The Master of Seduction chapter 6 You're committed to a doomed relationship Not worthy of you The scene was a classic, I'm thinking, seen that scene in a hundred chick flicks, clearly articulated in her body language, throwing out the hint, looking to see if I got it, acknowledging the understanding, doesn't play out the way it does in the movies, she contrived a reason to get me to ask her out just to say no. Did not imagine that. The incident doesn't annoy me, quite the contrary, it was cute, genuinely ingenuous, that, too, was spontaneous, as spontaneous as yesterday's insult. Better yet, she didn't use it as an excuse to explain to me how she doesn't feel that way about me, can't go out with you, don't want you. Anybody but you. Thank God. I'm still in the game. She removes some of the doubt on Wednesday, it's still raining, the stables are sodden, Michelle allows me to help, needs it, the shit and shavings soaked and heavy, trenches have to be cleared so the water doesn't overflow, the wind makes it difficult to secure the tarps over the dry hay, she accepts the help, each manifestation of it, resentfully. Thanks me, each time, reveals feelings of defeat, inadequacy, each time, she needs help from a man, does not like it, needs help from me. And does not like it. Tries so hard to do it herself, I'm thinking, this woman, could have been some guy's trophy wife, spoiled thing, she's wet, and undaunted, just keeps working, without complaint, wants to do it herself, fucking heroic, I think, all over again. I'm sitting in the chair where I sat yesterday, and the day before, the week before, the month before, I'm sitting in the chair, watching Michelle work in the rain, still, when she turns to my direction and approaches. I've been here a couple of hours, she's been busy, I've been riding in the arena, haven't really talked yet this morning, she gets ever closer, what now? I'm thinking. What now? She shakes off some of the wet after walking under the overhang with the skull on it, asks, So, did you see I Walk the Line yesterday? No, I say. I wanted to see that with you. Know I'm taking a chance here, set myself up for a major slight, know it, it's time to take risks, fuck it. I really wanted to go with you yesterday, she says. I almost fall out of my chair, don't, but that's quite an admission for Michelle. So why didn't you? I inquire. Oh, I don't know. I'm kind of broke right now, and I'm overwhelmed with this move. There's so much going on. Michelle, I say, don't worry about the money. I'm not rich or anything, but the way I spend money, buying lunch for you or a movie ticket just doesn't matter. When things settle down, you can pay for lunch. Or take me to the movies. Okay? Yeah, she says, breathlessly, tinny, little-girl voice, she's vulnerable here. I feel funny going out with you until I work things out with Dan. I just want to get through the holidays before we talk. You know I'm prejudiced here, I say, but regardless of me, Michelle, you have to get out of that. It's horrible for you. I know, she says, defeated, once again. And Thursday's especially foul, rain heavier than ever, winds howling, the worst day of the aging year, so far, the preceding days of rain have soaked into everything, found the cracks everywhere, leaks appear, everywhere, Michelle's wet up to her ass, damp showing on her jeans up to the hem of her jacket, the jacket I held as I can never hold her, Michelle's proxy, mud and minor disaster everywhere. I pitch in to help despite the protestations, help her extract the hay from the bales under the tarp, try to tie it down, its grommeted ends whipping at us, rope ends whipping at us, we get it done, kind of, Michelle moves on. It won't hold, I know, she can't afford for hay to get wet, go bad, I resecure some of her knots, attach an old railroad tie to the bottom of the tarp to keep it stable, hoping, at the time, she doesn't get angry at my redoing what she did, to her hay, in her barn, at her stables, when she notices. And wherever I offer help, she says, No, I can take care of it, she can't, I help anyway, when she can't see, fuck it, I'm thinking, don't care what she thinks, I'm going to fucking help out anyway, and why can't she just accept a friend's help. You know. Like friends do. Jesus Fucking Christ. The peevishness I feel I direct at the situation, not Michelle, can't help it after all, wants to be self-sufficient, I get it, but Jesus Fucking Christ, give it a rest woman. Jaxon shuffles his hooves restlessly as I tether him to the post, I'm tying the knot I always tie, start thinking, that's a neat knot, Michelle taught me that knot, I couldn't get it, she kept showing me, half-a-dozen times, never impatient, never condescending, just that voice, Then you take this end... And I finally got it. Neat knot. She enters the barn, removes her earphones to her pocket, she wants to talk, I'm thinking, walks past us down the corridor between the stalls and the arena, starts to shake out the horse blankets, folds and stacks them. I'm picking Jaxon's hooves clean, brushing him down, and Michelle mentions the new stables, sounds tentative, unsure of herself. The husband's a real jerk, she says, really squeezing her, thought she had everything worked out with the wife, except the details, and he's killing her with details. That's too bad, I say. But it'll work out. I hope so, she says, scared. The conversation drifts down the corridor between us, we continue with our respective tasks, working, talking, thoughtlessly, and somehow, don't know why, I mention my first wife. I didn't know you were married before! she says in mild shock, stopping, looking up. Yeah, I say, we had a daughter together. In all the time I've known you, she says, dismayed, all the times we talked, you never told me you were married before and had a daughter. Don't like to talk about it much, I tell her. Where's your daughter? she asks. Oh, I don't know. We don't keep in touch. I never saw her much growing up, and the last time she visited I think we disappointed each other. I try not too think about it too much. I'm trying to remember why I mentioned it to begin with, did not want to go there, but maybe I did, I don't know, but I really don't want to talk about this, even though I provided the opening. Michelle understands, perhaps too well, hears the tone of sadness in my voice, don't think she's heard this sound from me many times, if at all, and I bend over to grasp one of Jaxon's hooves, Michelle still looking my way, puzzlement, suspicion, something, showing briefly in her expression before, a second later, she turns away as well. We're silent for a few minutes, I walk toward her to put something in the tack room, still feel vulnerable, naked, haven't thought of my first wife, daughter, in years, she stands up, looks at me, accusingly, seriously, I stop, and she asks, Did you ever kill anyone? I return her stare blank-faced, I've thought about how I might answer that question, say, well, not like you think. But I could probably be prosecuted for multiple homicides. Most of the time, I didn't kill people, even when they deserved it. What do you mean by that? she retorts. Well, I say, sometimes people would try something that needed killing for. And when I started to kill them, they folded on me, and then I didn't have to. Then I told her one of those tales. You come up with the most amazing stories of anyone I ever met, she says, again, accusingly, with a glint in her eye. And now I'm thinking, have some fun with this, give her a clue, and I say, you know, Michelle, I've spent my whole life feeling like I was living in a movie, and I just kept trying to figure out how to move the plot along. I believe it, she says. You've led a completely bizarre life. Well, I say, I may have lived the most outrageous life of anyone ever to walk the planet. And she looks as if she believes that too. I finish saddling my horse, ride Western, need a break from the English saddle, my ass is sore from the bouncing, so is Jaxon's back, and Michelle asks if I want to meet her for lunch at the deli in an hour, she's leaving to run errands. On arriving early at the crossroads market, the proprietor regards me, asks where's my sidekick, she means Michelle, on her way, I say, feeling good at the question, this is her territory, her place, and they see us as a couple. If only, I'm thinking, if only, but it might be close. We're sitting at our usual table, can't believe the history that's passed between us here, even as I sit there, with Michelle, playing out its continuation, thankfully aware that she doesn't reference the morning's dialog. And she's telling me about visiting Lucy at her new stables, she's coming along in training, moves on to the horse that's been rehabilitating for a year, a rescue project, he's healthy again, ready for exercise. He's a five-year-old gelding named Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown? I say. Lucy? Charlie Brown? You have a Peanuts thing going on here or was that a coincidence? No, she says, I kind of grew up on Peanuts, and, I don't know, I liked the idea. It's like having my own Peanuts gang at the stables. That's sweet, I'm thinking, happy, little-girl Michelle at play, when she says, He bucks a bit, though. You wouldn't want to try riding him would you? And she's sipping her drink as she asks, glancing up at me, eyes lingering before darting back downward, and I'm reminded of the old Amos and Andy Show, and the always scamming Kingfish, always has a con, and a broad, obvious expression he always displayed when he threw out the bait, the riches to be reaped, by the sucker, an expression of wide eyes looking up, or sidelong, an expression meant to be surreptitious, revealing instead, that asks, Is he gonna bite? I note her gesture, recognize the association, that's interesting, I'm thinking, but you probably didn't see what you thought you saw, but it doesn't matter, fuck it. Yeah, I say, I'd love to give it a try. Okay, she says. Maybe we can start next week. Big, black, water-laden clouds speed across the overcast sky, the newly clean crystaline air emphasizing the vivid greens, browns and grays of winter, the smell of dirt, the smell of rain, rich in the atmosphere. It's like The Night On Storm Mountain, I'm thinking, the furies released, unwittingly, by the apprentice, all dark in the daylight, roads beginning to flood, eucalyptus leaning away from the blustery gusts, rain stopping, starting, again, with successive clouds, rain blown sideways, stinging in its force, an excellent day for a good book, warm cafe, hot tea, sweet cookies. I turn toward Sonoma on leaving the deli, go to the rare book store off the square, look for the new additions to the relevant history shelves, assemble a small stack of obscure accounts of the early days in California, settle into the overstuffed chair in the back room to sample the volumes. I read for half-an-hour or so, make some choices, conclude the transaction. Walk around the corner to the Basque bakery in the middle of the block, claim my table, retrieve my order, read a book. And I'm reading the book about old times here, the Bay Area, this town, the place it played in great world events, here, at the very ends of the civilized world, the revolution proclaimed in the square across the street, the square where Michelle disappeared into the darkness. And I'm thinking about her again, don't bother, I'm thinking, nothing to think, to plan, just accept what happens, keep thinking anyway, realize I've been repressing all the joy and enthusiasm I felt deep down somewhere, over the events of the last few days. And I'm pacing and smoking in front of the cafe, I'm thinking, geez, I should be happy now, she set me up for the movie invite, worked out as I knew it would, no movie, but she actually said, went out of her way to say, after twenty-four-hours to think about it, actually admitted she wanted to go out with me. Actually went out of her way to suggest that something was going to happen between us after the holidays, after she straightened things out with Dan, broke off the relationship. I did not just infer that, she implied it, clearly, after all this time, after all her denials of interest, said, in so many words, I want to go out with you, I will go out with you soon. All within two weeks of saying, in so many words, I loved you, and you betrayed me. And I'm pacing and smoking in front of the cafe, I'm thinking, geez, I'm thinking about Michelle again, God damn Michelle again, feel guilty for thinking God damn Michelle, bad thought, still thinking of Michelle, but there's something to think about. She says she wants to go out with me. No, she said she wanted to go out with me, but. Past tense, again, the opportunity never recognized, acknowledged until it's too late, again. And I'm pacing and smoking and thinking, again, across from the park, where she disappeared into the dark, opportunity lost, it occurs to me she disappeared from sight that night into where I'm pacing and smoking and thinking that moment. And I looked for her that night, and she just disappeared, and I retraced my steps, she was still gone. Get over that, I'm thinking, that's over, deal with now. Yes, she said she wants to go out with me, after the holidays, New Year, new start, she actually said as much, indicated a future for us, maybe. And this horse she wants me to ride, Charlie Brown, to help her train, yes, more future, we're going to train a horse together, Michelle and I, yes, this is wonderful, maybe. Every observation negated by doubts, worthy doubts, yes, doubt, I tell myself, seconds after thinking the hopeful