. My heart starts beating faster, I'm not going to like this I know, whatever it is. You met him at the deli a while back. He's been after me really hard. He's got a girlfriend back in Europe, and he's leaving in a few months, and it's really tempting to just go for it, have a relationship that I know won't go anywhere like that. Hearing this makes me nauseous, she sucks the breath out of me with this, I'm shaking her free from the boyfriend, and she's going to fall into the arms of that boy, considering the boy for a fuck buddy, a meaningless sex partner, and I'd be better for that too, whatever you want, and geez, Michelle, he doesn't look eighteen even if he is in his twenties, you've got twelve, fifteen years on him, you can't be serious, and young guys aren't very good fucks anyway, their girlfriends fucked me on the side all the time before I was married. I say none of this, of course, I just nod and make appropriate noises, I am, almost literally speechless, why is she telling me this, and it's all clear now, she's afraid of falling in love with me, that must be it, that head and heart thing, I knew it, but am I deluding myself, this comforting delusion, yes, she's rejecting me because she's afraid of falling in love with me, and that's little consolation if true, because she's talking about Peter, just told me she's considering fucking Peter, that boy, why is she telling me this, I don't have to know, she can work both of us, have both of us, you don't have to choose, but you're going to ruin it all, and please stop. Michelle plans to look at a prospective stable, she's getting ready to leave, finishing the last of her chores. Well, I ought to get Jaxon ready, I say, walking zombie again, all the motions of normality, I hope, but the ice at the throat, down to my core, makes me want to throw up, I'm weak, wobble-kneed, try to hide my discomfiture, mind racing, can't gather my thoughts, great start here, so glad you arranged to keep me around, can't wait to go for my first ride, spent the weekend trying to determine what it all meant, and God only knows now, You can come out every day now, whenever you want. Jesus Fucking Christ! Jesus Fucking Christ! At Jaxon's stall I call him over, talk to him like a friend I'm trying to make, Howya doing, buddy, he sees the apple come out of the pocket of my jacket, Michelle's horse, the next stall, comes over at the same time as Jaxon, I cut the fruit into quarters, feeding them one at a time to my horse, saving the last piece for Michelle's, trying to make friends with him, too, maybe he'll put in a good word for me. I focus on the horses, I'm giving Jaxon a treat before the ride so he's glad to see me, rather than after, and encouraging him to finish the ride prematurely, for the snack, yes, think about the horse, pay attention here, and I pull the halter up onto his head, lead him into the arena to saddle him up, Michelle's still around, I ask her about some of the tack, she makes sure I set him up right after I pick his hooves and brush him down, Who is this woman, who is this woman, and she goes her own way again, and I take him into the arena, and he's balky, and I yell the fact to Michelle, should I just kick him, and she says use a riding crop. She drives off, I'm alone with Jaxon, in the arena, where it started between us just a few days ago, gee, things looked great back then, kind of, You can come out here whenever you want, Terry, Whenever you want, Terry, blue eyes looking into mine, smile just for me, that voice, that voice, just for me this time, every day Terry, if you want, and, Oh, by the way, I'm thinking of fucking Peter. Where was I, I'm thinking, yes, all weekend, wondering what it all means now, and I can't fucking believe this woman, and I like challenges, and this is a hell of a challenge, and I knew I had a great story here, somehow, and I never would have predicted this, even if my radar did register Peter the first time I met him, threat, yes, threat, we're talking Michelle here, who knows what she'll do, Michelle least of all, I'm sure, and Michelle once mentioned that Peter helped her in the afternoon feeding, and why did she resist my assistance so much, but I didn't worry about it, had worries enough with her, and it doesn't make me feel any better thinking that he's a nice kid, oh, God, I want to throw up, I have to get the fuck out of this arena, and I ride out toward the vineyards. I dismount, lead Jaxon through the gate at the edge of the property, get back on, try to head down the steep hill to where the vast expanse of vineyards begins, all the way to the bay, spread out before me, in the distance, it's a beautiful view, all green fields to the rows of grape vines, the carpet continuing beneath them, crisp air, early winter air, it's invigorating, it makes the ice at the back of my throat worse, what a great first ride I'm thinking, what a view, who is that woman, and Jaxon doesn't want to go down the hill. We circle around the flat at the top, I smack him on the ass a few times with the riding crop, turn him back toward the downhill track, he goes, reluctantly, walking at a pace that takes us to the bottom in twice the time it would take me to walk, I turn him up a dirt road twisting between the hills, he's walking a bit faster now, I talk to him as a friend, a young, stupid friend, who can't understand a thing I say, but I hope the tone conveys good fellowship to this unfamiliar beast, I walk him for a quarter mile or so, make clucking sounds, squeeze his flanks, take him into a trot. He bounces badly, the ride's unpleasant, I trot him another quarter-mile, kiss him into a canter, a nice, slow, comfortable run, I breathe deeply, feel better, I've been waiting six, seven months for this, it's wonderful, and what the fuck is going on with Michelle, she defies all rational expectations, but she's damaged goods, knew she'd be work, all the signs were there, but Jesus Fucking Christ, I don't care, Jesus Fucking Christ. Jaxon's running faster, imperceptibly at first, not anymore, he's breaking into a gallop, and he's wearing a hackamore bridle, easier on his mouth, no bit between the teeth, less control, I pull up on him, no response, I stand in the stirrups, pulling with both arms, hard, and a young jackrabbit darts across the road from behind a vine, Jaxon veers to the left, almost runs into a row of vines, spins in place and comes to a halt so he can take a look at this rabbit which is long gone. And try to decide what that was. Throughout all these gyrations I balance atop the horse's back, rocking, pivoting, standing in the stirrups, all slow motion, every shift in equilibrium noted if not actually controlled, and the adrenaline's pumping, pumping, pumping hard, I'm in the middle of a rush that evokes all the best shots of cocaine, breathing hard, sitting comfortably in the saddle, I straighten up, pull up on the reins to let Jaxon know I'm there, I pat him on the rump behind the blanket with my left hand, that's okay, boy, just a rabbit, then see the view, distant bay, further shores, disappearing in the cold haze, I'm immortal, I'm omnipotent, and I just rode the furies, and they couldn't throw me off, breathing deeply, heart pounding, pounding in my head, This is fucking great, the whole fucking thing, it's great, and I start to laugh, my eyes tear up, this is just fucking great! I ride this force of nature, no, he cannot throw me, but he'll try to kill me without even trying, just being the beast he is, I just saw it, no malignance there, just exuberance and fear, perfectly natural, can't blame him, and if I'm not careful he's going to hurt me, but I can ride this horse, and I can ride Michelle. I sit and shake my head, God, I couldn't have made all this up if I tried, no matter what happens, Jesus, I have had some moments out here because of this woman, and I've never felt so much so intensely ever, and I still can't quite figure out why, there is, there is, something about her that appeals to me on a fundamental level, core of my being level, can't put my finger on it, but she is a singular woman, and I've always collected those, I have, but it's more than that, much more, it has to do with how she feels about me, no, I don't imagine it, she goes too far out of her way to set me up for those snubbings not to care, Jesus, this is something. Jaxon's ready to go again, turn him back up the road, toward the bay, walk him, stop him, drill him to take my commands, I jerk his mouth when he hesitates, keep it all controlled, whack him with the riding crop now and then as he balks, he finally decides to cooperate, he's gotten the message, knows I can be as tough as he wants, I take him into slow canters, stops and starts, yes, I'm the boss, Jaxon, but this can be fun for you, just be nice, we'll run as fast as you want. We come to the reservoir, rimmed by cattails and reeds, a flock of geese emerges from the greenery, taking wing, Jaxon starts again, another spin, he can't help himself, fight or flight, it's okay, boy, just some geese, no problem, pat his rump, let him regain his composure, ride on. We walk and canter for more than an hour, don't want him to over do it, keep him slow, easy, it's a great ride, he's a good, spirited horse, a twelve-year-old gelding at the peak of health, just needs exercise, training, and the vineyards are infinite, the horizon is infinite, disappearing into the mist, God, life is funny. I cannot find my way back through the vineyards, it takes another half-hour to navigate the hills to the stables, I wash Jaxon down, by which time I've been trying to process the implications of this latest information for a couple of hours, but randomly, all disorganized thought, our whole history running through my mind's eye, a montage of clips, vignettes of the last half year, that first night, her initial hostility, her watching me at a distance, we're in the wash rack, Jaxon and I, where Michelle handled a horse's cock throughout our first real conversation, she's visibly embarrassed, I'm laughing inside, the joke was really on me, now, wasn't it, there are the white plastic chairs, I observed Michelle's and Lucy's asses recede from me a dozen or more times from that chair, there's the picnic table, we sat across from each other, day by day, month by month, where we got to know each other, I thought, I do not know her at all, how many times have I thought that, but I want to, I'm fascinated, I'm repelled, the sides to this woman, I've gotten to know here, where I am now, this private world, not protected at all, this private new hell of mine. And I can't fault her for anything, yes, she's talking to me about fucking Peter, at least he's a nice guy, he won't beat her, he won't break her heart, well, who knows about the latter, but he won't beat her, and I was worried about the ex, the beatings, he humiliated her, and I learn all these details, I'm sick for her, it hurts to imagine, to visualize that man beating Michelle, I see him hitting her, I see her sobbing, or fighting back, and I hear the screaming and the daughter crying, and I can't fault her for anything, this woman has the right to do whatever she needs to find comfort, even fuck Peter instead of me, and how about that celibacy thing? Jesus Fucking Christ! And I look around at the vineyards, the hills, the surrounding buildings, and it's all so pleasant, it was so nice here, still is, but it's going to be over soon, I have nothing to lose, still a great story, getting better, how can I manipulate this plot, cold blooded detachment again, I can deal with this, be cool, just figure out how to play it right, God, she's a piece of work, God, this woman has taken a beating in life, and I don't want to add to it, but I'm going to work her for all I'm worth, as much for her as for me, and who am I fooling? I sit in one of the white plastic chairs waiting for Jaxon to dry in the cool, almost-winter sunlight, gaze, again, over the stables and paddocks and vine-striped hills, oak-studded, God, it's good to be alive, I'm thinking, thinking how trite the sentiment as I think it, it's still true, and I can't believe this story I've fallen into, is this real, yes, I'm here, I see it all, these things all happened, could not have made this up, certainly wouldn't have wanted to, but what an adventure, and now I have this killer horse, hell of a ride, and he may kill me yet, and adrenaline is a great drug and what a cocktail I have here between Jaxon and Michelle. And I pace and smoke and drink that night, and I know just what I'm going to say when the time is right, got to get it just right, have to provoke her just right, how, exactly do I do this? Michelle has good news I discover the following morning, she has a deal on a great property in Napa, a showplace of a ranch, the numbers add up, all of a sudden things are looking better here, no matter what, we're getting closer, geographically, I can extend this, might still be able to make something happen, regardless of Peter, he's leaving soon, she's still just thinking about it, she delivers the news with an allusion to our newly imminent proximity, another hint, I wonder in the hearing, geez, Michelle and the hints I hear she does not mean to send, who fucking knows, but isn't this an interesting new twist? Today we go riding together, for the first time, through these hills I've wanted to ride through with Michelle, I'll drop my lines on her on the ride, it'll be perfect. Michelle and I, alone, heaving beasts beneath us, how romantic, how intimate, can't wait. I raise