The Master of Seduction chapter 7 Choose me, love me, no Leave me, please Well, that was some kind of progress, I'm thinking, next day, pacing and smoking in front of the coffeehouse. Went from testy morning to failed date, yes, progress. Never saw that Michelle, either, I think, geez, she could have been one of those tight-faced Beverly Hills matrons I remember so well, recreational restaurant criticism. I contemplate her inner bitch, no, that's not fair, I think, she was right, they were screwups. Mostly small ones, though, and she caught them all. And she really let me have it earlier in the morning, that hostility, so spontaneous, so natural. Jesus Fucking Christ. Can't wait to see what happens now, I'm thinking, glimmer of hope. Yes, I'm thinking, that's the cliche, hope springs eternal, don't fool yourself. Hope springs eternal, disappointment never runs dry. And I'm thinking all this as I notice the heat in my left flank, wonder if I'm facing a relapse. I call Tricia, ask if I can camp out at her house again. No problem, she says, solicitous, inviting. Halfway through the thirty-minute drive to Benicia I take a painkiller, secure in the relief I know it will provide, won't kick in till I arrive. I know the condition isn't serious, just painful, dreaded it ever since researching kidney stones for a medical publishing project, smug on discovery that it's usually hereditary, I'm home clear, I thought at the time, none of that in my family. Recently learned that too much tea can bring them on, my downfall. But shouldn't happen too often, if ever again. Best of all, I took the pain, four hours of it, never felt such agony before, I took it, can take it if I have to. Yes, I can take it, I'm thinking, God spare me, please. But I know I can take it. I return to my former marriage bed, get comfortable, appreciate mundane comforts as never before, given my current life on the mountain, I'm jubilant at the thought of heat, running water, limitless electricity. Cable television, history channel documentaries, yes, this is heaven, can't wait for the warm codeine haze. The pain increases, however, an hour after taking the drugs no hint of relief. I take more, the pain continues its assault, redoubled. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, yeah, I can take the pain, but give me a break here. I take two more. An hour later, I'm drifting in and out of consciousness, and we're winning the Battle of Midway. Thank God, thank fucking God. I take three or four pills every few hours, massive doses compared to the recommendations, don't care, I drift. I do not pass the stone, again. But I do feel great. And I'm thinking about the last bout with this, one pill every four hours, seemed to work, I'm thinking, probably because the pain was gone by then. Tricia and Jimmy eventually come home, visit briefly, she asks if I need anything, leaves me alone, knows I just want to be left alone when sick, want only minimal intervention. I marvel anew at how sweet she is to me now, no, she doesn't want to get back together, I don't either, but damn she's sweet, can't believe how badly she came to treat me at the end. I see the pills disappearing from the container in my gobbling of them, now I'm worried about running out, don't want to go anywhere without as many of them as I can hoard. I decide to take a chance, ingest my last for the evening around eight, should know by ten or eleven whether they're needed. And nothing happens. Safe. I sleep well under their lingering influence, awaken refreshed and only a little groggy. It's Wednesday morning, Michelle and I planned to work out Charlie Brown today, I wonder if that's a good idea. Oh, come now, I'm thinking, like you'll pass up the chance to do something with Michelle? Not ride the horse she fears? Not show off for her? No fucking way will I pass that up. She's doing her chores when I pull in, tell her about my latest trauma, the discovery that I needed handfuls of painkillers, try to be funny. Are you sure you want to ride Charlie Brown today? she asks, skeptically, giving me the fish-eye. Yeah, I say, to the implicit challenge, bravado real. I'm fine now. Jaxon can use a rest today, I certainly can as well. I visit with him, and her horse, divide the apple between them, sit around and smoke and watch Michelle perform the chores I know so well, pet the dogs. We talk some more when she's done, Michelle's getting fed up with Alex, hasn't been back since getting thrown, wasn't really hurt, using it as an excuse to flake out. She's such a friggin' loser, says Michelle. She doesn't answer my calls or return messages, and when she does, she doesn't show up when she says she will. She's talking about firing Alex, really ripping her, stupid dumbass doesn't know when she's getting a break, loser boyfriend, drinks and parties. Friggin' loser. After her break, I get Charlie Brown, throw on the saddle, we do the warm up, horse running circles around me, Michelle offering advice. He complies with the routine, all cooperation, I mount him, start out with a walk. He starts to buck soon after starting, a few hops, Michelle yells, Make him ride through it, kick him, he can't buck if he's moving forward. It works. I take him through a trot, then begin to canter, he bucks some more, I ride through it, stop him, start again. I'm a little slow, though, I realize, leftover codeine. We're cantering along, he starts bucking again, really bucking, I react thoughtlessly, I'm just trying to stay on, instincts kick in, I can do this, all slow motion now, adrenaline kicks in, belatedly, he's bucking, I'm trying to respond, and Michelle's yelling at me, Make him ride through it, make him ride through it, and I can't follow my instincts, I hear her yelling, everything's happening too fast, in slow motion, shut the fuck up, I'm thinking, shut the fuck up, I'm just trying stay on. Ride him through it! she yells again, and I'm flying over his head, I see the ground getting closer very fast, go blind hitting the dirt face first, I'm pushing myself up, I don't hurt anywhere, I know I'm alright, must get up, don't want Michelle to worry, I look up to see her running toward me. Her face is tight, she's going into battle, she's attacking a crisis, no trace of fear, hesitation, no panic, she looks scary. God, she's fucking great, I'm thinking, most women would be