thoughts, Pavlov's dog, hopeful sign equals bolt of terror. Jesus Fucking Christ, I say, outloud, I hate this. A passerby stops to look at me, incredulous. Did I say that out loud? I ask, laughing. Sorry. He smiles, moves on. And I can't sit down and read anymore, I'm restless, have to move, drive toward a historic site ten miles away, toward the coast, trying to think research, travel the terrain I just read about, go to the great adobe, I just read about, thinking, instead, about dating Michelle, training the horse, with Michelle, at the new stables in my town. And I'm driving down the road, when a flat shaft of light emerges in seconds to illuminate a broad slice of green hills, mottled mountains, straight ahead. It happens fast, I reflexively turn to the light emitting gash in the sky, all golden with a falling sun behind, turn my head back to the highway. A rainbow bridge straddles the valley where before there was nothing but darkness, its end clearly visible at the base of a distant hill next to the road. Yes, an omen, I'm thinking, an omen, don't be a superstitious ass, I think, fuck you, that's an omen. And I'm driving transfixed toward the end of the rainbow, my eyes barely moving as I follow its arch from one side of the valley to the other, absorbing its colors, everything I can see of it, everything I can think to see of it, and I pull off the road to look at it, briefly, it's fixed in place, very nearly so, anyway, and I continue to drive toward the end of the rainbow, the width of the great arch thickening with every tenth of a mile, and I'm getting visibly closer, and I can make out details in the field at the base of the hill at the end of the rainbow, and if there was, indeed, a pot of gold there, I now know where to look, and I can make out fence posts, and the gate, I'm within a mile of the end of the rainbow, and it's getting bigger as I get closer, and I'm looking at the details through fading colors. And I stop looking at the details, and refocus on the whole, the arch of the rainbow, one side of the valley to the other, and before I can retrace its arch with my eyes, it's gone. And I drive to where the end of the rainbow was, just thirty or so seconds earlier, the field at the base of the hill, there's no rainbow, of course, and I don't bother to look for the pot of gold, and I turn around, drive my car a mile in the other direction, turn around again, drive back toward that field at the base of the hill, and the broad shaft of light is gone, the slice of illuminated terrain is gone, and there is no rainbow in the just descended darkness. There is no rainbow, I'm thinking, there is no end, I'm thinking, there is no honey pot at the end of my rainbow. Jesus Fucking Christ, some fucking omen. I try to make light of it to myself, now even the gods are fucking with me, glad I'm worthy of your fucking concern. Fucking assholes. I walk the grounds of the old rancho cursing the gods, cursing rainbows, cursing myself for even thinking about gods, rainbows and omens. Walk uneasily along the wide balconies, look unseeing into the adobe-walled rooms, cannot read any of the accompanying captions, can't stop long enough to read, cannot absorb the words if I try. This is fucking funny, I'm thinking, try to think, nature's helping me craft this story, isn't that nice, I'm trying to detach here. It does not work, and the brief internal emptiness fills with defeat and despair, don't fucking need that, just got a dose this morning, I start thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ, haven't thought about the first ex-family lately, now that can make me flinch. Thankfully, the stream of thought reverts to the conversations we had this morning, how did I manage to bring up that ex, I'm thinking, never intended to talk to Michelle about that, no time soon anyway, old, old reality, distant memories best left distant, do not want to go there. And she asked if I ever killed anyone, Jesus Fucking Christ, of all the things to ask someone, like that time she asked about the last time I was in love, and then got all huffy because I asked about asking her out, didn't even actually ask her, just inquired about the possibility, she lost it, and now she asks if I ever killed anyone? Great fucking answer, I'm thinking, did I ever kill anyone, God knows, I sure don't, the death and destruction I set loose, the byzantine plots, the corpses in my wake. And then I tell her a story about sticking some guy. I wonder why she might be afraid of falling in love with me? No, I don't wonder, she's got a million reasons, she'll make up more when she runs out, telling her about sticking some guy is just a bonus. Jesus Fucking Christ, hadn't thought about that for a long time, either, Jesus, I was a bad little fucker, can't believe how that came down. And I'm driving home in the dark now, no scenery to distract me, little light on the back roads, just the black asphalt strip ahead exposed by my headlights, and I'm walking up to Haight Street on a gray, drizzly spring day, and I still feel the warm glow of the shot of heroin I just did, and I just scored a bunch of acid, and a load of heroin, and I've got a dozen joints to smoke when I'm so inclined, an outfit to shoot some more dope, when I'm so inclined, business well done, gonna make some money here, have some fun, I'm just drifting up the street to the bus stop, take a city bus to the Greyhound depot, bus leaving every hour, I'm just going to drift home. And the soft-spoken guy walks up to me, twenty-something, dressed like a preppy, seems like a nice guy, wants something from me, some kind of help, fight to pay attention. And he scored a load of pills, doesn't know what they all are exactly, knows they're uppers and downers, can't tell them apart, I look like I know my stuff, we can do a deal. And I follow him into the adjacent park, through a copse of trees, great place for a murder I'm thinking, thickly, slow brain, instincts still intact, somewhere, and he says we're there, starts looking in the bushes, and I'm drained by the walk up the hill, drained by the warm glow inside, and I sink to my knees, comfortable on the ground, sitting on my heels, and as soon as I'm settled, the nice guy spins around, grabs my lapels, standing over me, looking into my eyes, all burning hatred, malevolence, evil, looks into my eyes and says, You've been had, white boy, you've been had. And I shift in place, Stay right where you are, he says, we're looking into each other's eyes, he's evil personified, evil in my face, and he's so intent looking into my eyes, savoring the face of death he mistakes for fear, he doesn't notice the motivation behind my movement, doesn't see the knife I unsheath, shove into his stomach, hard, upward, and he jumps off the blade, and he's sobbing, Please don't kill me, please don't kill me, and I want to, should, don't, not worth the trouble, I'm a walking felony already, don't need a murder charge, got to get out of here, and I run to the edge of the park, and I slow to a walk as I emerge from the trees, a police car drives by, I hide my blood-dripping right hand, affect a nonchalant walk, I'm back at Haight Street, cross over, head back to my colleague's house, walking fast now, turn the corner too fast on the slick concrete, as I look at my bloody hand, and I slip, do a Buster Keaton routine, trying not to fall, and a hippie's walking up the hill toward me, and I'm slipping this way and that, trying to recover my balance, and my hand's covered with blood, and I finally fall over, onto my hands and knees, and the disequilibrium, along with the heroin, makes me throw up, and the hippie sees all of this transpire in two or three seconds, and our eyes meet, and he starts to laugh, uncontrollably, and I do too, and I'm laughing and puking, we're laughing together, he helps me up, and I hide out for a day or two at my buddy's flat. And I pass a couple of days shooting heroin, never liked it that much, really, just liked the shooting of it, liked that warm glow you get in the first twenty, thirty seconds, bloodstream carrying the elixir throughout, yes, that did feel good, even if I didn't want to dream my time away afterwards. Yes, that warm glow, I'm thinking, and feeling of well-being, that was nice, and I feel the feeling as I remember it, and I remember it well, I acknowledge again that this is exactly the feeling I got when I used to look at those pictures of Michelle, looked at them just for the feeling, before I had to stop, because I couldn't take it. Yeah, cocaine rushes, heroin glows, Jesus Fucking Christ, I get those feelings from Michelle, no, I don't have a problem, I'm a fucking hormone junkie. And this heroin connection really gets to me, and I'm thinking of the coke-like effects as well, and damn, this really is something. And I've been lost in the dark and my memories, on automatic pilot, know the way home, just follow the road, my instincts, something breaks my revery, I get my bearings, approaching the stables. It's feeding time, Michelle's there, in the dark, it was a foul day, I'm thinking, the rain just let up, it's been as bad as it was this morning, she needed help then, I'll stop by, see if everything's okay. The warm glow radiates through my system at the thought. And I don't plan this, just thoughtlessly follow the impulse, and I creep along the road to the parking area, then I'm walking in the dark toward the overhang with the skull over it, warm glow in chest, feeling of well-being, round the corner of the barn, see the car of the cranky owner, just coming or going, Michelle's walking across the gravelled turnaround area, pushing a wheelbarrow, she glances at me, adjusts her direction to turn her back to me, big surprise, I'm thinking, I hear her say, Go away, Terry! I turn on my heels, walk back to my car and drive away. So much for that warm fucking glow, so much for fucking omens and rainbows. I boil until I'm back at the highway, drive toward home, and start yelling, yelling, yelling loud, I don't fucking believe it, I don't fucking believe it. God fucking forbid I fucking stop by to check on a fucking friend. Oh, no, can't fucking let that go by unfucking punished. For twenty minutes I rant in this manner, uncontrollably, yet within those certain well-defined limits. I vent my rage, but not at Michelle, she's just the other unfortunate victim of our screwy mutual fate, I'm venting for her too. Arriving at a friend's house, I cease the intemperate display, sit in place, breathe deeply. God, I needed that, I think, look at myself in the visor mirror, see a face of malignant anger, even scare myself at the naked hostility, yikes, I'm thinking, laugh at myself, don't feel too bad anymore. Fuck it, just go with it. Dinner's ready soon after I arrive, we drink red wine, eat, drink Jack Daniels out on the deck during a break in the rain, I hardly think of Michelle at all, over the anger, accustomed now to her dodgy antics, she's worse than fucking Jaxon, I think briefly, I've got her spooked. On departing, I check my phone, message from Michelle. Oh my fucking God. Get ready. She rambles on disjointedly for a good five minutes, out of breath, I don't want you to get the wrong idea...but you do look cute in your cowboy duds...not interested in you like that...I've got something brewing...don't want to lead you on. Something brewing, she says. Peter. Thanks for the fucking reminder, I'm thinking, had something brewing, yeah, just fucking yesterday you had something fucking brewing with me. No, don't want to lead me on at all. I don't fucking believe it. This is really too much, I think on the way home, listening to the message again. Cute in the cowboy duds, Jesus Fucking Christ, actually throws that in with everything else, I was fucking right, don't fucking believe it, God knows how things might have worked out if I'd bought the clothes at the beginning. Not interested in you like that, she says, I've got something brewing. I don't want to fall in love with you, I hear, I'll fuck Peter instead. The rest of your life is none of my fucking business, I'm thinking, ever learn the word discretion for Christ's fucking sake, I'm thinking, what's between you and Peter is between you and Peter, what's between us is between us, and please spare me your fucking honesty. And good fucking luck with fucking Peter. All this doesn't bother me too much, though, I notice, that's good, I'm thinking, I'm adjusting, I'll be able to deal with this, think clearly, cool under pressure. The only good news I hear is that Michelle will be gone tomorrow, a surgery with Dan, don't have to face her till Monday. Thank fucking God. Cold resolve, ironic mental attitude, substitute for the great adrenaline rushes I usually feel, especially on these recent Mondays, on the way to the stables. I'm rounding that same edge of the barn, just as I did the other night, and I catch sight of Michelle out of the corner of my eye, she's cleaning the paddock. On noticing me, she stands erect, pitchfork in hand, turns the volume down on the Ipod in her jacket pocket as I continue by, she says, Terry? Oh, hi, I say. Stop to face her. Hi, she says, voice querulous, looks scared. Did you get my message? Yeah, I say, playful smirk. That sure was a long message over not much. Did you manage to take a breath somewhere along there? I was kind of scattered, huh? she says. But why did you disappear like that? Because you said, Go away, Terry, I respond, a little incredulous at the question. No I didn't, Michelle says, look of puzzlement. I said, Oh, Terry. And at this point I'm thinking, Oh, fuck! Well that explains everything, I say, smiling. That was