the issue, remind her of plans to go riding, mention I rode the vineyards yesterday, she's mucking the stalls as we talk, and she hesitates on hearing of my adventure. You rode in the vineyards yesterday? she asks, Yeah, I say. nd Jaxon pulled some fast ones you wouldn't believe. I tell her about the ride, the incidents of spooking, but I think I've hurt her feelings somehow, she seems mildly disappointed, trying to hide it, I did it again, I'm thinking as I talk, I fucked up, she wanted to be my guide, can't do that now, something she wanted to do for me, guide me through the vineyards, am I reading this right, can she be that vulnerable, yes, yes, she can, and I'm deflating as I speak. Are you ready to go riding? I ask, finally. She remembers errands that need to be run, has to work out details for the leasing of the new place, and no, we are not going riding together today, I should have known, I'm dealing with micro-moments here, micro-incidents, all I am, all Michelle has seen of me does not matter, she cannot see me as an attractive, decent man she might take a chance with, no, getting close to her depends on identifying just the right second, the tiny opening, never identified till gone, and will I ever get this right? Maybe some other time, huh? I suggest. Michelle dismisses the idea, You already know your way around, she says, walking away, pushing a wheelbarrow, leaving me standing there, looking, again, at her receding back, she looks for excuses, I'm thinking, excuses to turn her back on me and walk away, finding them, everywhere, so she can turn her back on me and walk away, and I am not imagining this, everything about her behavior toward me is unnatural, I act like a friend, I really do, don't pressure her, not much anyway, she spurns me as a lover, I threaten her, she's afraid of falling in love with me, she's afraid of me, and Peter's no threat at all, except to me. I don't fucking believe it, I don't fucking believe it, watching her walk away, again, I see her back disappearing into the darkness at the edge of the park, I see her back fading into the dimness of the bar, I see her back, now, retreating into the shadows of her heart, lonely recesses of her heart, that wounded heart, that scarred spirit, she can't help herself, Jesus Fucking Christ, I could just cry. Jaxon, at least, is happy to see me, ambles to the stall gate as I approach, Michelle's horse does the same, I slice the apple into quarters, again, feeding them to Jaxon, the last to his neighbor, Michelle's horse, put in a good word for me, huh, I need some help here, I lead Jaxon out, saddle him up, ride into the vineyards. Long, slow walk down the hill, takes ten minutes to go two hundred yards, Jaxon's tiny, ginger steps, I whack his ass with the riding crop when he tries to turn around, he keeps going, reluctantly, speeding up, a little, on the flat approach to where the roads start to diverge, I head us toward the straightaway, several hundred yards of clear dirt and gravel road, easier to see the surprises before they can jump out, I squeeze him into a trot, he doesn't like it either, I bounce on his back, he starts to canter on his own, I stop him. I trot him again, briefly, then kiss him into the canter he prefers, but now it's my idea, and we lope along together, in sync, I'm breathing deeply, this does make me feel good, physically, mentally good, cleansing, the elimination of all other concerns, must pay attention, must hone my instincts, must learn to read this horse, and, again, imperceptibly, he picks up the pace, he's trying to take over, I pull him up short, whoa, boy, he fights it, I jerk hard on the reins, into a stop. We start again, walking again, then cantering, I make him obey, stops and starts, turn around on the straightaway, repeat the process in the other direction, and he's just getting warmed up, Arabs are famous for their endurance, he wants to go, fast and far, I turn onto a road between the hills, toward the bay, cut him loose. We gallop along, moderately fast, I slow him down, speed him up, he cooperates, canter, gallop, canter, gallop, God, this is great, I'm thinking, galloping along, hooves thundering, to my ears, anyway, I'm in the cavalry, head of a troop, thundering hooves, all of a sudden Jaxon's going down, head first, I'm going over, I pull back on the reins, no, Jaxon didn't stumble, he's got his head down, almost between his legs, he's taking over, I lean back in the saddle, standing, almost in the stirrups, pulling, hard, on the reins, adrenaline pumping, heart pounding, hooves pounding, rushing in head, heart pounding, hooves pounding, Jaxon, galloping as fast as he can, the fucker did not catch me by surprise, not really, I stayed on, all slow motion, you cannot get rid of me that easily, we race through the vineyards, cold air on my face, in my lungs, I'm standing now, in the stirrups, pulling back with both hands, arms straining, all slow motion, he can't fight it anymore, he skids to a stop, sideways twist, Jaxon's heaving and snorting in place, adrenaline pumping, heart beating, real time, again, I find myself, again, sitting astride the horse. I'm scared and exhilerated in equal measure, I smack Jaxon, hard, several times, on the side of the neck with open hand, jerk the reins, hard, harshly command him not to repeat the performance. I walk him, take him to a slow canter, back to a walk, stop, start, speed up, slow down, stop, start again, drilling Jaxon for ten minutes or so, then taking him to more extended bursts of speed, summary stops thrown in, yanking the reins vigorously on hesitation, patting him on the shoulder when cooperating, thinking of nothing but riding, complete focus, got to be careful, this horse can hurt me, I'll make sure he doesn't. On walking us back to the stables I relax, mind wandering, geez, this is dangerous, great adrenaline rush, I wish Michelle had come riding with me, seen that, seen me stay on, I'm not bad, should've been thrown three or four times between yesterday and today, stayed on though, and I wish Michelle could have seen me ride. That'll never happen. She's gone by the time we return, I wash Jaxon down, tie him to the post just beyond the picnic table to dry, sit and smoke in the white plastic chair, mind still wandering, I don't fucking believe this, can't figure Michelle out at all, now I have a horse trying to kill me without even trying, God, this has turned out to be a dangerous place, physically and emotionally, geez, the challenges mount, can I take this, yes, I love challenges, but little did I know that the scared looking woman I saw that night under the stars would shake me like this, torment me like this, doesn't matter it's not her fault, but is it? And the same thoughts pervade my consciousness the rest of the day, into the evening, I'm pacing and smoking and drinking in the barn on the mountain, and thinking about the ride we didn't go on today, Michelle and I, yes, she was hurt or annoyed that I'd gone for my first ride in the vineyards without her, I had blown it with this woman, tough, independent woman, had blown it with this woman of delicate sensibilities, and I'm thinking of all the times I thought I detected something like what I'd seen today, I'm thinking about the lemonade I didn't drink, the deviled eggs I didn't eat, can she be that sensitive, oh, yes, yes, she is that sensitive, that vulnerable, and she'll punish me with it without even trying, punish herself, deprived herself of that ranch she could have owned by now, maybe, but she would have found another way to screw up the deal, of that I'm sure now, better she killed it when she did, before she knew what she was passing up, and she found a great place all on her own, anyway, won't have a mortgage, won't own anything, ever, but that's Michelle's view of the world, what she deserves, thinks she deserves, nothing I can do about it, but the dumbass could have been set for life and she'll never know it. And I'm thinking I should just bail on her, can't do that, this woman needs me, don't know how or why, but she does, I knew what I was getting into, so I thought, never expected her to try to discuss fucking Peter with me, Jesus Fucking Christ, but it's too late now, and I'm still determined to behave as well toward her as she'll let me, but God, it's hard, and I'd better make that move I contemplated for the ride that never happened. And the next morning I'm smoking and pacing in front of the coffee house, smoking and pacing, internal tension mounting, hormones flowing in torrents, going to provoke Michelle a little today, going to ride that horse, might get hurt both ways, no, I'm going to pull this off, the horse isn't going to throw me and neither is Michelle. My heart pounds as I drive to the stables, ice collects in my throat as I round the hill, drive in and park, slow down, I tell myself, stay cool, and Michelle is not there. I saddle up Jaxon, take him for my third ride, know what to expect now, he'll try to kill or hurt me every time, not even trying, God, don't want to end up a pitiful lump like Cristopher Reeves, Superman, Superman, indeed, he got thrown, no, will not happen to me, I will ride this horse, I'm ready, ready now for anything he does. I like to think. We warm up, lots of stops and starts, abrupt stops from a canter, I direct Jaxon to the irrigation pond on the far side of the hills, land giving way to bay three or four miles away, vineyards all around, crisp, clear day, bite of cold, a perfect day of sorts, if only Michelle was not driving me insane, I asked for it, she was minding her own business when I came along, doesn't matter, she's still a piece of work, doesn't matter, Jesus Fucking Christ, everything would be just perfect if only, if only, and I don't even know what anymore, becoming lovers with this woman could be devastating for both of us, I don't care, doesn't matter, she'll never give us the chance anyway. Dismounting at the pond, I hang onto a rein as Jaxon nibbles the new grass, I'm still nursing the frustration, Jesus Fucking Christ! I yell out loud, spooking Jaxon, he skitters sideways a few feet so he can look at me warily, it's about time I gave him something to be afraid of, he's reassured when I talk to him gently, pat his flanks, Jesus Fucking Christ. I pull out my cannabis and pipe, inhale three or four lungsful of smoke, put it away, killer weed for the killer horse, this isn't that old-fashion Mexican weed, smoke a joint or two and fall asleep, getting stupid along the way, it's the best Northern California has to offer, almost LSD-like in its effects, setting my brain alight, intense, racing thoughts, random thoughts, acute sensitivities to everything, I smoke a cigarette, add the nicotine buzz, mind exploding with hyperawareness. Toward the bay we ride, following the roads looping in and around the vineyards, cantering easily until we hit a straight, I squeeze him into a gallop, slow him down on the curve, he cooperates, we open up on the next straight, slow again to round a hill, we're in rhythm, I think nothing now, just ride, all awareness, one with Jaxon, the rabbit runs out from the culvert, Jaxon veers away, I'm ready, jerk him back to the road, he recovers his stride, we don't stop, beginning to understand each other, gallop on. We canter and run for the best part of an hour, I feel excellent, like Jaxon more than ever, take him down to a walk for the return. It's a long fifteen minutes, I'm going to say something to Michelle, have to get this right, I'm ready to make a move, what if she's not back, I have to say something, do something, to stop her from fucking Peter. She's cleaning stalls when I return, later than usual, because she took some of her boarders and students to see the new stables, couldn't wait for me, knew I'd be there soon, whenever she left, but she cannot regard me like anyone else, she'll share confidences with me, snub me, I believe, as with no one else, aren't I fucking lucky? After tending to Jaxon, hitching him to the post to dry, I sit on the stump by the manure pile as she unloads her little tractor, dumping buckets of horseshit. I sit smoking, she tells of the little outing, more superlatives about the new facility, I'm happy for her, I really am, fucking dumbass, could have owned that ranch by now, I'm thinking, as she talks, thinking, you don't know that for sure, to myself, you're just pissed off because you couldn't save her, show off for her, great seduction ploy, set her up for a million dollars in a few years, yes, she could have owned that ranch, doesn't matter, did it her way, and I admire her for it despite my resentment. When Michelle finishes, she sits on the tractor, lights her own cigarette, continuing small talk, a lull. I make my move, delivering the lines I've been thinking about for days now, hours now, don't lose your nerve, say it. Hey, Michelle, I ask. Are you afraid of falling in love with me? She takes a long drag on her cigarette, looks at me, and away, exhaling the smoke into the cold air, the warm blue stream rising in the stillness. What makes you ask that? she responds, in a careful, neutral voice, turning her gaze on me. You seem to reach out to me, and when I reach back, you run away. How did I do that? she asks. Oh, I don't know, I say. Like when you asked me to house sit, and then changed your mind when I said yes. And little things, kind of like that; this feeling I have. And I'm thinking as I talk, geez, you figured out the question, but your follow up is sure weak, you should have better follow