freaked out, she's so calm, ready to do whatever I need done, coming to help me. I almost jump up just before she reaches me, have to show I'm alright, I'm tough. I'm okay, I say, not fully realizing until I say it that I am really uninjured. Are you sure? she asks, face of concern, eyes looking into mine. No, really, I say, I'm fine, as I dust off the black dirt, scrape it from around my eyes. Recover my equilibrium. Good, she says. You have to get back on, quick. We can't let him get away with that. This is not exactly what I want to hear, getting back on is not even a remote consideration at this point, I'm slightly shocked. Okay, I say. Michelle yells at Charlie Brown, orders him harshly to stop, we converge to head him off, he's not even trying to get away anymore. He's scared, she says, grabbing the reains. He knows he did something wrong. What do you think you're doing? she says to him, face-to-face, sternly, shaking the bridle. I remount, we stop and start a few times in each circuit, keep him slow, only a few hops this time, I stay on. After we make it around twice without incident, brief cantering thrown in, I suggest to Michelle we ought to stop, so he doesn't tire out, get ornery again. I venture that next time we might consider a shorter warmup. Maybe he's already a little tired by the time I get on, he hasn't done anything in a long time. That's a good idea, she says. You might be right. God, I'm thinking, that's fucking great! That's why I like her so much. She's the expert here, I'm the student, don't know horses, and she has no problem hearing what she thinks might be a good idea and admitting as much. Despite that recently more pronounced tendency to ambush me. I'm removing Charlie Brown's tack, thinking now about getting thrown, why exactly did that happen? First time in thirty-five years, the only other time I got thrown out at the Nevada ranch, branding and castrating yearlings after I got out of jail. Yeah, just sailed off then, too, but that was a fluke, just got out of rhythm. Charlie Brown chucked me on purpose. Still should have stayed on. The fall hasn't shaken me much, nor my self-confidence, I'm actually relieved, especially after the daily close calls with Jaxon. If it had to happen, better in the freshly-turned arena dirt than along a hard gravel road, lined with posts and grape stakes. The only injury, slight, resulted from banging my upper thigh on the pommel on the way to the ground, the cramp-like pain minimal, not even a slight limp. I'd been afraid of getting thrown, over it now, if it had to happen, that was a gift. While indulging in appreciation of my good-fortune given the alternatives, I'm bent over, releasing the cinch; Michelle walks up behind me, breaks my reverie, says, bitingly, Kind of hard on your ego, huh? And I'm still a little slow to react, don't pick up the edge in her voice immediately, don't know what she's talking about. What do you mean? I ask, straightening up. Getting thrown by Charlie Brown, she says, the dumbass implied. No, not at all, I say, surprised at the question, its delivery, candidly articulating the recent musings. I haven't been thrown in thirty-five years. I was waiting for that, and I'm just happy it wasn't out in the vineyards with Jaxon. And I got back on. As I say this last, I'm looking directly at her, a foot away, her tone of voice finally registering when I note the expression on her face, tight-jawed confrontation, sharpened eyes, and see her go slack in guilt. Geez, I'm thinking, pulling wings off the fly again. Trying to, anyway, that's really fucking sad. As if getting throwm from a horse can threaten my ego, let alone her pointing it out. Jesus Fucking Christ, she doesn't have a clue about me. Turning away, I remove the saddle, take it to the tack room, Michelle stands there a second or two regarding my back, disappears. I'm up at the white plastic chairs, having a smoke, trying to figure out if my feelings are supposed to be hurt by the comment, thinking all the while how sad it is she needed to do that to me. I'm trying to decide how I should feel, no, my feelings aren't hurt, I'm thinking, no, but something about this hurts, and I can't quite identify it. Michelle's walking toward me across the gravel incline separating us from the barn, visage of defeat, careworn gait, it hits me. Yeah, I'm thinking, that's what hurts, my very presence here now has her acting out of character, her conflicted feelings so at war, she's deliberately mean to me. Because she's afraid of falling in love with me? Or over it and wishes I'd just go away. All she has to do is ask, I'm thinking, but who fucking knows what's going on in her head. It's afternoon by now, I suggest lunch at the deli, she assents, invites me to drive with her, small surprise. Over sandwiches she exhibits a muted anxiety, she can't find stable space for her own horses, let alone a big enough facility to handle her commercial operation. She'll find something, she insists, all false confidence. I admire her attempt to hide her fear, keep a good attitude, mentally, lament the impotence of her efforts. We're driving back, lull in conversation. He was really bucking, you know, she says. Excuse me? Charlie Brown, Michelle clarifies. He was doing some serious bucking when he threw you. You did a pretty good job riding him. Thanks, I say, and I'm thinking, again, God, she's fucking great. She just can't help herself from trying to do the right thing, try to be honest, fair. That was hard for her, I'm thinking, but she had to give me my due after the jibe about my ego. This has been some day, I'm thinking, on my way home, sun setting behind. What the fuck really happened out there? I suspect I might have stayed on if I hadn't been distracted by Michelle, but I was due for a spill, could have happened anyway, and she was giving sound, conventional advice. I just didn't want to hear it then. Much more interesting, I'm thinking, is the sarcastic remark about a blow to my ego, I'm thinking, and that look, as I answered the way I did, look of guilt. The earlier look, too, when she asked if I was sure I wanted to ride after the day in bed with painkillers. She does anasthesia in the surgeries, knew there was an issue. She did nothing to encourage me to ride, but nothing to dissuade me either. You want to take this chance getting thrown? I