still some message. Glad you like the cowboy costume. She chuckles, her eyes beg understanding, says, I'm sorry. There's so much going on, and I'm worried about the new place, and I'm on my period. I get all emotional sometimes. She turns away, starts flicking turds into the big plastic bucket, continues. One of my therapists said I was a fear-biter, Michelle says, disembodied voice, avoiding my gaze. Something happens, and I get all emotional really fast, and then I lash out and overreact. Sometimes I say things I don't mean. Gee, I never noticed, I say, archly, thinking, yeah, fear biter, one of those dogs that's so timid and scared he bites anyone that gets too close. Please, please, please, I'm thinking, please, Michelle, do not chew off the hand that may have to feed you. You weren't upset, were you? she asks, glancing up at me, back to the ground, in an instant. No, I lie, with a half-smile. I didn't take it too seriously. Okay, she says. Throughout my warm-up with Jaxon, I aggressively stop myself from thinking about anything that's happened over the last week, don't even try to figure this out, I'm thinking, waste of fucking time, it is what it is, don't fucking bother. Despite myself, I think about it anyway, try to remember the conversation we just had, dodged a bullet there, I'm thinking, got her to recant the phone call, said she didn't mean it, she did say that, didn't she, don't fucking bother. We haven't been able to run in the vineyards because of the rain, cleared up finally, I smoke a few pipeloads of cannabis at the pondside, remount, let Jaxon go in the yielding earth, nice, easy surface for him to gallop on, he likes it, feels as if he's in control, I let him, the soggy surface makes Jaxon limit his own speed. This time he doesn't spook until we approach the gate separating the vineyards from the stables, almost gets me this time, the workout's almost over, walking slowly up the hill, he starts to rear, falls back on his haunches, I lean forward, we recover together, just when you least fucking expect it, I think. We're starting Charlie Brown's new program today, Michelle tells me to get him, pick his hooves, brush him off, saddle him up. Ever since she asked me to ride him, I'd been stopping by his corral to feed him an apple, try to make friends. He's a little feisty as I pull on the halter, attach the lead line, cooperative only on his terms. After tethering him in the barn, I attempt, without success, to get him to raise his hooves for a cleaning. He fights it, tries to pull away, shuffles his hooves, steps on my foot briefly. Damn, I yell. You okay? Michelle yells back from somewhere outside. Yes, I bellow, angry at myself for letting him nail me like that. I follow the direction of Michelle's yell, find her in a paddock outside the barn, tell her I give up, Charlie Brown won't do anything for me after twenty minutes. Michelle enters the barn, starts to coo at Charlie Brown, in that voice, she could be addressing an infant, she goes to his head, rubs his nose, speaks affectionately to the horse. He had an injured hoof, she says, and I think he's kind of touchy. He hasn't had this done in a long time. For the next ten minutes, she works on one hoof after another, stroking the lower shaft of the leg, soothing, sexy voice, Charlie Brown will raise one a bit, jerk it free, fidget in place, make Michelle jump back, That's okay, baby, it's okay, no impatience, all love and understanding, she keeps going around, he begins to cooperate. Finally, he raises a hoof and lets her hang on to it, allows her to pick it clean. See? she says, voice of velvet, standing. He'll be okay now. Just rub him gently, and talk to him softly. She's looking into my eyes, slight smile, warm, warm, glow, I melt in place. So by the time I rounded the same corner on Wednesday morning, I'd reverted to the familiar weak-kneed state I'd come to know so well since making Michelle's acquaintance. There she was again, mucking out the same paddock, but a little further along. Hi, Terry, she says, greeting me immediately, as if in wait, eyes all atwinkle. Hi, Michelle, I say, warm glow on its way. A mischievous smile flutters across her lips as she says, I have this friend, Terry. She's really smart and cute, she's a masseuse, and she's French. I think you two might like each other. Really? I say. That's interesting. Little arrow through the heart, ice at the back of my throat, Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, she's at it again, when will it ever fucking end? Hope I betrayed none of that in my voice. Yeah, she says. I thought I might get you together. That wouldn't be too weird for you, would it. No, not at all, I say, thinking, this is fucking serious, is she testing me here, what? Okay, she says, voice musical, self-satisfied. By now I'm helping her lift the bucket of horseshit onto the back of the little tractor, she hops on, rumbles over to the manure pile. I follow behind, she did that on purpose, I'm thinking, she had twenty-four hours since yesterday to think this up and decide it was a good idea, she's pulling wings off a fly here, I'm thinking, geez, that's something Karen would do, not you Michelle, Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, I wonder if Karen helped set this up. I don't fucking believe it. I'm catching up with her as she slows at the mound of shit, she turns, tosses a smile at me. I smile my biggest, most confident smile back. Thought I might get you together, she had just said. I'm looking at her, that smile, smiling in return. But I'm not going to fuck you, I heard. Anybody but you. We're unloading the buckets of turds, Michelle continues to extoll the woman's virtues from her height on the dungheap. And she keeps alluding to this masseuse thing, it's meaningful to her, I'm thinking, what's with that, free massages, she performs miracles in coitus, what? Jesus Fucking Christ, I think, yeah, that's where I find my sweethearts, jobs that suggest a professional interest in sex. Michelle prattles on, she actually seems tittilated by her semi-monolog, I'm saying, uh, huh, that's nice. We dump the last bucket, Michelle says, in conclusion, I think she might be just right for you. She's really independent, too. She shoots a last look at me, standing tall, triumphant on the pile of manure, that smug smile, I look back, hold her eyes, say slowly, but that's why I like you, Michelle, deadpan face. Her smile collapses, shoulders slump, she deflates in an instant, looks embarrassed, turning away, says, almost a whisper, I can be pretty needy sometimes, Terry. I don't want to fall in love with you, I hear, I'm afraid of falling in love with you. She's looking back at me now, her visage says she's defenseless, I respond, slowly again, well, Michelle, I always figured that comes with the female territory. This time, I turn my back on her, walk off to get Jaxon. Okay, I'm thinking, no way out here, have to think about this. Some more. Yes, this situation is insane. But you can make sense of it. Somehow. Maybe. I can't, of course, but I try, until shifting my approach. I've got it, I think. How might this whole thing play out, what are the most plausible scenarios? And this concept has been bouncing around in my head for a while, never gamed it methodically, it's time, now. Significant assumptions, Michelle's as good as I think, but emotionally damaged. Badly. Head and heart thing going on, feels an attraction for me, resists it. Initial reasons for rejection valid, she has a boyfriend, not so valid now. But she's developed the habit of rejecting me, does it reflexively. Then there's Peter, new complication. She's either sincerely confused, on the one hand, or, on the other, she's a devious succubus. I strongly believe in the former, a smidge of the latter, perhaps, thrown in. That's a start, I'm thinking, that much I know. So what might happen? First scenario, any day now, she might actually allow us to get together. We give it a try, really don't like each other that much, know it was a mistake. Or we give it a try, end up making love, repeat or not. If so, potential short- or long-term relationship, probably messy, possibly divine. Second scenario, nothing happens any day now, but we remain friends, deepen friendship, maintain contact, first scenario still a possibility. Or we remain friends and slowly drift apart, end of story. Or Michelle goes through the motions of remaining friends, insures we drift apart, fast, end of story. Third scenario, Michelle precipitates a break, might say, one day, We have to talk. She tells me to get lost in so many discouraging words, end of story. Or I respond, talk her into giving us a chance, she relents, the first scenario kicks in. Or, in retort, she explains in excruciating detail why she finds me completely unappealing, perhaps disgusting. This she might do in scathing Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe fashion, or, worse, Michelle manner, solicitous velvet voice, patronizing, doesn't want to hurt my feelings, kind blue eyes, ripping my heart out. Really end of story. Geez, that's all very reassuring, I'm thinking, pacing and smoking and drinking, and I have, indeed, outlined the most plausible futures for us, yes, that does sum it up. And I'm running through the possibilities again, stabs of pain jabbing me here and there throughout the speculations, I feel a flicker of every emotion I'll feel, know I'll feel, in each contingency, and the warm glow emitted by the best outcomes of the first scenario turn to ice in the throat for most of the rest. Well this is just fucking great, I'm thinking, the romance gets less likely the closer I get, saw this coming, over and over, saw this coming, still nothing I can do to change that, never was, and now I'm convinced, Michelle, is, in fact, afraid of falling in love with me, was anyway, she's massaging that situation nicely, I think, very fucking funny. It's been three months since that lunch at the deli, When was the last time you were in love? she asked, went on to tell me how she never mentioned the boyfriend to keep personal stuff out of business, where did that question fit in with business I'm thinking now. Yeah, I'm thinking, three months ago I sent that email after that lunch, referred to romantic adventure, Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, wish I'd left out the adventure part, Michelle's giving me an adventure alright, on second thought I'll settle for the romance. Hell, I'll settle for the friendship, I'm thinking, and that's the new problem, I'm thinking, she's trying so hard to kill the romance she'll kill the friendship. Michelle's so afraid of her feelings for me, whatever they are, she might do anything, she is. I act as a loyal friend, she treats me as annoying suitor, rejects me as a lover for behaving as that friend. I'm not going to fuck you! she reminds me at every opportunity, new opportunities she'll manufacture, I do not want to tolerate that. She's obsessed with not fucking me, I'm thinking, yeah, she's actually obsessed with not fucking me, makes perfect sense, I'm thinking, because if we ever fuck, I'm thinking, it will become an expression of love, anything might be possible, and she cannot fall in love with me, of course, she's obsessed with not fucking me. Wanna go to a movie, Michelle? I'm not going to fuck you! Yup. Obsessed. And I'm still pacing and smoking and thinking about it all Wednesday morning, in front of the coffeehouse, thinking more on the drive out, thinking about Michelle setting me up with another woman, thought about it after that day at the deli when she told me she wasn't available. Yeah, get her to set you up with a friend, I was thinking, that'll let her know you're not stuck on her, nothing special, weasel your way into her life, get to know her better, her circle, double date with the boyfriend, that'll be great, I know there's a weakness there, she's vulnerable here, yes, make her a little jealous. And if I get lucky, get laid, Michelle will hear about it, and I may not be the best a woman ever had, but I could be, and Michelle will hear I'm pretty good, certainly not bad, and she'll start thinking, and maybe I'll be able to tomcat my way through a few of her friends, if I get lucky, and maybe then I can get into Michelle's pants, and isn't that a great way to start a meaningful relationship, the cad of her heart's desire, the man she always finds. And I'm thinking, for the first time in awhile, about that summer day she invited me to meet her, again, at the square, in the bar, first time I saw the other Michelle, catch and release Michelle. Terry and I had one of those conversations, didn't we? she said for her sister's benefit, my benefit, get lost, and that's the point of fixing me up, I'm thinking, get lost, new variation from her well-stocked arsenal, catch and release to pimp and recycle, all's fair in love and war. I could have done that back then I'm thinking, but didn't, same reason don't want to do it now, it's tempting, but won't, I'm thinking, we're already too deep, too real, I don't do that stuff, not anymore, anyway, tried to avoid it, can't do that to Michelle, she is special. I will not, I am thinking, I will not go out of my way to introduce any thing tawdry to this relationship. Michelle will see to that. No doubt, I'm thinking, no fucking doubt, I think as I turn off the highway toward the stables, and the barn comes into view, wonder what horrors await around that corner now, I'm thinking, but I can see Michelle now, she's sitting at the picnic table up by the overhang with the skull, facing away from the table, legs extended in front of her, head