up, too late now, don't talk her into telling you to get lost, Jesus Fucking Christ, Jesus Fucking Christ, where do we go from here? I'm looking at her, hyperaware, trying to control the adrenaline, maybe it wasn't such a good idea getting high, getting pumped up on that ride, my heart's pounding, pounding, rushing in my head, stay cool, be casual here, don't get too heavy, I'm looking at her, framed by the pile of horseshit, as she leans over, elbows on knees, looking at me, and away, and back again. You know, she says, just because I share things with you doesn't mean I feel that way about you. And I'm really busy, I don't have the free time you have. And I hear the conscious denial I always feared should I try to discuss us, set myself up for a rejection, don't need any help from her for the setup, I hear all the things women like that say to men they send mixed messages, I hear all the words I know Michelle has said to more men than I can count, men she met at the bar, whatever bar, the men whose attentions she so desperately needs, just so she can say no, and I've joined their ranks, but not quite. She's casting me in the role of the desperate, needy guy, helplessly in love, but I'm not going for it, she can make the time for the guy she needs to talk to, goes out of her way to talk to, her own little subterfuges, ploys, conscious or not, reflexively stringing men along until she cuts the string, but she's not cutting mine yet, I think of the absurdity of not enough time for me, enough time for me, one night, once in awhile, if she can forgo a drunken evening in the bar with her sister, forgo the attentions of strange men she so desperately needs. The guy she met the other night, the mechanic, whom she got out the next day to fix her tractor, surely didn't want him to get the wrong idea either, you're a man, you're interested in me, I can use you. But she did call me those late nights, Terry, it's me, Michelle, what are you doing, reaching out but denying it, and no one knows women's games quite like I do, and I'm not beaten yet. Michelle, I say, you should give us a chance. Don't shut the door on us just because you can. Don't shut the door on us, I say, this Us I'm going to use and promote. Don't shut the door on us. Don't lock yourself out, Michelle, I think, trying hard not to drive her to do exactly that. The two days following replicate the preceding three, without the romantic drama intruding, no talk of Peter, no talk of us, Michelle and I doing what we always do, our routines, sitting, smoking, talking. Lunches at the deli. Jaxon spooks a couple of times on each ride, or just tries to take off, as he will always do, I'm always ready, always stoned, always still mounted, always exultant after the displays. I'm emotionally drained by the time the weekend comes, however, the exaggeratedly fevered state now experienced on every drive to the stables, this critical period with Michelle, what looks like one, anyway, the anticipation of riding Jaxon, with his antics, the rush succeeding the rides in the vineyards, all speed and imminent disaster, avoided. I am limp and numb, going through the motions, thoughts all wandering. Jo had decided to lease a house while searching for the right ranch property, and my stomach churns as I drive over in the red pickup truck with a load of furniture that Saturday morning; her machinations had lost all subtlety, she was needy, demanding, desperate, ultimately insufferable. We have plans for dinner that evening, in the interim, errands to run, just want to drop off the chairs, table and leave. She does her best to chide me into staying, gratuitous flirtation, arch comments on my demurral, Have it your way, she says, pass up a glass of wine if you insist, and I do, her every effort to claim my time, her insistence, evoking an even stronger reaction to escape. A few tasks completed in the aftermath of the encounter, I stop by the coffeehouse for tea and a snack, run into the friend I share with Jo, the only person who knows we have any kind of a relationship, whatever kind it may be, she's not clear about it either, and we've gotten to know each other better because of Jo, that once charmingly theatrical friend who demonstrates all the characteristics of an alcoholic anorexic, but we're not quite discussing it openly yet. Fancy meeting you here, she says. Jo just called to tell me how rudely you treated her when you stopped by and then ran off. Refusing all offers of hospitality. She sounded pretty miffed. She's something, I say. I've never seen anyone so adept at turning the most insignificant incident into some meaningful gesture. She warned me that she was a drama queen, and I've known some drama queens, but she is in a class by herself. The woman laughs, says, Yeah, she keeps telling me about the chaos going on back home, her friends and family and church, all calling her to convince her to come back to her husband. She really thrives on drama and her little games. I nod, she continues, innocently, just talking about our mutual nutcase of a friend. Yesterday she told me about that call she made to you from back east, about how you transformed her, and all these men started coming on to her. Did she make you jealous like she planned. Huh? Huh? She's grinning, friendly jab, my jaw's tight, my sight goes black for a second, heat in head, rush of adrenaline rising in my gorge, murderous rage infusing my being, all at once, I smile a small smile, try to hide the realization of what she just said, try to suppress a nauseating anger, control myself. Yeah, right, I say, she made me very jealous, and I disengage as quickly as possible to be alone, to control myself, subdue the passion, the resentment, the feeling of betrayal, I drive away thinking of that phone call, a conscious act of manipulation, to make me jealous, that phone call I didn't cut off when Michelle tapped me on the back in the park, corn dog extended, that phone call I listened to because I felt I owed it to Jo to listen to something important for her to say to me, that made up phone call that ended with Michelle disappearing into the dark at the edge of the park. For the rest of the day I boil with anger, suppressed, I am not going to give vent to it, I will not be cruel to Jo, knew what I was getting into, told me she was a drama queen, I consorted with her anyway, but I cannot believe the damage this woman has caused, the disorder, for her husband, family, friends, church, all interchangeable characters in her self-composed drama, all cardboard people, none real to her, just part of the stage set, she's the star, other people be damned, her whims must be pursued, she must be fulfilled. And I hear that phone call in my head, her false sincere voice, I see Michelle disappearing into the darkness, was that my chance, I'll never know, God Damn Jo, I can't fucking believe it, and Michelle keeps turning her back on me and walking off into the darkness, and it's all Jo's fault, everything that's gone wrong with Michelle is all Jo's fault, and I know it's not true, but it might be, this thing with Michelle, all micro-moments, vague hints of opportunity, sensitivities beyond my comprehension, and you should not have gone out of your way to fuck with me Jo. I dress slowly in preparation for dinner, resolve to restrain myself, I will not be cruel to Jo, she can't help herself, either, I think of her complaints about her husband's neglect, Dan's incessant travel, loved his job more than her, big-time CEO, no time for his wife, and I'm thinking I'd have traveled too if I was your husband, I'd do anything to get away from you, I've had it in six weeks, that man suffered you for twenty years, he's a fucking saint, no wonder he traveled as much as he did. I will be a gentleman, I say to myself, driving to her house, I will not be mean to her, I don't know what else, I can't think rationally, I can restrain the anger, but nothing more, can't think about disengaging, how to end our friendship, relationship, whatever it is, can't plan to do anything, only want to get through this evening without an outburst. She starts as soon as I arrive, You weren't very nice today, running off like that, she says. Jo, I had things to do, I say. I only stopped by to drop off the furniture. I did not have time to visit, and I told you so. I also told you I don't expect to have to explain my behavior to you on a minute by minute basis, especially when it's so unremarkable. Excuse me, she says, with the drawn out emphasis. You don't have to get all huffy about it. Well, Jo, I say, you make it pretty difficult to be friends sometimes. We dine at yet another pricey eatery upvalley, our conversation forced, I do my best to be less icily formal, trying hard not to vent at her, she goes on about her husband trying to manipulate her into coming home, Thanksgiving's a week or two away, he wants her to preside, as usual, at the big family dinner, that's all he can think about, a good front for his family, she says, contemptuously, I'm thinking you do not deserve that man, no wonder he treats you like an airheaded child, you behave like a drunken teenager, I do not say what I'm thinking, how dare you try to turn me into the other man to torment that husband you do not deserve you spoiled rotten little rich girl. My reticence drives her to greater lengths to connect with me, she knows she's crossed a line, isn't sure how, she knows it, though, could I be acting this way just because she ragged me about not staying for a glass of wine, that afternoon, and I almost pity her in observing the struggle, her attempts to make things normal again, to undo what she did, whatever it was, but I can't help her, can't make it easy for her, yes, you crossed a line, I told you I don't suffer drama queens, yes, you crossed the line, and you'll never know exactly how, and she's trying so hard she's pathetic. She goes on talking, I hear that voice of hers, on the phone, in the park, that evening, I see Michelle walking off into the darkness, all the while looking at Jo, nodding, smiling, trying to be pleasant, it's work, she can tell, she's desperate. As usual, she eats almost nothing, drinks alot, wants to drink some more once the bottle of wine's empty, you've spent your life manipulating yourself to a nice relationship with a series of bottles, I'm thinking, married half-a-dozen times, I'm thinking, to men who couldn't please you, I'm thinking, because you were a spoiled pretty girl who got her way too easily, and weren't you lucky, so successful in manipulating men you managed to avoid ever really loving any of them, and weren't you fucking clever. We make the drive home in semi-silence, I drop her off, perfunctory kiss at the door, head up to the house on the hill, unsettled sleep when it finally comes, images of Michelle walking off into the darkness, Jo's face babbling away about her poor-little rich girl victimization, Michelle walking off into the darkness, I don't fucking believe it. I don't fucking believe it. I'm driving to the coffeehouse Sunday morning, check my cell phone, I leave it in the car at night, Jo knows it, waited just long enough for me to get home, get settled, and I see she left me a message around midnight. And another that morning, early. I know what they both say before I hear them, the first a drunken plaint that she can't tolerate my cold treatment of her, can't stand how I don't appreciate her either, won't I please be so kind as never to try to contact her again. The second, oh, never mind, you know how I get, what are you doing today, give me a call. I'd warned her, told her twice, now, not to make those phone calls anymore, was fed up even before learning about that phone call to me in the park, Michelle's turning her back on me again, in my mind, walking off into the darkness, Michelle walking off into the darkness, you're going to get one of your wishes, now, Jo, watch what you wish for, you're getting your wish. She has the good sense not to appear at the coffeehouse that morning, knew better than to face me, and between sips of tea and conversation with the regulars, I pace and smoke out front, need to calm myself, pace and smoke, and I make the call, I don't care if she answers or not, she's getting what she wished for, I'll tell her face to face, voice to voice, I'll leave a message, but you're going to get what you wished for, Jo. Jo doesn't answer, I get the message prompt, tell her that she got it right with the first message to me, I will not be contacting you anymore, I told you to stop making those phone calls, I am not a yo-yo for you to play with, good luck and good-bye. And I never talk to her again, or answer her calls, return her messages. I spend the balance of the day, and into the night, trying to assess the situation as it now stands, falling time after time into a muddle, thoughts drifting, scenes with Michelle, from the last year, replaying in my mind's eye, again, reprocessing the data, reinterpreting, everything, again, given the new circumstances, how we got here, the events of the last week, a week ago this night, pacing and smoking and drinking, the cowboy ex-husband, knew none of the details then, that wasn't till the next day, the the perfect cowboy, saw the man of her dreams, the oh, so limited man of her dreams, my rival, in her mind, not really a rival at all, she's still looking for a tattooed cowboy in a battered pickup truck, she doesn't like country western songs, she just wants the life, I hear the lyrics every time I drive through the back