hear now, Michelle willing to see me take a fall, willing to see me teach myself a lesson. Eager to watch. We'll see how good you are. Not good enough, blow to my ego? I can't believe Michelle would do that on purpose, but subconsciously, yes. Now I can believe anything, especially a desire to see me take a fall. She's testing me, I'm thinking, and there is no way for me to pass. She displayed hostility and guilt, I'm thinking, in that incident, she's attaching all manner of negative feelings to me. But I got back on, God damn it, and I rode the fucking horse. Passed the test as far as I'm concerned. And I find it inordinately funny that Michelle got me thrown off a horse, and made me get back on. Made me act like a man. I'm still laughing, and shaking my head, Thursday morning, as I return to the stables. Can't fucking believe it, I'm thinking, that's pretty funny. Got me thrown off a horse, made me get back on, made me act like a man. This, I realize, is a simplistic construction, perhaps not altogether fair to Michelle. But I like it, the latent black humor, I'm thinking, real battle of the sexes, she's fighting hard. I'm thinking about sex as I walk up toward the overhang with the skull, note the absence of Michelle's jeep. That's funny, I'm thinking, the more I try to act like a disinterested friend, sincerely to help her, no hint of sexual pressure, the more she acts like I'm trying to fuck her, the greater the sense of resentment, something. Oh, wait a minute, I'm thinking, that's it. Michelle can't understand why a man would do anything for her if he wasn't chasing pussy, that can be the only reason. Because no one knows as well as Michelle how worthless she really is otherwise. Oh, fuck, I'm thinking, and by trying not to act like I just want to get laid, I'm denying her value, discounting the only worth she knows, she's good at sex games, may not win often, or ever, but that's the only game she knows. Fatherless fat chick to femme fatale, another simplistic construction, but a plausible paradigm. Of course, she distrusts me, I'm pretending an interest in that special woman she doesn't possess. Oh, fuck, I'm thinking, this is so fucking sad. Inside the barn, a note on her blackboard says she's gone till noon, taking her daughter to the airport. Alex is back, riding the racehorse in the arena, swearing at him, hitting him unnecessarily with the riding crop, as usual. Jaxon needs a workout, but the spotty rain precludes a ride in the vineyards. I get him ready as Alex finishes up. Jaxon doesn't like riding in the arena any more than I do, but he's happy for the attention. I ride English for ten, fifteen minutes, until I hear the distant rumble of thunder, see the first lightning flashes, Jaxon shies, tries to calm down, can't. I don't like the skittish mood, thunder getting close, end the ride. I'll give Charlie Brown a run, I'm thinking. He cooperates fully, lets me groom him without problem, does just as I direct while running him around me in circles. There's a break in the rain twenty minutes into the routine, seems like a good time to stop. I remove his tack, lead him to the paddock, but he refuses to follow me in. Come on, buddy, I say, give me a break here. I lead him away, walk a big circle, stride deliberately toward the gate opening again, he matches my pace, then stops right outside. I try to pull him in, he rears back. God damn, I'm thinking, it's always something. I try again, doesn't work. Want to be difficult, huh? I say. Okay, have it your way. I tie him to the fencepost at the corner of his paddock, return to the barn for the long exercise line, the buggy whip. I attach the long line to his halter, release the short one, let out some slack, point him to the entrance, crack the whip over his ass. He rears up, takes off, the slack runs out just as I brace myself, he pulls me over without effort, drags me through the mud, the wet rope burning my hand as it slips my grip. Charlie Brown runs off, around the back of the barn, headed, I presume, for the highway. Oh, fuck, I'm thinking, got a problem here, geez, got to get him, quick. I run after him, follow his route behind the barn, see no horse. Oh, fuck. I keep running, around the barn, look for possible openings in the fence, can't find him. I'm starting to panic here, backtrack around the barn, and I see Alex leading him back to his paddock. I try to catch up, but before I can, she leads him into his corral, Charlie Brown fully cooperating. Thanks, Alex, I say. What happened? she asks. I tell her, turns out he ran right up to her on the other side of the barn, complied easily with her intervention, all the way back to the paddock. Thanks again, I say to Alex. God damn horse, to myself. After cleaning myself off, changing into another flannel shirt, don't look too messy, leave for the deli a little past noon. I claim the single inside table, nice and warm, it's cold outside, wet and windy, brutal day. Michelle drives up. Oh, fuck, I'm thinking, instant bolt of anxiety, bracing myself for insult, sarcasm, something bad. I concentrate on my sandwich, ignore her entrance ten feet away, apparently not noticing. Terry! I hear, tone indicating she's happy to see me. That was spontaneous, I'm thinking, look up, feigning first awareness of her presence, she walks over, beaming that smile. She joins me, tells me her daughter's gone for a couple of weeks to her father's back east for Christmas. We should have a drink tonight, I say, her favorite excuse out of town. I'd like to, she says, no visible thought behind the instant sentiment, but I can't. I can't relax, I've got to find a stable. How's it going, I ask. I don't know, she says, doubting. But I think I might have a place lined up. That night I'm pacing and smoking and drinking again, thinking, again, about where we stand, together, if anywhere. I dismiss the now tedious exercise, waste of fucking time, random thoughts run wild, always back to Michelle, but this time concerning her plight. all of a sudden, it hits me, the coalescence of tidbits from a week's worth of conversations, the search for new stables. Geez, I'm thinking, she has nothing if she doesn't find a big place; without room for all those horses, and a place for lessons, she can't make it. She needs those boarding fees from a couple of dozen horses. And if her boarders need to go