down, pony-tail, baseball cap, ranch jacket, imagine the aroma, go weak, tight, faded jeans. What's she cooking up now, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ, stab of pain, wish I didn't have to feel that way about her. Yeah, I'm thinking, I should go on the attack here, I'm thinking, ask if she called her friend, set us up for the weekend, let's get moving here. Suggest we double date with Dan, the boyfriend. Even better, Peter. That'll get to her, especially if she's afraid of falling in love with me. The fear will abate, jealousy and desire will kick in, maybe, the realizaton she has no hold on me, yes, that will work on her every vulnerability, put her on the defensive quite nicely, shift the balance of power here, no, Michelle, you can't take me for granted. And I'm getting closer, feel the slight buzz of adrenaline in small doses, all cold-blooded, like the feeling of power, hard edge, want to play games here, I'm thinking, want to treat me like a chump, I can play some games, Michelle, yes, exploit those vulnerabilities, teach you a thing or two. As if she needs more of those lessons. I'm almost there, can't do it, I'm thinking, cannot do that, she can treat me like a chump as much as she needs, if only because she needs it. Needs me. She ignores my approach, doesn't look up, stares onto a space in the middle of the gravel turnaround, Hey, Michelle, what's up? I ask, all confidence, ready for anything. Still, she does not look up. I'm not a loser, she says, weak, disembodied voice. Again. I am not a loser. What's wrong? I ask. Did something happen? Yeah, she says, drawing out the word, lapsing into a breathless sing-song of woe. The new stable isn't going to happen. I had everything worked out with the wife, and then the husband got involved, and he wanted more money, and he made all these demands, and rules, and there's no way I can make enough money to survive out there. And I've been hearing all these horror stories from former tenants. Those people are crazy. But it doesn't matter. I can't afford it anyway. I'm sorry, Michelle, I say, heart breaking, again, at her bad fortune, flash of guilt as I think, fucking dumbass, could've had that fucking ranch by now, weren't you fucking smart, no pesky mortgage for you, didn't fucking want my help. What are you going to do? I don't know. I've got some leads on a few places, but I've got to be out of here in less than a month. And it's Christmas and New Years, and everyone's going to be gone. I don't know. And I should say something here, but I can't, heart breaking, heart broken for her, she's the picture, the voice, of despair, I try not to sob, she goes on. I'm not going to have any money coming in, I don't have any money for Christmas presents or a tree, voice drifting into silence. I am not a loser, she says, again, with emphasis. Michelle, I say, composure regained, you are not a loser. You've been doing great. I've watched you for months, I've never seen anyone work so hard or try so hard. You're really admirable, and you've done everything you can. You've been making a living doing something really ambitious, you're living a dream life, doing what you wanted to do, have your horses, a house in the vineyards, you've been doing great. And you're having some rotten luck, but it's not because you're a loser. Things will work out. I don't really believe this anymore, but I try, think of the ranch deal again, yup, loser. No, I think, wait a minute, it's still available, if we moved fast, Michelle could still pull it off, nothing's really changed, I'm thinking, and then, right, nothing's really changed, Michelle hasn't changed, she'll fight it every step of the way, find a way to fuck it up, make me look bad with people to no good end, forget about it. No, she's right. Loser. I can't believe it, she mumbles. Just a few months ago, everything was going great, I was riding high. Had lots of money coming in, I could do anything I wanted. I see the glint in her eye, knowing smile, yes, I could do anything I wanted, satisfaction in her voice, uttering the last. That's a look, I'm thinking, a syndrome, I know. Kind of person who loses control when things are going well, feel like they can get away with anything, wild risks, sloppy habits, indulged, take a fall, really pay attention for a time, try to be good, get their lives back in order, hubris returns, new disaster. Michelle goes from one small triumph to another, interrupted by crushing defeat, new triumphs never regaining the lost ground, crushing defeat. Now downward spiral. And I'm thinking of my own life, endless series of disasters, always turned around, new successes from old failures, odd how it always works out for me. But I learn from my mistakes, at least try. And always look over my shoulder when things go well, look for that incoming squall. Oh, Michelle. She sits limp in place, silent, before saying, I'd better finish my chores, dragging herself up, adding, And if all that wasn't enough, Ty broke the pipe that fills his water bowl. She rejects my offer to fix it, one of her laborers is taking care of it, doesn't need my help, I go for Jaxon. And I'm picking his hooves, brushing him down, just outside the stall with the pipe that needed repair, been fixed by now, workman just left, I hear Michelle say, Damn it! What's wrong, I ask, turns out he fixed the pipe alright, but the faucet trigger doesn't work, the lines are clogged somewhere. I offer to have a look at it, she rejects the suggestion out of hand, as if it's absurd, don't need your fucking help, she says, not saying it, storming off to shovel more shit. And I don't care if she gets angry at me, don't give a fuck, go ahead, get mad at me for fixing things for you, fucking dumbass. Fucking loser. Oh, Michelle, I think, stifled internal sob, heart cry, why do you make it so hard on yourself? I have a look, we can fix this in a few minutes, I know, need her help to turn off the water supply at the other end of the barn, I find her outside, tell her my idea. She resists, openly exasperated at me, I cajole her into assisting, a short test reveals that the clog's in the faucet. Within a few more minutes, together, we fix it. Thanks, she says, begrudgingly, walking off. Thanks for saying I told you so, I hear, unsaid. That, I'm thinking, is the story of our short, shared life. My ride's over, I'm walking by Michelle, at work inside a stall, I stop, thoughtlessly, don't know why I confront her like this, but I do. So, Michelle, I venture, everything's falling apart for you, huh? Thought you were going to marry Dan, build the vet clinic, live happily ever after? And now none of it's going to happen? She continues to probe the pitchfork through the wood shavings, flicking turds into a bucket, leveling the surface, refuses to look at me, seconds tick by, she says, finally, Uh huh, weak, tinny voice. Takes a deep breath, says, But it'll work out. Somehow. Neither of us is convinced, I walk off, don't want to extend her embarrassment, misery, don't want to make her cry, but it's a thought, I can comfort her then, she'll cry on my shoulder, her body next to mine, Venus pressing herself against me, convulsing, weakly, in the shedding of tears, yes, that's a thought, You fucking asshole, I think to myself, why did you do that to her? I did not plan that, I think, but we just established that she's hit bottom, we have clarified that, why did you do that, I ask myself, again, why did you need to highlight every manifestation of Michelle's failure? Make her feel like a loser? Pull wings off a fly. Because, I'm thinking, because she needs my help, and I can't help if she keeps fighting me like she does, and I don't care about romance anymore, don't care if we make love, just want to see her happy, and she needs my help, but she's going to drive me away if she keeps treating my the way she does, and I don't want to leave her like that. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, I have an idea here, and if I act on it, I'll kill any chances I have as a lover, she'll feel indebted, another reason to spurn me, she'll take me for granted, another reason to spurn me, I really don't give a fuck, she can spurn me as a lover, as a man, as much as she needs, I really don't give a fuck, do not need that damaged woman's validation as a man, self-defeating dumbass, I'm going to do this. She's outside now, in one of the paddocks, I confront her again. Hey, Michelle, I say. I know things are tight for you, but it'll get better, it has to. Meanwhile, I can give you a line of credit, say, a thousand bucks. You can pay me back whenever you can, no strings attached. Yeah? she says, almost a whisper, can't look at me, aimlessly running the pitchfork through the muck. Yes, Michelle, really, I say. I just want to see things work out for you. Whether it's with me, or Dan, or some tattooed cowboy in a battered pickup truck, I just want to see things work out for you, Michelle. With me or without me. She stops, looks toward me briefly, says, That's a good name for a song, you know. A tattooed cowboy in a battered pickup truck. Yeah, I say, it is. Hey, Michelle, remember. Whenever you need it. No strings attached. I leave without eliciting the routine hug, don't want to confuse the issue here, I mean it, no strings attached, walk to my car, thinking, yeah, great name for a song, Michelle's song, song of her life. Song of a loser. I'm driving back to town, angry, depressed, knowing she'll never ask me for money, no matter what, get another idea. I think it over for a while, yes, I'm going to do this, she might, finally, now, tell me to get lost, no, I don't fucking care, I'm going to do this. I run some errands, kill some time, know that by now she's gone for the afternoon, won't return till dark and the evening feeding. I stop by my office, withdraw three hundred dollars from the cash machine, go inside, retrieve an envelope, write a note. Go buy some presents and a tree, it says, and have a Merry Christmas. I leave it unsigned, fold the money within the note, seal it all inside the envelope. Drive back out to the stables, drop it into the locked box where boarders and students insert their checks. Well, I'm thinking, it's done, and I can't wait for the explosion tomorrow. Maybe. Who fucking knows, and I don't care anymore, resigned, again. It's Thursday morning, rain off and on, good day for the backlash, must be a backlash, but Michelle shows no hint of acknowledgement that she's discovered the envelope. She almost ignores me, in fact, perfunctory greeting on my arrival, goes right back to work, no pause or removal of the headphones, I continue on my way to the plastic chair, a smoke. And I'm sitting in that chair, thinking about how sweet it had been out there, how hopeful, looking at the barn, the rolling hills in vine, horses behind white fences, Michelle working through her chores, thinking, again, of that woman I first came to know, how strong, how noble. The woman I now know, how fucked up. I admire her more than ever. And from my perch up the slope from her, I'm watching Michelle walk back and forth pushing the wheelbarrow, leading a horse, retrieving a tool, just as I've watched her for months, all that's changed are the feelings I feel. Yearning, warm glow going, nagging, cold fear growing. Oh my fucking God! What happened? Her life is falling apart all around her, I'm thinking, her life's disintegrating. So is she, so brave, so fragile, coming all apart. And I'm thinking about destiny again, how we ended up here together, I thought we might get lucky, have a little fun together, nothing serious, the shifting drama, comic to tragic, not what I had in mind at all. And I'm thinking about the first night I saw her, under the stars in the vineyards, the only person I saw, that aura, that scared looking little girl, that woman who rebuffed me, continued to rebuff me, called out to me through the ether. All along intuition told me something bad was happening to her, don't know how I knew, but I did, my worst suspicions confirmed, day by day, week by week, month by month. And here I sit, positioned by fate, watching over Michelle. Of course, she'd like to ignore me, I'm thinking, she bared her soul to me yesterday, revealed her deepest feelings of self-doubt, failure, that's enough to kill us off, revealing too much, too soon, did she really say that out loud, to me? As if I already didn't know too much for a man not her lover. And I'm trying to figure out what she's thinking now, angry at me for the money forced on her, angry at me for hearing her secrets, angry at me for the needs I supply. I rouse myself for Jaxon's workout, walk to his stall. Michelle's horse heads for his gate as soon as he sees me coming for Jaxon, he's happier to see me than Jaxon, I carve up the apple as I do every day, feeding the slices one by one to the Arab, slipping a chunk or two to Michelle's horse, put in a good word for me, buddy, I say. Jaxon looks at me as if he resents the relationship. Yeah, I'm cheating on you too, asshole, I say, rubbing his nose. I'm riding him in the arena again, no choice, an English saddle, working on the finer points, squeezing a direction out of Jaxon with my knees rather than the reins, and Michelle enters the arena, sits on the stool in the corner. She starts talking, nothing special, I'm riding around in big circles, approaching her, passing her by, riding away, looping back, and she's talking, I'm responding, and she's telling me about living in Malibu and tending bar somewhere by the beach. I didn't know about that, I'm thinking, and I ask about the timing, when did you live there? I ask. And