country, the foothills of the deep forests up north, only stations on the radio, or central Nevada, songs of weepy love and heart break, the cheating, the drinking, even the happy endings are bittersweet, and she's living it, and I'm fighting it, losing, You can come out whenever you want, Terry, whenever you want, Terry, every day if you want, Terry. A month has passed since the night call, What are you doing, Terry, just had to tell you how great you've been, not three weeks since the temper display, for my benefit, I think for my benefit, the phone call to apologize, explain, really just to talk, to me, the almost date, she was thinking about it, setting me up to lease Jaxon, You can come out every day, now, Terry. She turns her back on me, walks off into the darkness at the edge of the park, I rememeber a sense of loss at the time I feel only in retrospect, a false memory, Jo chattering on the phone, all false sincerity, can't believe that was a ploy, thought we were friends, can't believe she'd do that, contrive something like that, I suppress the eruption of hostility from within, she can't help herself either, flush her from my mind, will not waste emotion on Jo, cannot hold her responsible for everything that went wrong with Michelle, but what might have been? What might have been if we'd spent the evening in the park, talking, for the first time, away from the stables, or the deli, her house, the micro-moment seized, the almost date she arranged, consummated, her way, an evening spent together, but I missed the chance. Because of Jo, forget about Jo, God damn it, but without Jo there would have been no ranch deal, but there was no ranch deal after all, and I made Michelle aware of Jo, had to, and what did Michelle think of that, if anything? A week ago, this Sunday night, a week ago, I saw hope, saw the possibility of her giving us a chance, had reviewed our history, as I'm doing now, saw that hope, knowing, as I'd come to know over the months, knowing that every hint of progress harbored a new disaster, knew there were no guarantees, knew what I was dealing with, now, by now, how could I not. You can come out whenever you want, Terry, every day, Terry, shining smile, wide-open eyes, big, blue eyes, looking into mine, that voice, what did it mean, knew it meant, perhaps, nothing, realized fully the prospects of disappointment, accepted them, she managed to shatter every expectation, shatter any illusion that I could predict anything with her, not only was she thinking of fucking Peter, she had to tell me about it! Jesus Fucking Christ. Because she's afraid of falling in love with me? Only a week ago I'd accepted, theoretically speaking, I'd accepted the possibility that she could do anything, recommitted myself to taking it, whatever it was, to do anything to remain her friend, no matter how difficult she made it, didn't know what she was doing, did she, no matter what, I would not abandon her, she would need a friend like me, I would be there, no matter, no matter how many times she turned her back on me, she would need a friend like me. And I'm thinking about the beatings delivered by the ex, the neglect, liberally dispensed, by the boyfriend, the disappointments dispensed by life, the toughness, the desire to be tough, anyway, the need to protect herself, from falling in love, the painful sensitivities I'd missed, I can't fault her for a thing, she can't help herself, I know, she is doing the best she can. I know this, and I can't fault her, can't blame her, I don't even want to attach those terms to Michelle, fault, or blame, I've created this situation, my part of it anyway, she's having a hard time of it all on her own, and I am messing with her head, and I can't blame her at all. I'm thinking about all of that, what I've learned the last week, how it happened, what a fucking week, intense week, Jaxon, a dream of a horse, for me, every day I can cheat death, can't even enjoy it a week, not a day, without learning Michelle's thinking of fucking Peter, my first day with my new horse, can't have a week with Michelle without her interjecting a new insecurity to interfere with my plan, yes, I was trying to seduce Michelle, this has worked out great, I'll get all the pain of a relationship without the sex, without any of the intimacy I need, desire, she's got all the control, all the power, we're close only when she wants it, on her terms, we can talk about getting together at her whim, my response in kind makes her uncomfortable, I don't want to lead you on, Terry, don't want you to misunderstand, what is it exactly, then, that you are trying to say? Are you going back with the ex? I asked, wise guy question, No, but I'm thinking of fucking Peter, not you, might leave Dan, you're right about that, but I'm thinking about fucking Peter, don't think about you like that, maybe we'll run into each other, I'm afraid of falling in love, and is that why she won't think about me like that despite all the evidence? What evidence, and it runs through my mind again, there is something going on there, she showed an interest in me, she did, just weeks ago, and gone already. And why, exactly, did you have to tell me about Peter? And I'm thinking about her apparent loyalty to the boyfriend, the need to be lusted after by strangers, the fine, honest, hardworking woman I thought I knew, she's still there, somewhere, and all the later additions to that particular image, her performances with the realtor, and Billy, all business, well-done, she could have done anything, and her attempts to be honest with people, and she was just trying to be honest with me, By the way, I'm thinking of fucking Peter. Perhaps, perhaps, because she's afraid of falling in love with me. I've gone out of my way to provoke her, to work on her, questioning her relationship with Dan, all her future plans, undermining their relationship, it needs to be undermined, but that's me talking, hardly a disinterested party, said as much when I made the move, set her up to tell me about her heartbreak with the brute cowboy, I might fuck Peter, she tells me, in so many words, provoke her again by asking if she's afraid of falling in love with me, and what did I expect her to say, knowing her as I do, and of course she's going to tell me she doesn't feel that way about me, Michelle is like that, contrary, resistant, and I know she's vulnerable, I'm taking advantage of that, even if I am serious about a relationship with her, I am taking advantage of the weakness I see, and I deserve whatever happens, but will she? Whatever happens, whatever she does, I must do right by her, I must behave well, I do not want to disappoint her, add to her disillusion, even as I try to save her from a course that will lead to more, and what right do I have to make these decisions, I don't, but she needs help, will need help, and I will be her friend, will be her friend, despite all the indications that she is incapable of having any kind of healthy relationship with a man, any man, any relationship that isn't overwhelmed by her need to control or be controlled. I see that sweet woman sweeping a toddler into her arms, a boarder's child, cooing at him, provoking giggles, I see her talking to her daughter on the phone, all love and concern and understanding, I see Michelle hugging Lucy, whispering reassurance into her ear. I see her punch an unruly horse in the shoulder, I see her manage with confidence these thousand-pound beasts after having them break her wrists and shatter her leg, I see all this sweetness and strength, saw sweetness and strength and talent in her, and that's why I fell for her, all before I met that creature in the bar, Venus revealed, Venus revealed, Venus revealed as a seventeen-year-old prom queen, a stupid little girl who treats men like so many interchangeable admirers, I may be the best man for her she's ever met, may be the best man she's ever met period, I'm certainly the most remarkable, and I may as well be another fly at the bar, a hairy mechanic, a sleek real estate salesman, just another man to disregard, discard, forget. And it's not the rejection that bothers me, disturbs me, not at this point, I've been rejected before, what bothers me, what reinforces my every desire to connect with her, is the feeling I have that she's rejecting me just because she is afraid of falling in love with me, I know I'm not the problem here, now, I've had many successful relationships, a long marriage, no, Michelle fears falling in love, fears disappointment, she's afraid of taking a risk that may pay off great because the disappointment will be the greater. No, it's not the rejection of me, but the rejection of the possibility of falling in love, that's what's breaking my heart now, and everything has evolved and grown between us as well as it could under the circumstances, and our relationship did grow, continued to grow, despite her regular attempts to cut it back, cut it back, and the more it grows the more she cuts and I'm afraid she'll kill it. And I'm thinking of the ranch deal again, all she had to do was not kill it, she saw all the prospects of success, didn't recognize them, couldn't recognize them, but maybe she did, and she killed it as fast as she could. Yes, I'm thinking, that's what's breaking my heart, it's not the rejection of me, it's her rejection of anything really good happening to her, the settling for narrowly defined goals, don't ask for too much, you won't be deprived of too much, her plans fall apart all around her, the stables and the vet clinic are gone, the boyfriend's slipping away, I saw it all coming, don't know how, but I did, and fate has smiled on us, thrown two people together who could thrive on each other, lovers or not, fate has smiled on her, she has a devoted friend even if we don't become lovers, and she's trying to kill it. And it's bad enough, the conventional jealousy, thinking of Peter, but she's talking about Peter just for sex, going to use Peter, and I've seen how that works for women who think they're in control, can get a man when they want, but men always get satisfaction, women only if they're lucky, and she'll get hurt, I know, if she does this, and she may not get the sex she wants, and even if she thinks she's in control she'll get burned, this is Michelle, I've seen her control, her instincts all wrong, and this, too, will turn out badly for her, I know, if it happens, and I must try to see that it doesn't, but I can only do what I can do, and Michelle will sabotage me, herself, everything, if she has her way, seen it happen now, and it doesn't matter, I must try. At least to be her friend. And, of course, I'm back where I started, when I first started pacing and smoking, and thinking about what the hell was going on with Michelle, and I'll do anything I can for her no matter what, and I have to keep trying, regardless of the rejection, she can't help herself, and I'm thinking how at every step of the way with her, after that initial, simple image of the good woman trying hard to be good, despite her past, whatever it was, I can't even begin to imagine now, cannot get a clear fix on her, but each small shock of the beginning prepared me for the shocks to follow, inured me to new pains, benumbed me, was ready for anything, even when I wasn't, but I could take it. And I want her to fall in love with me now because she needs it more than I do, she needs to take that chance, risk that disappointment, just because the payoff is so great, if she won't take a chance with me, she'll never have a chance with a man worthy of her, she'll never allow it. And, of course, I'm back where I started, I can take this, I will take this, and I have to see how it ends anyway, great story this, even if I can't ever write about, I could not stand reliving this, but I will, and I love bizarre experiences, love adventures, and this is a love adventure of the darkest, most bizarre sort, for me, anyway, and I thank God for letting me watch, letting me know Michelle, letting me observe this story. How to find a happy ending, though, that will be the difficult part, I need a happy ending here, for her if not for us, and I will scheme and plot and plan as never before, and try to behave well, try to enjoy the story, even if it hurts. I will take this hour by hour, day by day, I will endure and remain calm, I will indulge all the emotions I feel, I will revel in the rush of the ride, the rush of Michelle, and I thank God, thank the fates, that I'm here, now. No matter what. I dismiss Jo from my mind, that's over, no superfluous emotional attachments to confuse my renewed campaign, there is a new game, I know it, I'm ready to start from a new plateau, I have a new understanding of Michelle, know a little bit more, I can work with this, I have the right mental attitude, I can pull this off. It's Monday morning, I have a plan for today, a small one, I will enyoy this situation, I will revel in the pleasure, the pain, I will revel in all the ironies inherent in this situation, my role in this segment of the human comedy, tragedy, the two-faced dramatics, I intend to have fun. I get Jaxon warmed up on the preliminaries, a walk, trot, short, easy canter, stop at the pond, dismount, smoke some cannabis, smoke a few cigarettes, take him running. I'm intent, one with Jaxon, unfazed when he spooks, again, as usual, part of the routine, I can read him now, I think, that's dangerous thinking, he can hurt you, no he won't, I am paying attention, I am one with this horse, he will not throw me. We ride for