with someone else now, she's lost them, forever, more or less. The import of this belated realization overwhelms me with a profound sense of doom. I've been making inquiries around Napa over the last week or so, from the Old Man at the coffeehouse got some names and numbers of local ranchers and horsemen. There is nothing available, anywhere, all the horse ranches have been displaced by vineyards, with a few crowded exceptions. The situation is little different over in Sonoma. This is fucking hopeless, I'm thinking, what's Michelle going to do? What am I going to do? The enormity of her disaster fully acknowledged, I collapse onto the old couch, limp, glass of Jack in one hand, cigarette in the other, howling void within, tears roll down my cheeks. Oh, Michelle, I'm thinking, oh, Michelle. It's Friday morning, get to the coffeehouse early, just the Old Man and me, we mumble greetings, separately peruse our newspapers. He puts his section down, asks me how my friend is doing in her stable search. The question catches me by surprise, I choke up, ready to sob, turn away as if for a sip of tea. She's not having much luck, I manage to say, hiding my distress. Too bad, he says. Yeah, I return. I don't know what she's going to do. And change the subject. I drive to the stables under low, dark clouds, rain heavy and consistent, What am I going to do? Get a grip, I'm thinking, she's been getting along fine without you for her whole life, don't delude yourself, she does not need you. I'm not convinced, but I have a problem with the idea of offering money. She won't want to accept, I'll have to force it on her, get more of the pricktease attitude for my effort, I won't play the sap. Hey, give it a rest, I'm thinking. You're exaggerating the problem, not to mention your ability to fix it. I'm not convinced, I'm thinking, she's in trouble, you knew it was coming, you're going to help any way you can. Even at the risk of acting like a sap for the pricktease. It's not about her behavior, I'm thinking, it's about mine. I will do the right thing. Whatever it is. I hope. An aura of dread engulfs me as I approach the drive, turn onto the road winding around the vine-covered hill, I could throw up. God, I'm thinking, the feelings I've felt making this turnoff. Before was definitely better. I step out of my car into the mud oozing up from beneath the wood chips, yeah, I'm thinking, I'm sinking into the fucking mud, just a month ago I reclined here to listen to one of the Brandenberg concertos, cloud armadas floating above. Actually felt hopeful for awhile, You can come out every day now, Terry! Yeah, I'm thinking, thanks, Michelle. Jesus Fucking Christ, what happened? Michelle sits under the overhang with the skull, raises her head as I walk through the downpour, rises slowly, makes busy shuffling things around the sink and horse shower. Pulling one of the plastic chairs away from the wall, I flip it around so I can look at her as she works. What's going on? I say, no answer. She continues to muddle in place, takes an eternity to walk over and sit in the white plastic chair opposite, seeming to fall into it, slowly, limp at the conclusion, legs extended, wrists loosely crossing at her waist, head down. She wears a cowboy hat, a tightly woven straw version, yellowed with age, obscuring her eyes. I don't know what to do, Terry, she says, voice from the grave. I don't have any feed for the horses, I don't have any money, and I don't have any place to go. I can barely hear her, she's thinking out loud, doesn't expect an answer, I know it, can't help saying, I'm sorry, Michelle. Terry, she says, I don't know what to do. I can't sleep, I can't get out of bed. I just want to stay in the fetal position under the covers all day. It's like I'm paralyzed. I don't know what to do. She seems just able to summon enough energy to expel these whispers of despair. I look at her, cannot see her eyes, haven't seen them yet today, her lips press together, slowly, at first. With an effort she scrunches them up, this act of will distorting her features from cheeks to chin, this effort not to break down and cry inducing her body to convulse in tiny spasms. And I'm not really listening anymore, she seems to repeat the litany of despair, elaborations on her misery, I'm convinced, must do something, quick. And I'm thinking all of a sudden about certain tasks related to my history research and library, and a rare, important book I want to scan and publish on the internet. Yes, I'm thinking, that might work, pay her five hundred a week under the table, she can work mostly at home, do whatever else she has to do when she needs, yeah, I'm thinking, this might work. Well, I'm thinking, the pricktease beats the sap. I'll be a willing sap here, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ, look at her, she is completely devastated. And if I do this, she'll never want a relationship with me, make love with me, she'd deny me even if she wanted it just to prove she doesn't fuck for favors. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, looking at her, I never lusted after her body anyway, it was the whole fucking Michelle I wanted. But it's only her body she's willing to share or deny. The measure of her self worth. Michelle needs to fuck me, I'm thinking, for her sake. If only because denying me has become so important to her. This is fucking pathetic, I'm thinking, real heartbreak here. She exhausts the repeated refrain, exhausts herself in the recitation, hangs limp in the chair. I want to cross the short distance and take her in my arms, hold her, comfort her, I think that's all I ever wanted, was to hold her, without fear. I don't even want to touch her anymore. Afraid she'll accuse me of copping a feel. Jesus Fucking Christ! I hear the rushing in my head, feel the adrenaline, all cold-blooded, going to make a move, I have not thought this out in any detail, but it is the thing to do. I know. Hey, Michelle, I say. I have an idea. I outline my extemporaneous job plan, tell her what I can pay, finally concluding. No strings attached, Michelle. Honest. Yeah? she squeeks, looking up for the first time, her eyes, face, demeanor, all open wound. Tear streaked cheeks. Yeah, Michelle. Really. There, I say to myself. It's done. Michelle stirs herself, all leaden, zombie-like, gets up, mumbles about no feed