it was for a few years in the late-eighties, early nineties, she says, and I'm thinking, geez, I could have had a drink in that bar, yeah, she'd told me she'd been a bartender, but in the South, never had a clue in Los Angeles too. And I'm not paying attention to Jaxon anymore, fuck the finer points of riding, I'm listening to Michelle, trying to pay attention, her voice rising and falling in my ears as I circle in front of her, all hyperaware now, adrenaline's pumping, I can tell, secrets to follow, do I want to hear this? And she's telling me about her weight problem, how she weighed 160 pounds, that's what I weigh, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ, she was a fat chick. Don't fucking believe it. How she was as big as a house when she was pregnant, and she's talking about riding her bike up and down the Venice boardwalk, heavy with her daughter, growing inside, and I'm thinking, that's when Tricia was trying to get pregnant, and I used to run and bike on the boardwalk then, alone, God knows how many times we may have passed each other. Did I even see her, I'm thinking, did I see her when I saw her, I'm thinking, fat chick on a bike, wouldn't have noticed, instant dismissal from consciousness if noted at all, pregnant fat chick on a bike, Jesus Fucking Christ, I don't fucking believe it. And after her daughter's born, she tells me, she got a birth control implant, temporary sterility, good idea, I'm thinking, I'm sure that was a planned pregnancy, I'm thinking, right, and she does at least know who the father is, seems to anyway, a man claims her as his daughter, they get along great, she once told me, back when I first tried to figure out where the various men fit in, and I'm thinking about the Coyote Ugly Bar, her fantasy, revealed, that day on the square, Venus revealed, of course, in that bar on the square, Botticelli's Venus, revealed, when she let her hair down, thrust her breasts out, shook her hair loose, I'm thinking about that, and men, and bars, in Malibu, and now I'm ready to fall off Jaxon. But I'm still riding around in circles, walk and canter, trying to pay attention to the horse, fuck the horse, this is really something, and the database in my brain is trying to absorb and sort this new information, where does this all fit in, can't begin to know at this point. Rushing in head, pounding in heart. Jesus Fucking Christ! And her voice rises and falls with the distance of the circle, a disembodied voice, weak, vulnerable, she's exposing herself to me, again, her nakedness, I'm aching for her, she goes on about how the implant changed her metabolism, lost more weight than expected after the birth. She was transformed. And I'm all rushing in head now, listening, not quite hearing, her voice rising and falling with my circle, I'm thinking of that image I formed of her, the birth of Venus, rising from the sea, why the image was so natural, so close to mind, the image of Botticelli's Venus, bigger than life, a great mural along the boardwalk in Venice, I imagine myself standing opposite, as I did so often, then, looking at the big painting, looking at the bikes rolling along the concrete path, see a fat chick riding by, Michelle, I don't even see her after seeing her. Oh my fucking God! I see her now. New again. Damaged more. Oh my fucking God! And now she's talking about living in Manhattan, how did that happen, I wonder, and she's living with a stockbroker type, an athlete, who helps her eat right, got her running, in shape, even moved them all into a house in the New Jersey suburbs. And I'm coming around again, and she says, I couldn't take it. One day I packed our bags and got out of there. My head's ready to explode. By the time I leave I've forgotten all about the money, any backlash, I'm all at sea again, floundering, foundering, in new speculation. Have to re-evaluate my assumptions, I'm thinking, where do I start? She grew up a victim of the sixties, alternative lifestyles, drugs, grew up without men on a commune, boys could talk her into anything. Would-be friends eschewed her, she lived with the deviates, ostracized, a naive, adventurous pretty girl, I thought, easily exploited. Now I see the little fat girl, instead, all the natural problems, doubts, self-esteem issues, exaggerated manyfold, the boys condescending to fuck the fat chick. If she got lucky. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, it just gets worse and worse, she never got even the hint of a break. And then, at the age of twenty-two, twenty-three, she turns into a femme fatale, no fucking wonder she lusts for the lust of men, no fucking wonder she distrusts them, gets it all wrong, wants to get even. And I'm thinking of the guy in New York, nothing but good to say of him, refines her body, creates a home, runs away, just fucking perfect. And I think of her being victimized by men, drunken cowboy, negligent doctor, who knows, now this man, abandoned. Michelle fucked over, Michelle fucking over, victim, victimizer, Oh my fucking God, it all makes perfect sense. And I'm thinking of the sixties, all the corrosive illusions it fostered, all tradition bad, break the rules good, I surfed the crest of that wave, got away with it, can't look back for the flotsam in my wake, and here she is, damage personified, raised in the lifestyle I promoted, using the drugs I proliferated, still flailing through life. And the guy in New York read my magazines, followed my advice, reshaped Michelle, the spawn consuming its source, consuming me, my past, now an obsession, as woman. And I'm thinking about all this, again, the new information, and why does she tell me these things, I wonder, how did we end up talking about that, what's she really trying to say, revealing this weakness, these secrets? She just needs someone to talk to, I'm thinking, a stranger's ear, someone not part of her life, I'm thinking, never can be now. The closer we get, the more difficult to close the distance, it's all going to disappear. And romance is the furthest thing from my mind now, anyway, I can't work on her like that, don't want her suspecting my motives, I can't work on anyone, postpone or abandon my campaigns with other women, she's more than enough to handle, as a friend, I have to play this just right, listen to her needs, just be there. Some fucking romance this turned out to be, I'm thinking, some fucking romance, what's she trying to tell me now? You don't want me, I hear. You don't want me. I'm a loser. I'm benumbed anew, and I'm driving out to the stables on Friday, what horrors await today, I'm thinking, but without any sense of humor, irony, now, the horrors are real, they wait! She's aloof again today, the perfunctory nod, I go for Jaxon, I'm saddling him up inside the barn, she makes an appearance, starts talking in the sing-song voice while I cinch him up, stand around waiting to tighten it some more. Something funny happened over the last couple of days, she says. Yeah? I say. What's that? And we're walking by each other in the passageway, around the horse, getting something, putting it away, we don't look at each other, she answers, tentatively. Somebody left some money for me in the check box, and there was a note that said to buy Christmas presents. You know, I really needed it. It came at a good time. Oh, that's nice, I say, all matter of fact. I can't figure who might have done something like that, she says, voice weak, tinny. You wouldn't have any idea, would you? She stops now, to look at me, I glance into her eyes, vulnerable face, turn away to get Jaxon's bridle. Oh, I might have an idea, I say. Was it you? Uh huh. We look at each other for a few beats, she continues. I couldn't imagine who would do that for me, she says. Thanks She walks off as if in a daze, heads outside. Geez, I'm thinking, okay, that worked out alright. No backlash. But who the fuck do you think left you that money, I'm thinking, your good friends? Who the fuck else in your life has been trying to look out for you, dumbass? And I'm thinking how clueless she is, then it hits me how sad it is, she had no idea who might do that for her. She knew it was none of her friends, new it was no one from her real life, could not conceive of such a thing happening to her, couldn't believe it of me, despite all the evidence, my obvious concern, she's mystified by an act of kindness. No strings attached. So fucking sad. Then Michelle's working in a paddock just outside the barn wall from me, and a longtime boarder who arrived minutes earlier stops to chat. They exchange pleasantries, then Michelle says, false cheery voice, You won't believe what just happened to me. Yeah, what? Well, you know, she says, voice louder than warranted given their proximity to each other, I've been having a rough time lately, and everything's been going wrong, and I'm short of money? Somebody left three hundred dollars in the check box, with a note telling me to buy presents! Isn't that nice? And I can't figure out who would do something like that for me. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I hear. Oh, Michelle, I say to myself, fight back a tear or two. You are really something. I suggest lunch at the deli after my ride, she assents, we drive together in her jeep, mostly silence, she wears her fragility under the ranch jacket, I miss seeing her arms. We're eating our sandwiches, she makes a visible effort to sound normal, makes small talk. Next week I can try riding Charley Brown, he's been responding well to his workouts at the end of the lunge line, should be able to handle a rider in small doses. Michelle's looking at another ranch not too far away. And the woman who wants to buy Ty is coming by with a trainer for a closer look. Then she starts on about the teenage girl who rides the once-famous racehorse. Alex rides as if she's a natural appendage of the horse, knows how to ride English or Western, been riding since childhood, has real skills. The thoroughbred, a beautiful, good-natured gelding, lacks the killer instinct, couldn't perform on the track, needs to be trained for pleasure riding. Alex has issues, though, always fighting with her parents, in and out of her boyfriend's place, She's kind of a screwup, says Michelle. She doesn't show up when she's supposed to, but worse, she loses her temper at the horse. I'd noticed her outbursts since going to the stables daily, You stupid fuckhead! and the like, smacking him with the riding crop, shortcomings hidden from me. He doesn't try to be difficult, doesn't rear or buck, he just doesn't understand, Alex is impatient, frustrated, angry anyway, takes it out on the horse. Yeah, says Michelle, I'm going to have to talk to her one of these days. And we're sitting at the table where we always sit, not quite side-by-side, but close, chairs canted to look outward at the intersection, watch the cars go by, gas heaters hanging from above radiating waves of warmth. There's a lull in the conversation, Michelle says, There goes Mike. Who's Mike? I ask, looking up, should know better by now. He's an old boyfriend, she says. He can't even talk to me now. And I'm looking at the busy country crossroad, dozens of vehicles passing, a half-dozen pickup trucks, most blemished, a couple battered, I'm looking for that tattooed cowboy by time I hear her last utterance. Can't talk to her now, why am I not surprised? The disembodied voice takes over, she's talking from the grave, tells me how she started cheating on Dan with the guy, they had so much fun together, great sex, had to break it off. And now I see the glint in her eye from the corner of mine, saw that same sparkle during our first lunch here, with Bruce, the knowing little smile of satisfaction, when the subject of infidelities came up, had my suspicions then on observing it, God damn, I called that right. I got away with it for a year, she says, and then I tried to stop, and he went kind of crazy and started following me around, and calling Dan. And once, after we went out, he broke into Dan's house, and he tore up all our pictures and threw them around. And he wrote whore on the walls. Oh fuck, I'm thinking, not fucking again, spare me, please, fucking God! And I'm laughing and screaming inside, she can't shock me anymore, I'd told myself, what, a dozen times now, a hundred? Jesus Fucking Christ, how does she fucking do it? Could not make this stuff up, I'm thinking, who's writing this script, please, God, no! You know how he spelled it? she asks. H-O-R. One of my friends said he was my manchild. We went hiking, and things like that. He was sweet, and spontaneous. And I needed that. I couldn't help myself. And Dan's so smart, he's so intellectually stimulating, and I need that too. But he's kind of boring. He's never forgiven me, and we haven't made love ever since. It's been more than a year, she tells me, the horror, the horror, all I can think. We drive back to the stables, mostly silence, hug good-bye on return, I'm on my way to my vehicle, she's searching for something in hers, I stop, swivel back, say, Hey, Michelle. Yeah? She turns to me. You've got to get out of that relationship with Dan, I say. You can't build a relationship on guilt and shame, Michelle. I know, she says, voice all tinny and breathless. I know. I remain calm as I get into my car, start the engine, drive slowly off the property, containing the eruption until I turn onto the highway. I choke with rage, bile in my gorge, I rant, I rave, that fucking monster, that fucking monster, that vile fucking monster, that evil fucking man! I yell, I gasp for breath, my vocal chords raw, I can't believe what he's done to her, the neglect, the humiliation, the