half-an-hour, slow canter, fast gallop. The workout over, I rein Jaxon toward the champagne cellars a mile away through the vineyards, the mansard roof visible behind the hill, divining our way around fences, dead ends, find our way to the backside of the facility, a small patio behind the general tasting area, lower myself from the saddle, tie him to a post. A tasting room host answers my call, brought my cell phone to make it, I ask him to bring a glass to me out back, I've got a horse, don't want to leave it unattended. You came here on horseback? he asks. Yup. I don't think anyone's ever done that before, he says. In fact, I'm almost positive no one's ever done that before. That's nice, I say. So does that mean I can get a glass of champagne? I'll be right out, he says, and he delivers a flute filled to the brim. Would have been nice to have done this with Michelle, I'm thinking, as I sit on the edge of the concrete planter, sipping the blanc du noir, smoking a cigarette, looking back to the stables over the sea of rippling vine rows. Didn't dare risk raising the issue, didn't want her to say no, didn't want her to tell me I couldn't do it myself, but would have been nice if we could have been first, together, can't happen now. I'd be feeling pretty smug if it weren't for the absence of Michelle, feeling her absence, this is the kind of thing I do on my own, content to be alone, all hollowness now, because it would be so pleasant with her, should be able to do it, shouldn't be a big deal, why can't we go for a ride together in the vineyards, have a glass of champagne together, but she would find a reason to object, I even question telling her about it on the ride back, expect a rebuke, Jesus Fucking Christ, after all this time together, perhaps, because of all this time, together, I worry about getting in trouble with her, how ironic, all the bullshit of a relationship with a woman, the fear of disapproval from the one you care about, who might care about you, none of the benefits, none of the intimacy, except on her terms, Jesus Fucking Christ, it's like the last years of my marriage. And I'm shaking my head at the thought, I snicker at my lot, I asked for it, and Jaxon carries me to the barn, where I remove the tack, clean him off. Michelle's back from yet another outing to the new facility with some of her clients, managed, again, not to take me, after asking last week if I was interested, this is the third trip, near as I can tell, and I'm thinking, again, another little thing she'll do for anyone, anyone but me, all she has to know is that I desire something, and she'll preclude it from possibility, yes, I'm thinking, I really do just want to be a friend, a friend, at least, but she needs to reject me as a lover, at every opportunity, even when those dynamics are not at play, she needs that upper hand, needs it especially with me. She walks into the barn, says, Hi, Terry, how was your ride? It was great, I tell her. Afterwards, I rode over to the winery for a glass of champagne. Really? she says, smiling. I wonder why I never did that. You would think of something like that. Well, I say, that's what I do. I spend much of my life dreaming up little stunts like that. And I'm showing off for her, the gesture was a showoff display, and she knows it, and I know it, and this is all part of the game now, and it is a game we're both playing, got to get it right, and I'm watching her reactions, looks like this wasn't such a bad idea. I wouldn't mind doing that, she says. It sounds like fun. Maybe before you have to leave here we can ride over one day, I say. You can be the first woman to ride over for a glass of champagne on horseback. Yeah, she says. Maybe. She's gone the next day when I arrive as well, taking another group out to the new place, I presume, can't let me know in advance, no way will she take me now, I said, yes, I want to go, when she asked, she must see any desire of mine unfulfilled, she asks what I want just to deny it me, I'm thinking, and on finishing my ride, entering the gate separating the vineyards from the stables, I see one of her friends there, one of the women she accompanied to Mexico, the rare friend of hers I do not detest, that's not fair, I haven't met that many of her friends, but this one, at least, doesn't seem bad. We go our respective ways, I'm grooming Jaxon, her friend follows Michelle around as she completes her chores, perfunctory hellos, I don't want to impose on their girl talk, I pass the two of them on my way to one of the sheds, and the friend says to Michelle, great timing, So tell me about this guy who works at that winery, and she means Peter, I know she means Peter, Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking again, just got to rub my face in this, but Michelle didn't do this, I catch a glance of her face, she looks uncomfortable as they walk off, she tries to stall till they're out of my earshot, don't hear what she says, low voice, geez, I'm thinking, I can't get a break here, I don't care what you do with Peter, at least I wouldn't if I didn't have to hear about him, but Michelle didn't do this, the friend did, but this is not a good sign, she's takking to her friend about fucking Peter now, and I wonder where I come into the conversation, if at all, Jesus Fucking Christ, I cannot take this, I cannot take this, but I must. Shaking my head, slowly, as I walk, head down, don't fucking believe it, I think, no longer, however, blinded by dismay, no rushing in my head, I'm immune to her shocks, calloused to them, by now, anyway, can't let these things bother me, not too much, I've regained my ability to detach from this situation, the anxiety, the frustration, the yearning, I feel, suppressed, stored away, where I can't feel it too much. She surprises me the following morning, this is sad, I'm thinking, surprised because she doesn't go out of her way to exclude me, snub me, again, somehow, this time she organizes a ride in the vineyards with some of her boarders, half a dozen of us, this isn't what I had in mind, but better than nothing, she has actually not gone out of her way to exclude me, small wonder. They're all women, have more riding experience than I, but this is a big adventure for them, apparently, a tame walk in the hills, geez, how boring I think, and Jaxon's skittish, and Michelle warns me to keep him under control, don't let him take off, don't get the horses racing each other, don't want to get anyone thrown, no, I won't, I promise, and we amble along the lanes weaving between the green declivities. Jaxon and I follow behind, apart, Michelle talks to the women, advises them on their form, management of their respective horses, as appropriate, and, as usual, I find pleasure in watching her, displaying her competence, her authority, and the ride is more interesting than I expected. I remain in the vineyards after the group returns to the stables, Jaxon wants a running, I begin to give it to him, casual canter, ride to the pond, smoke some cannabis, smoke some cigarettes, get an idea. To reduce erosion, the roads bear diagonal cuts across their widths, shallow trenches six or eight inches deep, a foot wide, flanked by low berms of equivalent dimensions. Jaxon steps over them carefully in walking, glides over them at the slow canters, easily, in general, and I pick out a stretch of road ubiquitous with the cuts, slight grades up and down, through a low spot in the crease of terrain, and let Jaxon loose, let him know I'm letting him loose, he's in charge, I'm along for the ride, I only need to stay on. He accelerates into a comfortable gallop, racing down the lane, hormones flood my system, my consciousness, no thoughts, all nerve and awareness and instincts, slow motion, and we approach a cut, Jaxon flies over, a great, small jump, great for me, he maintains the speed after landing, all smoothness and speed, all slow motion, and another eight or ten strides and he bounds over another cut, all slow motion, again, and I feel his every stride, the twitch of every muscle, not thinking, and respond to each, not thinking, I watch myself ride, I see myself, as if from above, launching over the trenches, landing, and then another, and so on, until we finish the desired stretch, and I'm myself again, a sentient being, not a part of the horse anymore, and I rein him in, and he's pleased to cooperate, excited by the ride as I am, and he slows, and tries to remain still, to stop, but he can't, not fully, fidgeting in place, and I indulge him, pat his shoulder, thank him for a good run, that was fucking great, Jaxon, I say, loudly, with enthusiasm, and he knows it's a good sound, he prances sideways, the dressage training revealed, and I walk him along for a few minutes, heaving and snorting at first, recovering, breathing more regular, and I turn him back for a repeat run, and we do it again, and I'm jumping a horse, I realize, low jumps to be sure, only fifteen, eighteen inches at most, but I'm jumping, I'm staying on, and Jaxon gets it, knows his role, enjoys it as much as I do, enjoys showing me what he can do, today we actually function as a team, the understanding mute but palpable, the elation mutual. Yes, I say to myself, riding up the hill to the stable gate, Yes! This is what I wanted, this was my excuse to hang around Michelle, but I did want to learn to ride, and she's turned me into a decent horseman, I had some talent and experience, but Michelle made the most of it, Michelle made this possible, it's better than imagined, the adrenaline rush like nothing I've known, perfect balance between fear and exhileration, all bittersweet now, a fantasy achieved, disappointing nonetheless, because Michelle is not there to see me ride, will never see me ride, I know in my heart, because she knows I want her to see me ride, want to ride with her, alone, knowing she will thwart the desire if only because I desire it. Jesus Fucking Christ, I think, I'll settle for friendship, but she can't handle that, an honest friendship with a man, must manipulate him as a man, because she can, can't help herself, literally, figuratively, cannot, help, herself, I think again about the ranch deal, perfect example, killed the best chance of her life to spurn me as a lover, made that an issue when it wasn't, I'm sure, I know that the more I try to get her to go riding with me, the deeper she'll dig in her heels, it should not be this way, what teacher wouldn't want to see the success, the progress, of a student, only natural, there's nothing natural about her, deal with it, take it as it comes. And I'm pacing and smoking in front of the coffeehouse where I begin my day, the morning after, between sips of tea inside, thinking about yesterday's ride, the satisfaction, incomplete, frustrated, my resentment, at the situation, I cannot resent Michelle, won't allow myself even to think about it, not her fault, can't help herslf, will not attach negative thoughts to her, I'm angry at fate, despite my fatalism, angry, resentful, not Michelle, though, no, this is my destiny, for now, how can I trick it? How uncanny, I'm thinking, every initial instinct, from the beginning, generally accurate, knew she was wounded, would be trouble, but no idea, really, how wounded, how much trouble, knew soon after that every bit of progress would evoke a backlash, the closer I get the more difficult to close the remaining distance, the difficulty increasing with every advance, and I'm closer than ever, on the brink of losing it all. Friedship is enough, I'm thinking, my friends have become lovers before, but even friendship is hard for her, must wield control, must deny me for the sake of it, must deny the smallest wish because she can. There's something beautiful about this, I'm thinking, even with the frustrations, we have some kind of special relationship, we are reaching out to each other, even if we do keep missing the other's grasp, we're both trying to behave as well as we can, I know I am, I know she is, I know every bit of misery she causes me, every bit, is anchored in fear, I'm thinking of us, the relationship, as a thing, alive, on its own, separate from us, as individuals, the hurt she causes me deflected, to us, herself, she's not hurting me, it's not about avoiding hurt to me, no, must avoid her hurting the relationship, hurting herself. Hurting us. The friend I share with Jo walks out of the coffeehouse, joins me at the corner, Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, what now, I knew it woudn't be over that easy, she says, with a knowing smirk, I don't know what happened with you two, but Jo's realy pissed at you. Well, I say, I got one of those phone calls I told her not to make anymore. And when she said she didn't want to see me again, I jumped at the chance. I've had it. And I'm thinking, knew Jo would be trouble too, cannot believe how much, despite my foreknowledge, never seen such a damaging creature, such a web-weaver, gratuitous, vandalizing manipulations, has a whole community, a couple of families, back east, in an uproar over leaving her husband for another man, me, told her that wouldn't happen, don't leave your husband for me, no future there, I know, she said, don't think you're so special, she tells me, as she tries to tempt me with ranches, horses, a Mercedes, I don't fucking believe it, I'm thinking, barely listening to the friend, when she says, Yeah, Jo says she doesn't know whether to slash her wrists or shoot you. This gets my attention, Jo could do either, both, she's half drunk, half the time, hides