for the horses, no money, no place to go, returns to the sink to rearrange things again, head, shoulders, slumping. It's almost noon, Hey, Michelle, I say, let's go to the deli for lunch. We can have a smoke, kill a little time before we eat. She hesitates, whispers, Yeah, okay. I detect a need to take command here, think it possible without Michelle's habitual resistance. Let's go together, I say. You can drive, okay? Yeah, okay, she says, passive entity. We sit at our table, outside, heaters aglow, traffic through the crossroad, unrelenting rain. Smoking, mostly in silence. I don't know what I'm going to do, Michelle says, again as if I'm absent. I don't have any hay for the horses. My mom can't spare any money. I can't go to Dan now. And I can't ask my dad, he's never helped me, never offered. I don't know what to do. She addresses me, finally, looks up. I don't know what happened. Beseeching eyes. You know, everything was okay, even after I got evicted. I found that place in Napa, everything looked like it would work out. And then I lost that, and Gilley got hit. I probably should have put him down, but I just couldn't. I spent all I had on his vet bill. I don't have any credit. My grandma said, Don't get a credit card, get in debt. All I owe on is my jeep. But I sure wish I had a credit card now. Thanks grandma. She looks down again, hat shielding her eyes. Again. This is the worst shape I've been in since I was eighteen and in college, she says. I have thirty-six dollars in the bank. And I don't have any hay for the horses. What I see of her face scrunches up again under the cowboy hat, her body constricts into itself as she fights the need to cry, to sob, drawing her head forward, slightly, she pulls the extended legs in a bit, quivers briefly, relaxes. Takes a deep breath, a few tears escape. A mighty wave of revulsion and grief washes into that howling void repressed, I'm watching her die, I'm thinking, Michelle is dying before my eyes. I wish I could hold her, she could cry on my shoulder, it just is not possible, I choke back the bile. Michelle, I say, It'll be alright, really. Lets get something to eat. I don't have any money, Terry, defeated. Yeah, yeah, I know, I say, pulling myself up, walking over and putting my hand on her shoulder. Come on. I steer Michelle inside, hand on her back, attempt to behave as if the last hour or so has not happened, need to get her back to normal, back to herself. In the five, ten minutes she's forced to interact with the chattering counter staff, make a decision about her order, decide on a cookie or not, tea or coffee, she recovers her composure. Back at our table, she sits back in her chair, stares at the food. Come on, let's eat, I say, unwrapping her sandwich, opening the bag of chips. She complies. Michelle, I say, I'm serious about that job. And you can work at home most of the time, four, five hours a day, maybe. Do whatever else you have to do. I'm good for a month, and we can see how things work out. Yeah? she says, briefly hopeful. Then, resigned voice, a whisper, I can't last a month. I can't pay my rent. Should I do this? I'm thinking. Yeah, fuck it. Tell you what, Michelle. I'll pay you in advance, okay? I can write you a check for two thousand bucks today. Will that take care of things for right now? Yeah, she says, I think so. I'm trying to be gently assertive, avoid pushiness, need to get her cooperation now, without the gratuitous rebellion. Voice soft, solicitous, I say, Michelle, you should have told me how bad it was sooner. You shouldn't stay home alone and worry like that. I think you just scare yourself, go around in circles, and get depressed. Think the worst. This is self-serving to some extent, I want her to come to me, of course, knowing that if she could allow herself to do that, she could allow herself to become my lover. But that is not the point, I meant it, no strings attached. And if she had anyone else to trust, to help, she would not be in this situation, financially or emotionally. Some friends and family, I can't help thinking, false twins of the genuine articles. Wonder if she's ever known the real things. And I'm thinking of her alone in her house, daughter away, and I wish I could be with her over the next few days, can't suggest it, wonder if anyone in her family knows how upset, how delicate she is now. Seethe that I can't call her sister and talk, Who do you think you are, to butt in? Michelle breaks the silence after a few seconds, says, You're right, that's just what I do. But I start thinking about everything, and I get overwhelmed. I don't know what to do. It really is like I'm paralyzed. Everything's happening all at once. Yeah, I know, I say. So let's break it down. Michelle needs to talk to a woman who might put up some of her horses, she needs hay. The two grand, it seems, really is enough, right now, to give her room to maneuver. And I don't have to pay my rent all at once, she says. My landlord will cut me some slack, and I'll be able to buy some hay. Let me take care of that, I say, you'll need all the money you can hang onto for now. Terry, she starts to say, I can't pay you back. Michelle, I interrupt, do not worry about it. Please. Okay, she says. But you don't know how hard this is for me. I've always been so fiercely independent. That was important to me. I feel so helpless now. Michelle, I say, me too. And the only reason I'm okay now is because friends helped me out when I needed it. Over and over again. That's all I'm doing now, payback. She glances at me, understanding, says nothing. We leave in her jeep, she calls a hay service on the way to the woman's place, no deliveries available for several days. She looks doubtful again, Don't worry, I say, we'll figure something out. She drives to a modest house in the country, stables behind, amid other such rural properties, these are old Sonoma folk out here. Michelle goes to the door, disappears inside to discuss her animals. I'm sitting in her jeep, see a neighbor across the road, familiar face, a big, raw-boned man I met when he delivered hay for the owners of her stables. I approach the guy, extend my hand, remind him where we met. I need some hay, I finally say, got some? Well, yeah, he says. Maybe. What do you need? Michelle walks out of the house just then with the woman who lives there, they see me