punishment, drenching Michelle, withholding affection, sex, a torture, the most brutal torture conceivable for Michelle, yes, smart guy, uses all his brilliance to rip her down, destroy her spirit. Make her loathe herself as much as he loathes her. And I'm thinking of his calls to her, the cell phone leash, his commands, her deference, running his errands, won't let her into his house, driving for hours, to feed his dog, trying to please him, redeem herself, evil charade, plain torture. And I see Michelle, over these long months, trying so hard to be good, do the right thing, watch her struggles with me, Peter, strangers in a bar, see the war within, she tries so hard, nothing works out anyway, she lets this bastard degrade her. No wonder she resists me, one strong man after another, another brute perhaps, worse than the last, the brute she doesn't recognize. And I think of the drunken cowboy, beat her, bad enough, but human, common, no, this is extraordinary, cruelty I can't imagine, cruelty he plans. For Michelle. Celibate, yes, I'm celibate, she said in that email, a fucking crime she's celibate, Michelle burns with passion, needs love, needs sex, I can't fucking believe it, not any of it. And she's afraid of falling in love with me, of course she is, so obvious, now, keeps falling for mean daddies and manchildren, one after another, finding love in all the wrong faces, never met a real man. And I'm thinking of the appeal she describes, of Mike and Dan, fun and smart, I'm that whole man, she won't give us a chance, I understand fully. Michelle learns from every mistake of her past, exploits the lessons for all the mistakes of her future. You don't want me, Terry. I'm bad. I'm a loser. And a fling with Peter makes sense, I see, from Michelle's point of view, yes, afraid of falling in love, no worry with the boy soon to leave. But the act of making love inevitably evokes the feelings of love, and I know Michelle will outsmart herself again, at the very best, especially if she goes out of her way to alienate me. If the affair doesn't satisfy, she'll be disappointed, feel a little cheap, dirty, perhaps. If it turns out to be everything she wanted, she will fall in love, to some extent, lament the loss. Even if everything works out as well as it can, Michelle will hurt herself. Especially if she throws away what we have. And I hear her voice, hear her pain, telling that story of infidelity, hear that voice in all her stories, know her difficulties, know now the inner fat girl, she can't help herself, really can't, can't take it, I can't take her pain, Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, never felt so bad on my own, never feel pain like I do my woman's. Michelle, oh, Michelle, let me help, please. Let me hold you. Let's make love, give us a chance. Give yourself a chance. I smolder throughout the weekend, divert myself in antique shops, rare book stores, attempt to suppress the rage, unbridled hatred, for the boyfriend, find myself in a cafe late Sunday afternoon. And I order tea, sit down, and I'm sipping the tea, a burning sensation emanates from my left side, a radiating pain, I break into a sweat, feel faint, might pass out. I struggle to my car, collapse in the seat, wait for it to pass, finally, briefly, it does. I drive home, the pain returning, take to bed, the pain increases, in waves, and I'm panting, gasping, in agony, between the assaults, lie abed for hours, the pain getting worse. If this doesn't stop, I'm thinking, I'll just have to shoot myself. And it's true, and I know I have to go to the hospital, struggle back to the car, drive back to town, fast, passing on curves, running red lights, not sure I can last. Emergency room entrance, hope I can make it, stop to call Tricia, tell her where I am, she's coming. Collapse on the emergency room floor, writhe in pain, moaning, the few Mexican observers try not to stare. Gasp and moan, in sync with the pain, gasp and moan, I can't bear it, I have no choice. Tricia and Jimmy arrive, I've been flopping around on the floor for an hour, attendants finally take me in. It's a kidney stone, not serious, just painful, oh, the pain, the fucking agony, blessed morphine, finally, thank God, thank God, thank God for drugs. They send me off with codiene, use what you need, wait for it to pass. Tricia brings me back to her house, once ours, puts me into her bed, once ours, she'll sleep in Jimmy's room. I luxuriate in the mild opiate fog, Tricia lavishes attention on me, she is my slave, hasn't treated me like this in years. I wallow in the comfort, the warmth, the druggy fog, on Monday, don't want to impose, she won't let me leave, by Tuesday, the stone still does not pass, but I feel better. I stop taking the painkillers, want to see if I need them, don't, spend the night anyway, Tricia insists. She doesn't hate me anymore, we can talk again, she wants to discuss Christmas plans, all Jimmy wants is to do what we used to do, before the divorce, before the dismal last year, last Christmas, make plans for the next weekend, dinner and a show in the city. And I'm sitting at the table in the Victorian kitchen, Tricia's fiestaware dishes stacked against the white walls, vibrant colors highlighted, familiar paintings on the walls, just like old times, I'm thinking, two years ago I sat in this same chair thinking how lucky I was. A year ago I sat in this same chair thinking how cruel Tricia was. Cruel Christmas, all misery, she hated me, let me know it. And we're sitting and talking, yes, just like old times, mutual affection renewed. and I'm thinking of all that happened, so fast, perfect family to amicable divorce, two uneasy years, can't fucking believe it. And I have no regrets, wonder about her, worry about her, she'll never find a man who appreciated her like I did. I don't know how, blame it on the codiene residue in my system, I don't know how, but we end up talking about Michelle, obliquely. And Tricia knew me, knew how I worked women, knew from the time she heard I was taking riding lessons from a woman, knew I had plans. And I let her know something's going on, the short version, things falling apart with the boyfriend, we might get lucky. And she knows I pick women well, treat them well, she knows I care for Michelle. She looks at me, says, in that voice, generous, loving concern, she says, You need to give her time. I think time's running out, I say, turning away, stifling a sob, hiding it, tell her I have to lie down, escape to the bedroom. And I'm on my back on the bed, tears flowing down my face, all I can see is the love in Tricia's eyes, Give her time, she said, my God, I'm thinking, that was the kindest thing she ever did for me, said to me, she wants to see me happy, without her, perhaps, but she wants to see me happy. I weep. The next morning, a Wednesday, I regale my friends at the coffeehouse with the most recent misadventure, pace and smoke out front, prepare to drive to the stables. What next? I'm thinking, God only knows. And I'm thinking of Michelle as a loose woman, now what, exactly, does that mean, what to make of the latest I've learned. No clue anymore, doesn't matter anymore. I want to be with her, accept her for who she is, I can do this. And I'm thinking of fuck buddies from my past, friends and lovers, women who wanted me when they wanted me, and the freedom to explore, and women I wanted when I wanted, freedom to explore, Michelle and I could make something work. And I'm thinking of girls I knew as a youngster, girls I thought of as sluts, girls who made themselves available to me, between the others, but they always came back to me, whenever I wanted, whatever I wanted. I resented them, thought ill of them, didn't show it, took the nookie when I wanted, stupid sluts. And years later, in Venice, when I had women by the dozens, fuck buddies who tasted other men, I saw the complexity, the essential goodness, in them, despite the infidelities. Thought of those teenage sluts, felt guilty, whatever they did with anyone else, they most wanted to be with me, they were loyal to me, in their ways. And I'm thinking of all these wonderful women I came to know, some of the best of them married, with boyfriends, they just did what they had to do, they meant no harm, couldn't help themselves. But when one of those women committed to you, no matter who they might fuck, they expressed a purity to savor, a commitment transcending the norm. And I'm trying to determine why unavailable women are so attractive, vulnerable, easier to make friends with, and I get it, finally, never gave it much thought till I met Michelle, the one exception, at least in regards to me, to this new observation. Their defenses are down, just because they see themselves as unavailable. They can talk to a strange, attractive man, no threat, won't be going out together, they're married. And God help the marriage if they become friends, just friends, that's the beginning of the end, been there, done that, I've been that friend, and there's always hope. I really want to be Michelle's friend. More than anything now, I just want to be that good friend to Michelle, and I know that will be difficult. I have decided, ultimately, that there is one thing I can control in this whole endeavor, and that is my own behavior. I'd already committed myself to her welfare, whatever my amatory interest, to try to do the honorable thing, despite my own desires. But so much has transpired since those initial resolutions, my every worst intuition confirmed, I must reconsider everything. Every day, I live in fear, of Michelle precipitating a break somehow, every day I see us getting closer, every day I expect Michelle to fall into my arms or tell me to go away. I cannot deny my desire for her, or her for me, and the inherent emotional tension, the frustration of these proximate dreams, flogs me to the brink. I fear a confrontation, Michelle manufacturing another excuse to reject me, I fear getting angry at her, I fear talking to her about us, the false, facile denials. Every day, I see Michelle's need, especially now, for a disinterested friend, an uncomfortable role, given my feelings, but I have to try. I've never seen anyone's life collapse so precipitously in so many ways, never before had revealed to me, in such detail, the sordid events leading to the climax. I can't get over the extent to which I somehow saw it all from the beginning, knew something important would happen, felt that deep, immediate pull to that woman. Fate, self-contrived, perhaps, but fate, nonetheless, inserted me into Michelle's life just when she most needed me, and I accepted the mission. And all along the way, I've questioned what I wanted out of this relationship, from sex, to commitment, to friendship, what I wanted, what I'd settle for, given the difficulties, given Michelle. And all I can guarantee from this relationship is my own behavior, to try to do the right thing. I will be satisfied if Michelle thinks fondly of me in distant years, the nicest man, perhaps, she ever knew. That is a possibility if I behave well, and I'll settle for that. Anything more is a bonus. At the very least, I hope never to disappoint her. All this percolates in my mind over the weekend, then in bed, the euphoric hiatus, and I decide I can't do anything to threaten my ability to assist Michelle, as inobtrusivey as possible. To that end, I resolve to avoid provoking a romantic confrontation, an excuse for Michelle to chase me off. All the while knowing she'll turn random friendly gestures into excuses to have that confrontation, all the while knowing she might, finally, provoke the romance. Whatever Michelle does, I don't ever want to hurt her, be angry at her, to take advantage of her. To exploit her weakness, especially now. Anything she might do is alright with me. Even so, it will be difficult enough to remain friends at this point, let alone become lovers. I know too much, know her vulnerabilities, how she lashes out in retaliation. Yet I hope. I am resigned, again, to my fate, newly defined. I drive to the stables. No longer do I feel good about the trip, especially now, all gray, sky, vines, trees, withered grass, the green of the new just emphasizing the death of the rest. Mud everywhere, raw, dark gashes, map of my psyche. No longer do I hold the delusion I'm ready for anything, but I do feel confident I can weather her storms, though still vulnerable to damage. We had planned for me to start riding Charlie Brown on Monday, yet Michelle didn't seem to have noticed that I'd been gone for a couple of days; I actually had to revert to the obvious, You wouldn't believe what happened to me ploy. Really? she says, concerned on hearing my account. I wondered if something might have happened. I thought of calling you yesterday, but decided to see if you came out today. She exhibits a trace of guilt, I'm thinking, yeah, I'm sure you thought about calling, talked yourself out of it, didn't you, would have today as well. I half expected that call yesterday, knowing it would never come, knowing how meaningful if it did. Then she matches me, explains that her dog Gillie got hit by a car Friday night, took him to the emergency room with various small breaks and bruises, cost three thousand dollars, had to bounce a check, won't be able to cover it for a few days. Oh, Michelle, I'm thinking, just can't get a break. I'd have put the dog down before dropping that kind of money even though I have it, just don't do that for an animal unless it's some special animal and you have real money. But he's special to her, I understand, feel guilty about wanting to kill Gilley, petty over the phone