it well enough, drunk just the same, and the friend says, By the way. She's been after me to get a gun for her to keep around the house for protection. She wouldn't actually shoot you, would she? The answer is so obvious I can't believe my ears, nobody knows as this friend knows the full measure of Jo's dementia, we have seen behind the apparent charm, the charisma, the smiles, the generosity, she is, in fact, crazy, functionally crazy, perhaps, but she is crazy. The friend sees the empty bottles, helps Jo find the jewelry, the cash, the car keys, thrown into the garbage, is privy to the lies told to the husband, about everything. And she considers getting a gun for Jo? Considering it after hearing her say, I don't know whether to slash my wrists or shoot him? By all means, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ, yes, get Jo a gun. That's just what she needs. I say, instead, no, that's not a very good idea, amazed that I should have to say it, Jo has no business owning a gun under any circumstances, no one knows it like this woman does, can't fucking believe it. On her departure, I return inside, multiple conversations abound at the marble-topped table, the Old Man, a horseman, sitting mute in his usual corner, I sit next to him, ask him about these stables Michelle intends to lease. Great place, he tells me, beautiful facility. I get directions, say my good-byes for the day, drive out to the place. I stop at the imposing gate, can't see much, what is visible, impressive. Turn around, drive back through town, out to the stables, adrenaline pumping on approach, I'm subject to new highs, riding Jaxon, taking risks, perhaps, I shouldn't, the emotions, feelings, evoked by Michelle, taking risks, perhaps, I shouldn't, but subdued, coldness, calculation, moderating the rush, what to calculate, can't plan, can't anticipate, Michelle keeps me forever off balance, must play it as it comes. We're sitting, again, under the overhang with the skull, I'm in one of the white chairs, smoking, she sits at the picnic table, looking at her schedule, doing paperwork, we talk, I ask how things are going with the new place. Looks good, she says, they're hammering out the details. She tells me the place is up against the mountains, though, not sure about the trails around, might be rough riding, wherever they are. But if there are trails to ride, she says, I bet you'll find them. Yeah, I say, I drove out there this morning, just to the gate. But I'm pretty sure we can figure out some decent trails. When are you going to take me out there? I'm really busy now, she says. But you know where it is. You'll be out there all the time after the move. It's so close. I fucking knew it, I think, I just fucking knew it, this is a much too predictable game now, I do not imagine this, she asked if I wanted to go, I said yes, we are not going. Yeah, that's right, I say, not disappointed at all, really, suspicions confirmed, the pattern clear now, fuck it, I'm thinking, there is nothing I can count on here, with her, nothing I can count on but her denial of me, her feelings for me, if they still exist, ever did. And I'm not thinking at all when I say, the talk of her new place the opening, we're talking stables here, Hey, remember that ranch we looked at? I first saw it with that friend I told you about? Yeah, she responds, looking at me, back at her paperwork. We were just friends, you know, and she was leaving her husband anyway, I say, And I made it clear I wasn't available for a relationship, I really thought we were just friends. Well, all that stuff about buying a ranch was just for me. She's got her whole family and church back home in this drama with me as the other man, and I was just minding my own business, trying to be a friend. I had to cut it off with her, and now she's talking about slashing her wrists or shooting me. I'm trying to tell it like a funny story, like, can you believe it, this woman going through all this trouble, and I'm thinking it wouldn't be so bad if Michelle had to worry a little about me, women do crazy things over me, as men do over you, this is what I'm thinking, not thinking, didn't plan this, but knew what I was doing, a little manipulation here, you're thinking of picking up a boy toy, I just avoided being a boy toy, things backfired on that woman who thought she could manipulate me, sure you want to take a chance with Peter, boy toy, I'm thinking, rather than a man, rather than me? She stops what she's doing, I'm bent over, elbows on knees, looking in her direction, she's sitting at the picnic table, I see her body go stiff as she stops, she looks at me, into my eyes, those big, blue eyes, filled with anger and hurt and she says, looking into my eyes, You slept with her, didn't you? The words are hard, each emphasized, an indictment, the words chilling in their simplicity, her affectless delivery, lips now tight, jaw clenched, I've betrayed her, I've cheated on her, I'm all a lie after all, we stare at each other, eyes locked, I say nothing, can see myself, my blank expression, the visage of one of the bad emperors, an older Caligula, perhaps, if he'd lived, I know how I look when I look like this, I look arrogant, superior, without even trying, I'm stunned, can say nothing, can't imagine what she's thinking looking at me, I've hurt her, I look like I wanted to hurt her, I look cruel, and I can say nothing, after an eternity, she closes her notebook, slowly, deliberately, raises herself from the table, her every move a repudiation of me, her every move conveys disgust, and she strides off, turning her back to me, again, toward the barn, as I watch her receding back, again, I'm thinking, she really does care, there's the proof, great move, Terry, great fucking move. I prefer the emptiness I feel, inside, to the alternatives, detachment now becoming reflexive in my encounters with Michelle, it's a relief not to be so easily overcome by my emotions, my responses to the things she does, says. My mind is a blank as I ride Jaxon, keep it light and easy, worked him hard yesterday, we both need a break, I can't pay proper attention. He spooks once, tries to run off twice, I soothe him, rub his mane, talk gently, monotone voice. I've had women scream at me, throw things, break up rooms, sob uncontrollably, rant angrily. Nothing approaches that look I saw on Michelle's face, the impact of that face, accusing lips, betrayed eyes, You slept with her, didn't you? Closing that book, slowly, deliberately, looking at me, eyes locked, I'm speechless, neither affirm nor deny, incapable of either, in the face of that revelation, Michelle revealing with every expression of her face, her body's every movement, that she cares for me, may even love me, yes, fears falling in love with me, just as inferred. She loved me, maybe, past tense, it's the first time I know for sure she does harbor strong feelings for me, revealed only at the evidence of my betrayal, her perception of it, past tense, loved me, maybe, thanks for letting me know sooner. Thoughts float to the surface, doing my best not to think, float to the surface anyway, this is not quite fair, she's known of my interest in her for almost three months, toyed with it, can't go out with you, have a boyfriend, maybe I'll run into you, Bruce trying to pimp her off to his buddies, happy she didn't go home with a stranger, erstwhile best friend describes her as a slut to strangers, can't go out with you, afraid of falling in love, with you, maybe, I'll fuck Peter instead. She knows me as a steadfast, reliable friend, knows I'm interested regardless of anything, everything, I know of her, my respect and admiration for her explicit, encourages my interest, my presence around her, to snub me. Michelle is surprised I have other women friends? A week or so after telling me she's thinking of fucking Peter, actually tells me this, in so many words, Michelle feels hurt and betrayed because I might have had a lover? Suspicion turned accusation, guilt presumed, by this woman, Michelle, who flaunts her men, the attention she thrives on from men, flaunts them to me. Does not matter, I'm thinking, does not matter. She feels how she feels, that's that, feelings of injustice I nurse completely irrelevant. This is so fucking sad, I'm thinking, sad, sad, sad, that expression becoming ever more familiar to my consciousness the more I get to know Michelle. I do not want to associate sadness with Michelle, do not want to associate anything negative with Michelle. Sad, sad, sad, returns the refrain, unbidden. Jesus, I think, we could have been born again virgins together, that would have been sweet, not now. So fucking sad. Could have been her first, maybe, after the celibacy bout. Not now. Sad, so fucking sad. Strangely, I think, I do not feel regretful, even if everything is ruined, knowing, at least, that she may have loved me, was thinking about it, had been thinking about it, past tense, is worth the breach I expect, the brief, unambiguous clarity I needed to validate my instincts. I can't second guess myself, can't castigate myself, because I could not penetrate the impenetrable, could not enter that heart so fortified against me, I did the best I could, behaved as well as I could, with the most bedeviling creature I've ever encountered. I'm relieved at noting the absence of Michelle's jeep while riding toward the gate, not having to face her, see that accusing face, those betrayed eyes, that wounded heart, a gift. Jaxon's in the open paddock where he spends his afternoons after the rides, I collapse into the white chair, drained of energy, the emotion of the confrontation, suppressing the emotions, overwhelming. I pull out a cigarette, catch awareness of something in the chair next to me from the corner of my eye. Michelle's ranch jacket, her proxy, occupying the seat. Unthinking, I reach over, take it by the collar, and pull the jacket to my breast, crossing my arms over the ochre bundle, holding it as I would her, I just want to hold her like this I'm thinking, hold her like this, the faintest aroma detected, draw it to my face, bury my face in the lining, the aroma subtle, perfume, Joy? An expensive perfume, I think, in any case, it's perfect, flowers, distilled, essence of Michelle, flower, distilled, I gasp in, gasp out, I go weak, double over onto my knees, emit a sob, I start weeping into the jacket, and gasping, my body shaking where I sit. A stab of guilt intervenes, feel as if I've violated her, I have no right to mingle my fluids with Michelle's jacket, I think, have not gotten its permission, laughing at myself, the absurdity of it all, my tears, her perfume, as close as we'll ever get, must not take any more liberties with her jacket, I straighten up, replace it to the chair. Head shaking slowly, I retrieve the cigarette from the table, light up, lean back onto the chair, legs extended and crossed, relaxed, composed again, shaking my head, I don't fucking believe it, don't fucking believe it. You slept with her, didn't you? she asked. I loved you, you betrayed me, I heard. An occasional tear crawls down my cheek, salt stings my eyes, the smoke, too, I'm blinking at the watery vision I see, the stables, the graveled surface between the buildings, the barn, all devoid of Michelle now, I see her anyway, striding this way and that, pushing the wheel barrow, riding the little tractor, with Lucy, walking away from me. Knew there was a wonderful story here, of some sort, could not have predicted any of this, but why would I want to? I start sobbing again, lean back in the chair, sprawled out, head leaning against the wooden stable wall, think of the jacket, why I put it down, laugh through my tears, body subtly convulsing, in place, this is fucking great. Tomorrow will be interesting. And I am not disappointed, twenty-four hours later, evidence of my infidelity revealed just where we're sitting now, twenty-four hours ago, same chair and picnic table, same rolling hills in the background, framing Michelle, wearing the jacket I embraced, twenty-four-hours ago, the perfume intoxicates me at the sight of it, the gathering rain clouds, in the distance, framing Michelle, this is very interesting indeed. We're talking as if nothing happened, yesterday never happened, like old acquaintances, the whole gamut, for a long time. Negotiations continue over the new stables, the husband's doing the talking now, more difficult than the wife, but the deal moves along. Someone's interested in buying one of the horses Michelle listed on her web site, a large potential payday. She's having trouble with the teenage girl she hired to ride the once-famous race horse boarding at her place. The owners who evicted her, the once-friends, look for things to complain about. Overall, however, her situation isn't bad, she's making progress, she's in control, as usual, I marvel at her composure. We drive to the deli for lunch, separate cars, I pass by her house in the vineyards, she turns in, I arrive early while she drops off the dogs, sit and wait. And I'm sitting where we sat when I asked about going out with her almost three months before, do you ever go out with students, I asked, how she jumped up and walked away, the first time she turned her back on me, I'm thinking now, for the first time, geez. Sitting where I first met Bruce, seemed like a nice enough guy, can't stand him now. Sitting where Peter sat before he got up so politely to shake my hand. Sitting where we sat when Annie said, to Michelle's daughter, Boycrazy, like mother, like daughter, and