talking to the neighbor, join us. After preliminary introductions, the woman starts to talk to the hay guy, I take Michelle aside, tell her we can do a deal. The woman departs, Michelle starts to bargain with the man, he's cheap and he can deliver a couple of week's worth right now. I get in his truck so we can drive to the haystack out back, Michelle follows in her jeep. She seems like a real nice lady, he says, sincerely, as we pull up to the fodder. Yeah, she is, I say. She's in kind of a jam now, this helps alot. And if you can give her any kind of break in the future, that's one woman who really deserves it. We look at each other, he gets it, I turn away before my eyes water, to write him a check. Michelle helps us load the flatbed truck, he heads off to her place, we return to her jeep. I still need some rye, she says, sitting, thinking clearly now, over the lassitude of despair. I know where I can get it, but I have to get the trailer back at the stables. Let's do it, I say, she starts the engine, hesitates on driving out. I don't have a trailer hitch, she says, looking like she might panic again. We'll go buy one, I say. Okay, she says, slowly. Then, But Terry, I don't have any money. Michelle. Don't worry about it. Within a couple of hours we're back at the stables, hay stacked, protected by tarps. The rain's finally let up, sky clearing a bit to the west, beams of sunlight penetrating under the gray. There are no rainbows visible as we finish feeding the animals. We walk together in silence to the chairs under the overhang, I take a seat as she muddles around some more at the sink. You feeling a little better about things? I ask. Yeah, she says. Thanks. Will you be okay tonight? Oh, yeah, she says. I'm going to my sister's for dinner. Sounds back to normal. What are you doing this weekend, she asks. Oh, I don't know, I say. Probably go into the city and look for a Christmas party. That's what I'm doing, she says, perking up, sing-song voice. We're going to a party the mayor's throwing somewhere. She leaves that hanging, the image of a little girl springs to mind, where did that come from, I wonder, that little girl. And a residue of hurt feelings, about something, somewhere. That sounds like fun, I say. Thinking, yeah, back to normal. I'd better head out, I say, get up to leave. Michelle approaches, looks into my eyes, hers glisten. Thanks, Terry, she says, embracing me. We turn away from each other, and I leave for the weekend, thinking, as I walk. Yes, goes the refrain, it's done. It's done. So much for getting together while the daughter's gone, I'm thinking, how very appealing for Michelle. Yeah, that sounds like fun, hang out with the guy who sees you at the lowest point in your life, breakdown time. The guy you've been working, for fun, catch me if you can. The man whose very presence says, somehow, I told you so. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, she probably never wants to see you again, I can't blame her. Oh, Michelle. I have dinner with friends, distract myself throughout the evening, Saturday night go to the City, end up at a black-tie affair with a few hundred other guests, several bands, ballrooms, elaborate buffets. Contemplative mood, I find myself standing at the top of a great, sweeping stone staircase, glass of champagne in hand. Wish Michelle was with me now, I'm thinking, as I descend slowly, we'd make a great couple, every eye in the room would be watching us. I imagine her in a black number, satin, perhaps, something with a sheen, maybe a Balenciaga, strapless bodice, wide skirt just below the knees. Or a red sheath. Wearing one of the diamond-studded platinum chokers I priced in Vegas. I hate that kind of stuff, she would say at the suggestion. Too fancy. I'm just a trailer park girl, she kept reminding me, eager to reject any aspiration reflecting hope, prosperity. Any real success. Before it all rejects her, again. Trailer park girl. Jesus Fucking Christ! She told me so, I'm thinking, should have listened. Ah, but I did. And it just doesn't matter. I'd do it all again, I'm thinking, she's as good as I ever imagined, better than she knows. Just wish she knew it too. On reaching the ballroom floor, I follow the sound of rock to another venue, find a large band, crew of backup singers, dancers. Standing to the side, I start to move with the beat, note the dancer closest me, geez, she's fucking hot, I'm thinking, someone taps my shoulder, a woman wants to dance. I smile a decline to her invitation, fixate again on the woman on stage, she notes me, returns the attention. Her bumps and grinds become more pronounced, she aims them at me, looks into my eyes, smiles, I smile in return, she tosses her head, turns her back to me, swivels back, looking, again, into my eyes. She licks her lips, lots of tongue. Throughout the set, we eye-fuck each other, dancing across the distance, her hip thrusts and ass wiggles ever more lascivious. It finishes, on departing the stage she shoots a last glance and wide grin at me over her shoulder. I'm tempted to track her down, but don't really have the energy, dismiss the idea on seeing the difficulties getting backstage. Thank fucking God, I'm thinking. I can hear it all now. Let's have a drink, I'd say. I don't think so, she'd say. I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Jesus Fucking Christ. At least I hope Michelle has a nice time. She really needs it. And when she tells me about her party, on Monday morning, I suppress the ugly laugh I feel. She's mucking the stalls opposite the arena, working and talking, I'm relieved she can't see my look of disgust. It was a lot of fun, she says. It was at this place in the Mission somewhere, and there were all these bands, lots of people. We were having a really good time, and then I ate these brownies. They must have had pot in them, I guess, and I started getting deathly ill, I started throwing up. I just had to leave, and since Karen was driving, she did too. I was throwing up all the way home. I'm sorry, I say. That's too bad. This I say in all sincerity, I feel horrible about it for Michelle, but it's just too rich. Everything she does to have a little fun, relieve the pressure, turns out badly for her, the more she needs it, the worse, it seems to me, the disappointment. The Inverse Midas Touch, again, I'm thinking. Poor