call she didn't make. We arrange to work Charlie Brown after I ride Jaxon, I keep the outing short, and close, want to be able to get to my painkillers fast if I have a relapse. On the way back up the hill from the vineyards, just as before a week or so ago, Jaxon shies again, bolts a short distance to stop and look, focuses on a large, rectangular stack of hay bales, covered by a tarp. Just then a gust of wind blows up from the bay, the tarp inflates, I get it, Jaxon's spooked by a haystack that seems to breathe. Once done with him, I retrieve Charlie Brown, saddle him up, take him to the arena. I stand in the middle of the freshly turned dirt surface, the horse runs circles around me at the end of a lunge line, I crack the whip once in a while to make him speed up, maintain his pace. Michelle sits to the side, offers guidance when needed. As usual, he's ornery at first, wants to go his direction, his speed, bucks a few times in the first circuits. By the time we turn him around, he's settled down, walks, trots and canters on my cue. Following fifteen, twenty minutes of this, Michelle asks if I want to ride. Yup. Charlie Brown hasn't been mounted for more than a year, hadn't been trained much to that point, mostly neglected. Michelle sets him up with two-handed reins, inherently awkward for me, but this is part of the training, for both of us. I climb atop him carefully, get my seat, Michelle asks if I'm ready, releases her hold on the bridle at my assent. He starts off walking fast, tries to break into a trot almost immediately, testing me, balks at attempts to rein him in, starts to buck. I ride through it, smack his ass with the rope ends, stop him. We take off again, Charlie seems to cooperate for half the circle, throws in a few more hops, I respond as before, regain control, start afresh from a stop. Michelle no longer treats me much like a riding student, has little to say about my form, sloppy posture, she knows I can ride, stick on a horse, instead, she emphasizes elements of control. Tells me when to feather the reins, lighthandedly, to maintain the pace, reminds me to shorten the reins from time to time, squeeze him with one knee or the other to turn him, admonishes me to insure he follows my directions. After getting him to do one circuit just right, we decide he's had enough for the day, the fifteen-minute warmup, my twenty minute ride. It's a success. By now I'm thinking we're over the hard part, I've been treating Charlie Brown to an apple every day for weeks, he cooperates when I put his halter on, allows me to pick his hooves clean without grief. He exhibits a mischievous streak, resists here and there, but he's young, good-natured, and seems to enjoy the new routines, the relief from his previous boredom. I lead him back to his paddock, precede him through the gate to turn him loose, and he bursts into a short run, bashes into my back, slams me into the fence post. Then turns to look at me, as if to say, Gotcha. He doesn't injure me, but it hurts. Thought we were friends by now. Thanks, asshole, I say. Charlie Brown eyes me, unfazed. Settled into one of the plastic chairs under the overhang with the skull, I smoke a few cigarettes, Michelle joins me. We discuss the workout, agree it went well. Small pleasures and victories are still available to me here, I'm thinking, this is why I came, to learn horses. I mention the incident with Charlie Brown, we'll have to be careful with him, I say, Michelle suggests I not ride him without her around. Suggestion, not command, I note. She trusts my judgment, reliabilty, in the training. Good sign. And I then I refer to Jaxon spooking on the way in. I figured it out, I tell her, that tarp catches the wind, billows full. I saw that, she says. She's bent over in her seat, elbows on knees, smoking, continues in a deliberate voice, displays a restrained intensity. You don't know it, she says, but I see everything. I watch you all the time, and everything you do. She turns her head to me accusingly, gets up and walks off. Wow, I'm thinking, that's interesting, an ideal opportunity to exploit, most effectively with the question, why. Why do you watch me Michelle, what do you think that means? This is her first obvious admission of intense interest in me, asking why will put Michelle on the spot, make her confront her feelings for me with a low probability of disaster. I know she won't say, Because I find you disgusting and I hate you, think that unlikely. No, more like, There's something about you. And there is no way for us to pursue this course without Michelle conceding her interest in me, admitting she cares for me, enough, anyway, to feel compelled to watch me all the time. And tell me so. There's an opening here, I'm thinking, this is where we talk about that head and heart thing, I explain to her exactly what's going on, I get it, I understand, and she will too. Boys could talk me into anything, she said, and I know she's vulnerable to man logic, saw how she succumbed to me, briefly in the past. Only to armor herself for the next meeting. I don't feel that way about you, Terry. She can't pull that one out this time, she feels some way about me, strongly, I watch you all the time, I can explain in detail how she used the non-invitation invitations to set us up, used those same opportunities to slight me, question that picture she sent, Come and catch me. If you can, that call she made, Hi, Terry, it's Michelle, all dreamy. Arranged, consciously or not, for me to spend much more time around the stables than absolutely necessary, You can come here every day now, Terry! And I can imagine Michelle looking back at me, the insights, ring of truth she can't deny, defenseless, lips pressing against each other, in slight spasms, fighting back tears, perhaps, eyes glistening, we gaze into each other's soul, moment of truth undeniable, I kiss her now, maybe just take her in my arms. She's thrown all my instincts off, however, I don't identify opportunities fast enough, think too much before crafting a response, Michelle has me so leery of her caprices I always hesitate. And it's the kind of move best employed with the prospect of immediate consummation, maximum vulnerability for both parties, especially the female, a successful coupling triumphant on its own, for both parties, if I can engineer that situation with Michelle we'll discover whether we have a chance. And if it works as well as possible under these immediate circumstances, I may connect with Michelle, get her to surrender, in theory. But without the act of love, immediately, she'll bolt on me again, I'll get a phone call, I'm sure, I can't see you anymore, Terry. She has just said, I watch you all the time, we stare at each other for five, ten seconds, the contingencies bobbing through the back channels of my consciousness, I say, deadpan, too cool, slight nods of the head, well, that's interesting. Michelle looks back at me, the muscles in her face harden, responds, Yeah, isn't it? She stubs out her cigarette, gets up and walks off, I see, again, her receding back. What else is new, I'm thinking, missed another opening, I'm sure, my very own Scylla and Charibdis, siren and all. Oh, lucky man. Then it hits me, the lack of any great hormonal swings. No great rush on the way out today, no great flushes of heat when she admits her interest, obliquely, the shot of adrenaline on detecting, living, one of those moments. Might have handled it differently, I'm thinking, but you were very calm. No, I think back. Just numb. She's testy on Thursday morning, I see her briefly on the way out, off to an errand, might look at a stable later. She has two, three weeks, to find a home for thirty horses, she's beginning to panic, it shows. Poor fucking Michelle, I think, God help her. Please. Please. I ride Jaxon, sit in the plastic chair, smoke a few cigarettes. Alex is riding the thoroughbred in the arena, I hear her imprecations, foul, gratuitous, until she finishes up with him, puts him back in his stall. Then she saddles Ty, rides out to the vineyards, disappears down the hill. This is not pleasant anymore, I'm thinking, sitting in that chair, not in the least, the absence of any good feelings profound from that perspective. The many times I sat in that chair, watched Michelle, fondly, felt so good just being there, felt so good, over time, over months, thinking of the memories I'd accumulated, as I sat in that chair. Geez, I'm thinking, when I can bear to think of it at all, just a prelude to Gotterdamerung. Who fucking knew? Oh, yeah. Me. I knew, saw it all coming, the vague plot outlines, can't stand to see the details of disaster filling in with color, exquisite detail, tortuous, torturous, my own private box for an ugly last act. One of the boarders appears, a ripe, cute, blonde twenty-something, confident with horses, generally dismissive, but polite enough. Desultory greeting, I remain where I sit, dullard state by now. A saddled, riderless horse appears all of a sudden, running into view from behind me, from the path to the vineyards. He slows in the gravel turnaround, prances off toward the highway. That's Ty, I'm thinking, what the hell? The boarder recognizes the emergency before I do, Who was riding him, she demands, taking off after the horse. Alex, I say, realizing, belatedly, there's a problem. The cutie knows instinctively what to do, I'm annoyed at my slow wits, she rushes to head off the horse before he wends his way to the highway, I yell that I'll look for alex. Run to my car, drive to the vineyards as fast as I dare. My Jetta, like new on acquisition a year before, has suffered at my hands, suffered the dirt roads on which I own property, but it's in for a beating now. I bounce over the erosion trenches cutting the roads, drive on the sodden shoulder to avoid the deepest of them, scrape the undercarriage, but I've got this down, know what I can get away with. I'm looking for a body, I'm thinking, hope it's not too badly damaged, hope Alex is okay. Have no idea where she might be, I drive madly up the easiest, most obvious road, look to the hillsides for that splash of incongruous color on the ground. Should call Michelle, I think, stop the car, grab my phone, hesitate. She might be annoyed for me disturbing her, I think, bad mood this morning, what if next thing I see Alex walking along. Fucking idiot, I think, this is an emergency, inform Michelle! I make the call, she does sound annoyed, even in her thanks, that figures, I'm thinking. Bearer of bad news, witness to disaster, Michelle's every failure, yes, of course, let's throw in a crippled Alex, law suit, it's just me Michelle. And I'm bumping though the hills, speeding along when possible, braking, swerving, when I must, thinking, all the time, that's fucking pathetic. Have to worry about getting in trouble with my friend at a time like this. Fucking pathetic. And I'm annoyed at myself, blondie's automatic response, knew just what to do, while I dithered. Fucking pathetic, and I can't find Alex, fucking great. Michelle appears in her jeep, see her on another road, zipping over the terrain effortlessly, she slows, stops. My cell phone rings, it's Michelle. Alex is okay, she says. She showed up at the barn. We're all back at the stables, Alex explains that the horse spooked, threw her. She has a slight limp, a scrape or two, she takes it well, could be a boy of the same age, proud of the toughness she displays in the doing. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, that was close. I forget about doing a workout with Charlie Brown. An hour later, everyone's gone, just Michelle and me, smoking in the plastic chairs, talking. Her mood of annoyance has abated, we're joking about Alex's mishap, my careening through the vineyards in my already much-abused car, the relief that she wasn't injured. Michelle's phone rings, she checks to see who it is, Have to take this, she says, has a short conversation with some hay delivery service, sounds like bad news. She's sucking her lips the way she does when she's trying to think her way out of a jam, I ask what's wrong. The hay didn't get delivered the other day as planned, can't get any from these people for a few days. Questioning reveals that, yes, there are other sources, but they won't give her credit. There's only half a bale left, Michelle obviously doesn't know what she's going to do, I see her jaw, lips at work, tension showing in the tightening, slackening muscles in her face. I'll get some, I say. What do you need? How are you going to do that? she demands, stupid idea. My truck, I say. Won't hold the eight bales needed, she insists. It will, of course, I've checked this very issue, and have to talk her into letting me provide fodder for the horses which will otherwise go without. She concedes, finally, needs four alfalfa, four oats. Thanks, Terry, she says, neutral voice, when I return two hours later with the feed. Can't look me in the eye, as we unload it together, tells me afterward she can pay me next week. Don't worry about it, I say. Wait till you get settled somewhere. Yeah, right, she says. She hates this, I'm thinking. I just hope she doesn't end up hating me. And the next morning, Friday, everything seems back to normal. I ride Charlie Brown again, we're done with the workouts, Michelle comes to talk, no bad mood evident, we share our relief, again, that Alex's accident turns out well, Michelle segues into an account of trying to adjust the girl's attitude, treatment of the horse. She doesn't get it, Michelle says. She wanted to argue about it. And we're sitting where we always sit, alternating between the plastic chairs, the picnic table, slightest warmth of winter sun, lull in conversation. Michelle retrieves a newspaper from her jeep. That's interesting, she says. Yeah, I respond, what's that? There's a David Sedaris reading on Sunday. We'd discussed him before, she was reading one of his books on my first visit to her house, to work on the web site, I ask if she's thinking of going. Yeah, she says, I just might. Oh, God, I'm thinking. Do I dare? Okay. Think you might want some company? I ask. Yeah, she says, thoughtfully. That would be nice. She smiles at me, Why don't you call me tomorrow, and we'll talk about it? Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, again. Wonder what excuse she'll come up with this time. I don't think about it much, though, until the next morning, at the coffeehouse, alternating between visits inside, pacing and smoking outside, can't wait to make that phone call, firm up things for tomorrow. Determine, again, that Michelle has other plans. Firm. I return to my car, check my messages, one from Tricia, a call to confirm details for tomorrow, dinner and show in San Francisco, Zuni and White Christmas. Don't fucking believe it, I forgot. Jesus Fucking Christ. Then, I think, well, hey, this isn't so bad. This time, I get to call and cancel, on Michelle. That's great. I'm thinking, just great. No, that's just fucking pathetic, after all we've been through together, have to play games like this, despite the obvious attraction, have to pretend it isn't so. Fucking pathetic. An hour or so later I make the call, leave a message, an apology, all very matter of fact. On Monday morning I'm worried not at all about any backlash, I don't give a damn. Resignation grips me, but that's okay, I can live with that. Michelle comes to me at the plastic chair, we catch up on our weekends. I didn't miss much from the David Sedaris reading, it wasn't him, not that funny with another voice, delivery. I tell her about the dinner, show, ask if she likes the latter, I'm still thinking how nice something like that would be with Michelle, maybe our kids, too. I hate Broadway shows, she says, contemptuously. I used to work for a guy in New York who took me all the time. There's a certain finality in the hostile delivery of this fact, backlash, I'm thinking, and I'd sure like to hear that New York story. No, I wouldn't, I think again, I don't need any more horror stories, more failure, vulnerability, shared, so she can later treat me like a stranger. Again. She makes me follow her around as she does minor chores, but maintains the conversation, I'm forced to chase behind her, she won't sit still. We're back at the chairs under the overhang with the skull, Michelle talks about how nice the city is at Christmas, lights and decorations everywhere, she'd like to check it out some time. Well, I say, not thinking, we should go do that sometime before Christmas. She turns to me, look of distaste, says, snotty voice, You know Terry, just because I say I might want to do something, it doesn't mean I want to do it with you. Michelle turns away, walks off. This stings badly, a real slap in the face. You fucking bitch! I note myself think. Don't go there, the immediate mental response, you know how she is. Backlash. I'm going to get Jaxon, I yell at her back. Want to work with Charlie Brown later? Yeah, she says. If you want. If I want, I'm thinking, yes, you'll do me the fucking favor of letting me ride the fucking horse you're afraid of. Thank you very fucking much for the favor. If I want. We warm up on the flat roads between the hills and vines, I ride to the bridge on the way to the winery, dismount, smoke some cannabis, a cigarette or two, Jaxon nibbles on the winter grass. Thoughts, images float through mind, I'm looking down at the rushing creek, daydreaming, what might have been, I should have asked why the other day, why did she watch me, all the time. And she actually went to the reading, might not have cancelled, this time, too bad. Daydreaming, daydreaming, come to, daydream my ass, I'm thinking, this is a fucking nightmare. I pull myself back into the saddle, ride Jaxon fast and hard, letting him loose, he spooks a time or two, no big deal, but he really wants to gallop, he's in good shape now, after almost a month together, our workouts, he wants to go. I turn him onto a road with a long, gradual climb to the hilltop, the ascent, the rain-softened earth, limiting his speed, the danger. He bounds up the incline, huffing and snorting the whole way, loving it, ready to stop for a breather at the summit. The hyperawareness sends my brain into fanciful speculation, the effects of cannabis, nicotine and the ride-induced adrenaline firing my imagination, the view from the top encouraging flights of grandiosity. I can see from Mount Diablo in the east to Tamalpais in the west, San Francisco barely visible where the bay seems to end, undulating hills, voluptuous in their folds, all covered in vines, all around me. The highway, the modern world, almost invisible from this height, I contemplate the men and events I read about, in old books, by the dozens, the hundreds. Montgomery's sons had their throats slit out there, I'm thinking, somewhere in that bay, by gold chasing deserters. Somewhere, in these hills, Salvador Vallejo embraced and forgave the man who shot him. To the northwest I see the lands turned to vineyards by the self-styled Count Haraszthy, an empire of wine, gone to bankruptcy, the man ultimately eaten by an alligator in Nicaragua. Billy Sherman rode these hills before the gold rush, then as a banker, before winning the Civil War. In those far hills north of Tamalpais the Californios, wielding 15-foot willow lances, took on American dragoons in the Mexican War, used lariats as weapons, could do anything from horseback. Best riders in the world, everyone agreed, men from around the world, who knew horses, all conceded the fact. Even the women, better than any gringo man. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, Michelle couldn't bring herself to ride with me once, just the two of us, no chance now, time running out, rains coming, the fantasy soon to be washed away, no more stables, rides in these vineyards, no more Michelle. It was enough for her to know I wanted to do it, show off on Jaxon, go for a ride, betray that desire, for her crush it, harden her heart against it, whatever I might desire, enjoyable for both of us, perhaps, enough for her to preclude its realization. No desire too trivial to deny. Just like my marriage, I'm thinking, start and finish, but no middle, hopeful beginnings, wretched end, devoid of conjugal pleasures in between, no real love expressed, a hollow shell. Forget about romance, I'm thinking, we're closer than ever, she'll kill it one of these days, obliterate any trace of us, soon, of me, from her memory, friendship will be hard enough. I just need to get us through this catastrophe, I'm thinking, her catastrophe, then she can dump me, forget about me, her failures, put it all behind her, and forget about it. Then she can do it again, contrive new hopes for herself, to sabotage. I'm riding back to the stables, don't feel so grandiose anymore, thinking, again, after seven months, she can't allow herself to go for a ride with her student. That alone is fucking absurd, should not be any issue at all. Start to think about Charlie Brown, that was fun the other day, I'm thinking, bucked a little, couldn't throw me, performed well for Michelle. Wait a minute, I think, she's afraid of riding Charlie Brown, getting hurt, has reason to, that's why I'm riding him. I wonder, I wonder, don't fool yourself here, I'm thinking, I wonder if that's why she won't ride with me. Afraid I'll show her up, ride faster than she dares to go. Jesus Fucking Christ, I bet that's it! That's the last thing I want, I'm thinking, yeah, I want to show off for her, but I don't need to show her up, last thing I want. I really would like to see her feel good about herself, have reason to, I really do just want to see things work out for her, somehow. With me or without me. And I do not want to show her up, do not want to win that battle. No, you're deluding yourself again. Makes the best sense, though, who knows, who knows what's going on in that woman's fevered mind, now, all in crisis, who fucking knows. I would still like to, though, I think, there is a great woman in there. Somewhere. If only I could find her, isolate her, from the rest. If only Michelle could find her. The workout goes well with Charlie Brown, just like the other day, a few bucks, ride through them, Michelle's not blatantly hostile anymore, I'm over it, we end on a positive note. Let's go to lunch, I suggest. Yeah, okay, she says. Why don't we try the Boon Fly Cafe this time, I say, referring to the roadhouse up the highway. She always says no, always has a reason not to deviate from the deli, that's part of the stables routine, no misunderstanding about intentions between us, the deli's an extension of the professional relationship. Going someplace special is too much like a date. So I have concluded. And I'm looking at her, said it in a cocky manner, almost a command, Michelle stops, thinks a second, looks me square in the face, and says, Yeah, okay. That sounds like fun. I don't fucking believe it! She wants to change, so do I, we arrange to meet in an hour. This is interesting, I'm thinking, wonder what it means. Nothing, I think, everything means nothing with Michelle, her warped psyche. I arrive a little early at the cafe, smoke in the parking lot, wait for the phone call to cancel lunch. Michelle drives up right on time, smiles at me as she parks, gets out. She wears clean, tight jeans, tennis shoes, and a half-zippered white, fleece jacket, a white chemise underneath, her masses of dark hair down. No evidence of makeup. The contrast between the white tops and her hair, tan skin, are striking, she dazzles, little diamond studs in her lobes. Aroma of that perfume. Michelle looks great, I sigh on her approach, God, she looks great, without even trying, natural beauty. Jesus Fucking Christ. And she fixed herself up, dressed up, for me. It's midafternoon, the place is empty, we take seats at the zinc-topped bar. We order ice teas, I opt for the steak on a french roll, Michelle, a club sandwich. Not only is it dead, the boring bartender's on duty, great start, I'm thinking. Then the food comes, and the club sandwich turns out to be a slab of turkey covered with bacon, on a hamburger bun covered in seeds. Michelle makes a face, What's this? she asks me. Well, I say, I guess that's their version of a club sandwich, cursing, mentally, the demented tendency of wine country chefs to contrive new ways to fuck up old standards. She's annoyed that she has to ask for salt and pepper. She makes the best of it, tries to be pleasant, makes conversation with the bartender who needs no encouragement, can't get rid of him, Michelle and I can't talk. She lectures him on why the bun is inappropriate, no woman wants to pick seeds out of her teeth. And it looks nothing like a club sandwich. I should have fucking known, I'm thinking, smiling and talking, I should have fucking known, and won't you please go away, I tell the bartender, telepathically, without success. This is just great, I'm thinking, first date, last date, after all this time I should have to worry about impressing Michelle, the cost of failure. This should all be behind us, I'm thinking. Soon enough, I'm thinking. First date, last date. Fucking pathetic. The bartender drifts off, Michelle says, Oh, you won't believe the message I got on my cell phone! Yeah? I say. What? Well, she says, you know how I was telling you that something's screwed up with my messages? I got one yesterday, and it was like from a hooker calling someone from a pay phone. I think she was calling her meth connection or something like that. And then, I guess, a customer pulls up in a car, and she says, Wait a minute, and she's giving this guy a blow job, and you hear cars going by in the background, and the guy's going, Oh yeah, oh, yeah, like he's getting off, stuff like that. Isn't that weird? Yeah, I admit, that's very weird. By then, the bartender's returned, and now he's really into this story Michelle's telling, eyes damn near bulging, and we're ready to go. She apologizes to him for the off-color tale. Little girl voice. Glint in eye. We finish the not-quite disastrous hour, Michelle does her best to mask her disappointment, I comment that she's a pretty demanding diner for one who doesn't cook. Yeah, she says, but then you eat out a lot, and you really pay attention to the food and service. I apologize for the dud of an outing, try to sound casual, she says, Oh, no, it was fine, thanks. We part with a hug, I drive off, thinking, yet again, I don't fucking believe it. Especially that story about the message. All of Michelle's stories about getting messages meant for other cellphones sound suspicious, never thought about it till now, this last one really claims my attention. Not only is she getting other people's messages, they're for people she knows. I've experienced cell phone message anomalies myself, but those are late messages, or clusters of messages all sent at once. Hearing a blow job over a pay phone sounds, well, rather bizarre. And all the other stories are equivalently offbeat. I wonder if someone's harassing Michelle, and she hasn't figured it out. But a blow job message? Who would do such a thing, I'm thinking, who would arrange such a thing? Half the men in Sonoma, maybe? This, I say to myself, I am not going to think about, anymore. I don't fucking believe it.