I wanted to smack her. Interesting, I'm thinking, interesting. No matter how intimate the conversation one day, no matter how close the connection, it was as if nothing had happened the next day, back where we started, any apparent progress disappeared, no more than acquaintances, barely friends, can't be lovers. It was so frustrating, bedeviling, but now it doesn't seem so bad. She let me know she loved me, maybe, knew that I betrayed her, maybe, just yesterday, it's as if nothing had happened. She pulls up in her jeep, we walk into the deli together to order, banter with the staff, it's all so normal, normal seeming, even though I betrayed her yesterday, in her mind, anyway, all so normal. Seemingly. Between bites of sandwich we talk on, I ask about her Thanksgiving plans, less than a week away now. She's spending it with her family, the boyfriend will come over, nothing special. And we move on to Christmas, she'll visit her dad. The distance I perceive is no greater than the distance I routinely perceive, just as usual, no progress made, no evidence of yesterday's disaster, and I'm thinking all this in a detached state, watching us, in my mind, as we talk, I observe her, detached, thinking, all of a sudden, she does that, too, detaches, puts her feelings where they won't make her hurt, or make her fall in love, she is a maze of dark places inside, places where she will not go, and I understand completely, I think, a measure of the batterings she's taken, I think, she can endure anything, and survive. If not thrive. But she will survive, she's tough, she'll survive, but she's so tough she can't deal with her feelings, can't let them out, except badly. I just have a few drinks and flirt a bit, she said, a few drinks the excuse for letting loose, can't do it without a few drinks, or following bad instincts, can't help herself, isn't responsible for the bad outcomes, the new residue of failure stored away, automatically, in those dark places she will not enter. And I'm relieved she's not angry at me, troubled, too, it's so unnatural, how she's acting, Michelle, unpredictable, as always. She hugs me, as usual, as we depart from each other for the weekend, I kiss her neck, as usual, does she notice I wonder, as usual, and we drive away from each other. You slept with her, didn't you? You slept with her, didn't you? About time she worried about me, I'm thinking, without any satisfaction at all. And she looks at me, those eyes, those betrayed eyes, I hurt Michelle, I did not mean to, but I hurt Michelle. It's all so fucking sad. Nothing has changed when I return on Monday, or on Tuesday, I wait for the backlash I know must come, wondering at how it might manifest itself, no telling with Michelle, wouldn't be surprised if she started trying to seduce me now, but she's celibate, right, this woman celibate, by the way, I'm thinking of fucking Peter, Michelle a celibate, what is going on with that, wouldn't be surprised if she told me to get lost, wouldn't be surprised by nothing at all. I'm sitting with my friends at the coffeehouse, slipping in and out of the conversations, speculations in between, a new idea springs to mind. Instead of driving to the stables, I turn off to the shopping center along the way, pull up to the western wear and tack shop, spend an hour trying on boots and jeans, look for the right belt, ask advice from the staff, remembering, in bits and pieces, decisions considered and made a half-year-ago. Funny, I'm thinking, I thought about doing this when I started lessons with Michelle, thought about the impression I wanted to make, how I should present myself. Not worth it, I decided, don't know how far this will go, don't know if she's worth the trouble, not going to pretend to be a damn cowboy. From the beginning of my lessons I wore old, shapeless jeans, ugly, yellowing square-toed boots, and early on Michelle said, distaste visible, You ought to get some Wranglers. And cowboy boots. Yeah, right, I responded, as if it were the last thing I would do, wouldn't do now just so she didn't get the idea I'd go out of my way for her, her opinion, her opinion of me. Part of the maneuvering, can't let her think I'll try too hard to please her. Sorting through the jeans, stacks of them, different brands, cuts, sizes, I wish I'd done this before, what a fucking dumbass, thinking of myself, thinking how careful I was in presenting myself in London. How well I pulled it off, the tasseled loafers, the black or khaki chinos, tough, durable, the simple buttondown shirts, subdued tie tied just right, the expensive blazers, perfectly cut, the slight discomfiture evident in the demeanor of the shop staffs, couldn't figure me out, the ease with which I entered their establishments, as if I owned them, the initial greeeting, recognition of an accent, Visiting from Canada? Good sign I thought, don't recognize me as a dumbass American, it continues, where from, California wine country, I tell them, and what business, they ask, trying to be subtle, conversational, and they hear dotcom, they see money, one of those millionaires they read about, they're hoping to sell me million dollar antiques, paintings, I play my part in the charade brilliantly. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, started hanging out at Michelle's right after that, knew how much those first impressions can matter, actually decided that she wasn't worth the trouble, that scared looking woman I saw at the party under the stars, that hostile woman, barely civil, that woman who followed me with her eyes the rest of the evening, no, wasn't worth it. Jesus Fucking Christ. I buy plain, expensive black boots, Wranglers, as if tailored, ask the woman helping me if the length's just right over the boots, That's perfect, she says, pick out a black, Western belt, not showy, but Western. You look great, she says, and I do. My fresh laundry's in the car, pull out a blue and white plaid, flannel shirt, slip it on, tuck it in, walk back to the shop window to see my reflection. Yes, just right, I'm thinking. Michelle's gone by the time I arrive, lunch, probably, I go for a long ride, return. Jaxon's tied up inside the barn, I'm having a cigarette outside. She drives up, slowly, looking at me as she passes, parks, returns my way, saying, on approach, I was tying to figure out who that cute cowboy was, and it's you! Yeah, just me, I say, my own utterance dousing the initial glow of internal warmth. Yeah, just me, I'm thinking, not a real cowboy, can't depend on me to cheat on you, beat on you, like the man of your dreams. And I'm smiling as I tell her I figured I should look like a horseman now that I had a horse, and she says, It's about time, and I'm still thinking, it's just me, the guy you're afraid of falling in love with. Big fucking disappointment, just me. Don't be like that, I'm thinking, don't be negative, this can still be fun, no matter what happens, great game, great story. And Michelle needs me, even if she doesn't know it. No matter how much it might hurt. Most importantly of all, however, Michelle is visibly pleased at the new look. That night, throughout Thanksgiving Day, the morning after, the new outfit plagues my thoughts, Jesus Fucking Christ, I keep thinking, don't want to, Jesus Fucking Christ, could it have been that simple? Everything might have been different if I'd shown up in Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots and belt? Jesus Fucking Christ! I can't fucking believe it! Jesus Fucking Christ. The thought appalls me, the idea that such a small thing could make so much difference, something I considered doing, and rejected, that the right, first impression, with Michelle, a cowboy outfit, might have changed everything, how everything has gone, if only I'd dressed the part. If I'd driven up in the pickup truck, didn't have it at the time, irrelevant, if I'd driven up in the pickup truck, gotten out, in the outfit, half my battle could have been won. That I consciously decided not to get the clothes and boots, thought about it, did not do it, Jesus Fucking Christ. But those thoughts are nothing compared to the idea that it should make a difference to Michelle, how superficial is that, doesn't matter, this is all irrational, she's irrational, it's a matter of feelings, and fears, and fantasies, bad memories, bad instincts, it's only superficially superficial, this goes to the core of her being, she feels how she feels, I have to deal with that. So, of course, I bring my cowboy hat along Friday morning, the black Rodeo King given to me by the world's most legendary bull-rider, when I attended his school, oldest student bull-rider ever, probably, to preen for Michelle. And, of course, she asks where I got the hat, as I knew she would, answering, of course, that I got it from the great bull-rider when I rode his bulls, last time you'll see me in this, though, I don't do cowboy hats. I sit in the white chair under the overhang with the skull, smoking cigarettes as I watch Michelle, at a distance, muck the stalls, watch her walk this way and that, pushing the wheel barrow full of horseshit and wood shavings, I've seen her do this a hundred times, I'm thinking, so different, so much the same, everything that's happened, all the thoughts I've had, sitting in this chair, thinking about Michelle, how my thinking about her has changed, she's not the woman I thought she was, I want her more than ever. She joins me, lights a cigarette, asks about my Thanksgiving. Nice, I tell her, spent it with my ex and son at my aunt's, funny how we all get along so well now, after the divorce. I inquire in kind, Michelle says, Oh, it was okay. But my family's so weird sometimes, and then Dan came over, and he just sat in a corner and moped. And we got into it again, and I asked him why he even bothered to come over if he's going to sit there and not talk to anyone. He got mad, and left early. I'm sorry, I say, meaning it, thinking, at the same time, that's good, they're history, feeling bad for Michelle, that she can't have a simple Thanksgiving without a fight, some unhappiness, of some sort, whose fault is that, I wonder, hers, Dan's, doesn't fucking matter, I hate to see her disappointment, again. She returns to work, I ride Jaxon, go to say good-bye. Michelle, pitchfork in hand, cleans one of the small paddocks outside of a stall, tossing turds into a bucket, looks up, finds me standing there. We need to talk, she says, gentle voice, gentle eyes, looking into mine. This isn't good, I'm thinking, even if she doesn't say it like Tricia did, We Have To Talk, all harshness, ultimatums, disapproval, to follow, anger at my refusal to please her, meet her demands, her petty attempts at control, this is much worse. Don't let her say anything we'll regret, I'm thinking, don't let her kill us off, I'm thinking, don't ler her kill this relationship we have. These thoughts skitter through my mind in split seconds, we look into each other's eyes, all gentleness, concern, can't let her do this, I'm thinking, Michelle reading my thoughts, I'm thinking, as I say, all calm, no fear, no adrenaline rush, all calm, as I say, slow shaking of head, small smile, no we don't. No? she asks. No, I return, another slight shake of my head. Okay, she says. I've never seen her appear so vulnerable, helpless, as I do at that moment, with my last glance, before leaving. That's the backlash, I'm thinking, You slept with her, didn't you, that was close, I'm thinking, just missed it, I see those vulnerable eyes, looking at me, We do not need to talk, my eyes say to hers, Okay, I hear, see those eyes, vulnerable, those eyes I betrayed, You slept with her, didn't you, that look on her face, that look of love betrayed, that face, We don't have to talk? No! Those eyes, all gentleness, all love, before she tries to end it all, end us, and I get her to relent. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ, can't wait till Monday, see what happens then. Jesus Fucking Christ. And nothing happens Monday, except that she breaks my heart all over again. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking as I drive in, no detachment now, adrenaline's pumping, my head's screaming, Jaxon will try to kill me again, as usual, Michelle will try to kill us, again, as usual, now, I'm thinking, we're talking survival here, Jesus Fucking Christ, Jesus Fucking Christ, Jesus Fucking Christ. Stay calm. Tied to a post just inside the barn, facing the wall surrounding the riding arena, Jaxon reluctantly moves the length of his body from the middle of the corridor, helped along by my light punches to his rump. I proceed with picking his hooves clean as Michelle pushes in the wheelbarrow, I ask about her weekend. She's talking in a tinny, little-girl sing-song voice, manifestation of weak Michelle, vulnerable Michelle, I know something turned out badly, sorry I asked now, will I want to hear this? Invited to a potluck dinner at a friend's house, she volunteers dessert. Spends an afternoon baking a sheet cake, spends hours decorating it to resemble a beach, she loves doing things like that she says, new revelation, she was proud of it and I could tell. And a moment after completion, moving it from counter to table, something catches, she stumbles, dumping the cake onto the floor, all her labor reduced to a mess. Not again, I'm thinking, metaphor of her life, painstaking work, disappointment, disaster, as I say, gee, Michelle, I'm sorry. What a bummer. What'd you do for dessert? Oh, it worked out she said. I made a bunch of those little cups you fill with jello and vodka. Everyone loved them. I got a little drunk and stayed over. Oh, great, I say, thinking, yup, metaphor for her life. She just can't get a break, I'm thinking, as I brush Jaxon, throw on his blanket, saddle, cinching it only a little at first. I walk outside, smoke a cigarette, killing a few minutes before the final tightening of Jaxon's cinch, a minor concession to his idiosyncratic nature. I'm sitting on a big eucalyptus stump stationed by the corner of the barn, can't get a fucking break, I'm thinking, the smallest things don't work out for her. Yeah, I'm thinking, she's got some issues, blew off that ranch deal, and those man problems, but she's smart, hard-working, honest, capable, I know this, I've observed her, closely, for months, I've observed people closely, for decades, at work, under stress, in family tragedy, seen it all, and Michelle's strength under adversity is heroic, yes, I'm thinking she's fucking heroic, real fortitude, creates multitudes of her own troubles, but accepts the consequences, no self pity. Yeah, fucking heroic. Got a bad case of the inverse Midas Touch, though, I'm thinking, everything he touched turned to gold, everything Michelle touches turns to shit. Stop thinking like that, I'm thinking, we have something sweet, special here, don't make-up bad associations, don't attach negative thoughts to Michelle, what we have. Whatever it is. I start all over again, can't help myself, the unwanted thoughts, so fucking sad, I think, so fucking sad, one disappointment after another. So fucking sad. And she's headed my way from the manure pile, pushing the wheelbarrow, on approach, I ask, what're you doing this morning? Nothing much, she says. This afternoon, I have to go over to the new stables and talk about the contract. She leaves the wheelbarrow outside the barn door, she's returning my way, striding by, and I look up, to say, the rain's going to start one of these days. Why don't we ride over to the winery for a glass of champagne before it's too late? Michelle crosses my line of vision without looking at me, no hesitation in her step, says, sneeringly, That sounds so, not, exciting, a snicker added, at the end, for good measure. That was meant to hurt, I'm thinking, all I can think at first, that was meant to hurt. So spontaneous, too! Jesus Fucking Christ. I'm stunned by the response, I know it was wrong on the face of it, you don't talk to friends like that, you don't talk to anyone like that, really, in my world, the world I try to live in, anyway, there's more to it than that, however, and I can't put my finger on it. The pain of her little arrow through my heart is deadened before I can feel it, though, and I'm thinking of that, too, all this in the space of two or three of her strides, seconds after the insult, thinking, gee, that didn't bother me nearly as much as it should have, but I am in shock here. All pumped up when I arrived, ready for anything, disarmed by another episode of things going wrong for Michelle, she really got me this time, I'm thinking, all mushy inside, feeling her disappointment, more, perhaps, than she, Michelle's used to it, long used to it, she really got me this time. I'm sitting on the stump, legs spread and bent, an elbow on each knee, cigarette in right hand, left hand on right wrist, I'm looking at the ground, hands, cigarette, center of my vision, dirt and gravel backdrop, leaden, I'm one with the stump, absorb the words I hear in response to a friendly suggestion, feel the welling anger, turn my head to look at her, sideways, given the tilt of my head, and I see, I see, again, Michelle's back receding into the distance. Again. Tuesday dawns wet and gray, sky low, the cessation of the rain that started during the night a mere portent of the drenchings to come. I loiter in front of the coffeehouse at First and Main, pacing and smoking, preparing for my drive to the stables, fixing my mental attitude, trying to interpret, still, the exact meaning of yesterday's insult, my emotional response to it. Didn't bother me like it should have, I'm thinking again, but something else of the incident was off kilter, can't straighten it out. I try to focus, think clearly, methodically, now, avoided thinking about it all day yesterday, into the night, I'm going out of my way not to think about Michelle now, aggressively, knowing I'll think about her subconsciously anyway, all the time, images, impressions, bobbing into mind when least expected. The pacing and smoking and drinking at night has become unbearable, listening to dramatic, evocative music, thinking about her, too much, now, to suffer. I throw myself into my other projects, reading and writing history, writing short stories, making deals. Expend time cooking my own meals, refine the details of the off-grid life I lead, visit with friends. Distracting my attention away from Michelle is my new part-time job, complementing the other one, the observation and analysis of Michelle. So now, instead of pacing and smoking and drinking late into the night, I watch old movies on my laptop, in bed. The Humphrey Bogart collection comforts me especially, movies I've seen dozens of times, movies first encountered in the house down the hill, the house I loved, late at night, when I first became a serious criminal. The Maltese Falcon strikes a resonant chord, tough but vulnerable hard guy, plays by his own rules, the first mass-market anti-hero, perhaps, the character cited by the avant garde as one of the most authentic movie characterizations ever seen by 1941, didn't know this on first viewings. And I'm watching The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca and The Big Sleep, and Bogart plays the same character in all of them, despite the different names, same guy, same code, same behavior. I fall asleep to these movies night after night, awaken to them in the middle of the night, fall asleep all over again, a creeping realization emerging from the shadows of memory. Night after night I watch old movies, on television, down the hill, four decades ago, wishing I could live that life, be that character, have that adventure, Bogart movies especially, Passage to Marseille, Key Largo, Dark Passage, Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Deadline USA, To Have and Have Not, want to live those lives, don't realize, at the age of sixteen, seventeen, the deeper dramas I am living. I unleash wave after wave of epidemic, thoughtfully so, of burglaries, guns, cannabis, LSD, heroin, tote guns, as appropriate, a knife, all the time, deadly knife, thwart the cops, most of the time, the thieves, most of the time, the snitches, most of the time, fuck the girls, most of the time. I am not amoral, I am ruthlessly moral, my way, got it all figured out, at sixteen, seventeen, all figured out. Society declared war on drugs, war on me, I fight to win, you want war, I'll give it to you, I'm thinking, you thought I was trouble before, you'll see trouble, you'll get the war you want. All validated by those characters Humphrey Bogart played, and I'm living my own movie, even as I watch the movies. Sitting in the den at the house down the hill, the house amid redwoods and ferns, Wright's Fallingwater, my mother's way, sitting in the den, late at night, with crime partners or without, shooting LSD, smoking cannabis, shooting cocaine, smoking cannabis, shooting heroin, smoking cannabis, shooting guns, smoking cannabis. Hand on gun, as appropriate, hand on knife as appropriate, always ready to fight, kill, run. And I'm watching those movies, night after night, I want Mary Astor in San Francisco, I want Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, I want Lauren Bacall in Key Largo, I got Josee in Nice, I got Nancy in Osaka, I got Flavia on the top of the Empire State Building. I got Lorena in Cartagena. Bogart was an actor, I was the real thing, I did those things for real, I'm thinking, wanted to be just like that guy, those characters, all an act, I did it for real, but I didn't kill people, like he did, in the movies, I didn't get killed, like he did, in the movies, and I'm thinking, just movies, and I'm watching all those movies again, night after night, and the characters aren't as smart as I used to think, been there, done that, for forty years, better than these made up people, one-upped them all. And the only reason I missed those most terrifying, violent scenes is because I was too smart to fuck up like those made up people. And I'm thinking of a line I came up with since my post-marriage self assessment, true more or less, I'm the real life version of all those guys Humphrey Bogart played in the movies, but it doesn't really do me justice. I worked and partied with the major crime bosses, worked and partied with the best assassins, worked and partied with famous murderers, I launched careers and businesses and industries, had people by the hundreds of thousands living their lives as I advised. Played roles in the most notorious ops of the Cold War, got hit on by celebrated beauties, talked culture and history with the people who made it. Yes, I'm thinking, pacing and smoking in front of the coffeehouse, on First and Main, under the awning, avoiding the rain drops that begin to fall, I have lived, perhaps, the most outrageous life of anyone ever to walk the planet, yes, that's an arguable proposition. And it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter to Michelle, and she is my challenge now, what was it again I was trying to figure out about yesterday, and I feel stupid on its realization, so obvious, so blind, yes, but I'm always blind till it's too late, but of course I was surprised at the response, less than two weeks ago she said she wanted to ride over for champagne, the idea sounded like fun, with a smile, as spontaneous as yesterday's brutal rebuff. But why so brutal, all of a sudden, I'm thinking, never felt such hostility from her, and, again, idiot, she thinks you cheated on her. That settles it, I'm thinking, that's it, but remains of the speculation hover just below the surface, there's more to it than that, that's enough for now, but more to it than that, you idiot, I think all of a sudden, you're still trying to make sense of her, Jesus Fucking Christ, it makes no sense at all, stop pretending it does. She acted exactly the same way before she asked if I slept with Jo. I wonder what will happen next, what lines will she deliver today, how do I improvise my role now? Don't fucking believe it. Once at the stables, I throw an English saddle on Jaxon, I'll ride him in the arena today, get used to the smaller seat, try posting through trots, hate it, but good to learn. Afterwards, Michelle and I sit the plastic chairs, canted toward each other, she's wearing the jacket of perfume and tears, cheated on her with the jacket, I'm thinking, if she only knew, this is too fucking much. She demonstrates no trace of yesterday's hostility, thank God, we talk easily, smoke, the rain dripping everywhere about, we're warm and dry, though, despite the wet spots, and I feel close to her, in the normality of it all, and comfortable in her presence, for moments anyway, got to be ready for the strike, and her phone rings. Whoever it is has asked what she's doing today, I hear Michelle recount the tasks she's done already, things she might do, all caught up, in general, I'm looking away, into the mist-covered hills, see her with peripheral vision, and she says, Actually, I was thinking of going to a matinee to see I Walk the Line. Halfway through the sentence, she looks at me, I catch the gesture, look to her, and she shoots a quick, little smile, at me, looking into my eyes with those blue eyes, and they're not angry or hurt, they twinkle, Michelle looks at me just long enough for me to look back, to share my gaze, send the message, suppress the smile, look down. I suppress a chuckle, maybe a snort, right, I'm thinking, just fucking perfect. Again. Do I take the bait? The conversation continues, how much she wants to see the movie, nothing going on today, Yeah, a matinee might be just the thing for a rainy day. Throughout the exchange, she glances up at me several more times, Are you listening? she asks, with her eyes. Fuck, I'm thinking, you're too much. Okay. The call over, we sit in silence for ten, twenty seconds, Michelle looks at me again, her body language says expectation, I linger over the decision to make the move, say, finally, so, think you might want to go to that matinee together? Maybe, she says. Let me think about it. She gets up, rearranges brushes, stacks towels, by the wash rack, of course, I'm thinking, must putter around while she talks herself out of the idea. If she ever meant it, I think, could she actually be playing me, I wonder. I walk to the barn, return Jaxon's tack to the storage room, go to my car, make a call on my cell phone, get movie times for the local theaters. Taking my seat again near where Michelle's still putting things up, I tell her when it's playing, the various options. I don't think so, she says. I have to pick my daughter up at school. Ah, right, I say, thinking, of course not, of course you can't go to the fucking movie, have to pick up your daughter, never thought of that, did you, Michelle, you always have to pick your daughter up, except when you don't have to pick your daughter up, funny how that wasn't a problem five minutes ago. When you set me up, again, to ask you out, again. We hug good-bye, I brush her neck with my lips, as I always do, now, hit the spot?