Michelle. If only she didn't try so hard, fight me so much, I'm thinking, she might discover that we could have a nice time together, without all the work. Might even discover that we really like each other. No. She might finally recognize that she really likes me, recognize that she seeks my company, initiates intimate situations. That giving us a chance could be a good thing. For both of us. Especially for her. Michelle relates the tale with an air of resignation, no self-pity, but a shake of the head. Oh, well, she says, sighing. That's just how things go sometimes. Especially for you, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ. You just can't get a break. I don't think I've ever seen anyone have such bad luck, and on top of that, manage to sabotage herself so thoroughly. Can't fucking believe it. I feel really bad about it, she says. Karen met this guy she liked, and I kind of messed it up for her. Well there's a bright spot, I think, uncharitably. Messed things up for Karen and the guy she liked. Lucky man, I'm thinking, hope he didn't get her phone number, avoids the catch and release game. How are you? Fuck you. Get lost! Fucking pathetic. I'm rather vague about my own weekend activities, share no details of parties attended, mumble my commiseration over yet another small disaster, go to get Jaxon as Michelle picks up the leaf blower to clean the corridor of hay, dirt, remains of horse droppings. It doesn't work. Damn it! yells Michelle, tossing it down. If it's not one thing... Just what I need, huh, Terry, something else to go wrong. I'm sorry, Michelle. Let me see if I can fix it. Don't bother, she commands. I'll do it later. She leaves, angry, to run some errands, while I begin to seethe. I sit in one of the plastic chairs smoking, thinking, this is what pisses me off. I can fix that, I have the time and inclination to fix it, and Michelle could use the help, if only to avoid wasting half-an-hour she doesn't have. Presuming she could fix it. And I don't question her competence, or her smarts, I just know I probably have more experience fixing things like this, know how long it took me to learn. Sometimes only because someone else fixed it and showed me how. And I'm sitting there, wanting to fix the damn leaf blower, for Michelle, knowing that if I do I'll make her angry. Get in trouble. This is so fucking stupid, I'm thinking, I can't believe it. Anything I do consistent with being a friend threatens reprisal. Jesus Fucking Christ, I yell out loud, heard only by the horses. Fuck it. I'm going to fix it. And I do, the nature of the problem sufficiently obscure that I know Michelle couldn't have. I do not feel superior making this observation, or condescending concerning her abilities, as a person or a woman. We each know things of which the other is ignorant. Can't we try to complement each other, I'm thinking, rather than compete in these bizarre ways? I gasp in frustration, finally take Jaxon out for a short stint. When Michelle returns, I ask if she wants to work Charlie Brown, go to get him on her assent. By the way, I say, trying to minimize the act, I fixed the leaf blower. Really? she says, subdued, little girl voice. Thanks. Look of defeat. But not angry. Thank God. We do the shorter warmup as we discussed, and I ride Charlie Brown until he first starts to act up, get him to comply for me just long enough to finish the routine on a positive note. He returns to his paddock without incident, the session a success overall. It's lunch time, Michelle starts talking about a place on the square. Good food, it's nice today, can sit outside. Geez, I'm thinking, hearing this, one might consider that since it's lunch time, and she's talking about this restaurant, and we go to lunch all the time now, one might consider her comments as a hint that she'd like to go there for lunch. It is not the deli, though, the safe routine, don't know where this fits into Michelle's definition of a date, a presumption, a come on, whatever. But she did accompany me to the Boon Fly Cafe, last week, I'm thinking, so maybe the rule's bending here, but who fucking knows? And I'm thinking all this as she's talking about the restaurant, going through the motions of paying attention, responding appropriately, thinking of the absurdity inherent in these dilemmas she creates for me. I don't fucking believe it. Well, okay. That sounds nice, Michelle, I say. Want to go there for lunch today? She needs to think about it, looks like she's thinking about it, seriously, and I'm watching her with my head cocked to one side, slight smile, imagining squirrels on treadmills powering the thought process. Yeah, okay, she says. We plan to meet in half-an-hour, she leaves immediately. By the time I depart, a fatal accident has blocked the major road to town, and the alternates I know will take forever. And I'm driving like a maniac, cursing the gods, the whole absurdity of my plight, have to worry aboput getting in trouble helping her out, have to worry about a snub when she hints for my invitation, and now a fucking accident on the way to a lunch that promises, promises, promises what, I ask myself. I take a chance on an unfamiliar road, it seems to go the right way, I'll make it on time, I slow down, take a breath, lose the frustration and anger. Yeah, what might this promise? What do I expect? All I need, I'm thinking, all we need, is for Michelle to stop going out of her way to fight the natural evolution of a friendship. And I see hints of that happening, perhaps, she has discovered, if nothing else, that I am a reliable man sincerely concerned for her, proved it, a man she is interested in. I'd just like to try a normal adult relationship between a man and a woman, to see if we can become more than friends. To explore the possibility, given that we know we're decent people, possessed of certain qualities attractive to each other, of a deeper relationship, without gratuitous pressure on my part, or recreational manipulation on hers. People used to court, I'm thinking, go on outings, to a movie, to dinner, to indulge those explorations without any blatant expectation of sex. Kiss along the way, perhaps, petting beyond that, maybe end up in bed. Maybe not. But they would explore the relationship, where it may go. With Michelle, it seems, to embark on the exploration is to predetermine the sex. Hey, Michelle, want to go to a movie? No, I'm not going to fuck you. And I'm thinking of difficult cases in the past, women who resisted my attentions rigorously, women who generally played hard to get. Until, after long observation of me, after deciding I was worth taking a chance on, they went out with me. And I set them up just right, something non-threatening, innocent, devoid of sexual overtones, a picnic, a hike, made my move, and they melted. Once in a romantic situation with a nice, attractive man, they could not help themselves. And Michelle is a master of creating, or avoiding, those situations where she can't help herself. And any day now, she could, out of the blue, set up just such a situation. Especially given her recent vulnerability, which I must not go out of my way to exploit. I find parking by the restaurant, get there soon after Michelle, spend a pleasant fifteen minutes ordering, talking, we're comfortable together, no wierd undercurrents. She looks up, shows recognition, says, Oh, here comes Bruce. Just fucking perfect! I'm thinking, that guy has fucked up more lunches with Michelle, I'm thinking, this goes beyond coincidence. It's like he's tracking us, knows just when to show up, at the most critical time, to sabotage us. He always wanted her, can't have her, always wants to pimp her off to his friends. Sets her up with opportunities to cheat on her boyfriend, the same guy who whines about his cheating girlfriend. I have come to detest him almost as much as I hate Dan. No chance for intimacy now, no chance to talk her into something later this evening, glass of wine, movie, perhaps, if it were ever possible today, thanks, asshole. And he's talking about the little trip he's taking to look at a boat he might buy for thirty grand, cash, and about people I don't know, and I'm an outsider, again, during my lunch with Michelle. I don't fucking believe it. Wonder if I missed a micro-moment yesterday, I'm thinking as I drive to the stables on Tuesday. Never know. Thanks Bruce. Fucking asshole. Several strangers mill around the barn entrance, I notice on parking, a prospective horse buyer, her daughter and a trainer, it turns out. Alex, a couple of boarders, too. Michelle eventually leads Ty into the arena, attaches a lunge line to his halter, and runs him around her in circles, discussing his conformation and movement with the buyer and trainer. She reveals his strengths, weaknesses, mentions that he threw Alex, an anomaly, Yeah, those things happen, says the trainer. Alex begins to offer unsolicited comments from behind the fence, I'm tempted to tell her to shut up, there are no secrets to reveal about the horse, but Michelle knows what to highlight, chemistry's good between everyone, Alex screws up the rhythm, interferes every time she opens her mouth. I take Jaxon for a ride, by the time we return, Michelle and I are alone again. She complains about Alex, first time she's shown up in days, she would complicate things, shoot her mouth off. Let's go to the deli, I say, lunch so routine at this point it's expected unless there is a reason not to go. Michelle no longer mentions who pays, she's fighting me less. An improvement, not necessarily progress. The spirit-crushed fragility of last week has dissipated, Michelle seems like herself again in recent days. Thank God, I'm thinking, I hate to see her like that. I cannot fucking take it, hurt more for her than I ever could on my own. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, that broken woman I saw, please spare me that. Please spare her. And we're back at the deli, where we sat that grim day in the rain, Michelle helpless, paralyzed, less than a week ago, funny how things change so fast, I'm thinking, especially with her. And she seems carefree, unburdened, and we have a really pleasant little interlude, Bruce doesn't show up, thank fucking God, all this I'm thinking while she's gone, briefly, inside the deli. Contemplative mood again, I'm thinking, now, this is where the happy ending should come along. After everything we've gone through so far, the missteps, the misunderstandings, the boyfriend in the way, on the way out. The dubious stranger, me, saving her from disaster, in the absence of anyone else to depend on, at Christmas. This is when it should happen, right now. But time's running out, she's leaving day after tomorrow, time's running fucking out, Jesus Fucking Christ. But it could still happen. Maybe after she gets back. And we'll be working together for a month, on my territory, after the New Year. But we should still have that romantic Christmas. If only. On Michelle's return, we smoke a last cigarette, walk to her jeep. She opens the passenger side door, sits inside, looking for something, starts talking, hesitates, I see the glint in her eye. Mischievous smile. Hmm, I'm thinking, I wonder where this is going. You won't believe what I did the other night, she says, suppressing her visible excitement. She places her hands between her thighs, high up, backs of the hands touching, slight wiggle. Oh, no, I'm thinking, what now? That body language, that glint. Heart beating faster, adrenaline on its way. I was over at Dan's the other night, she says. He was sitting on the couch, and I went over, and I sat real close to him. And I put my hand on his leg, real high up. She minces in place slightly, geez, I'm thinking, just like she's sitting on a cock, trying to grind it in, slowly, Jesus Fucking Christ, where is this going? I smile, feigning interest, as if I really want to hear this, Yeah? I say. And she repeats this barely detectable little wiggle on the seat, so suggestive, throughout the telling of this story, she's getting turned on, horny, before my eyes, her thighs pressing together, tension released, pressing together. And I leaned over and whispered the dirtiest things into his ear, she says. You wouldn't believe what I said, I was really trying to get him hot. Howling void within, rushing in head. Michelle looks up at me from time to time, naughty smile, eyes glowing, there is something depraved about this, I'm thinking, I feel like I'm watching her fuck someone else. What happened, I'm thinking, to that wounded celibate I thought I knew, that sweet woman trying so hard to do the right thing? Stay faithful to that monster who tortured her, punished her, denied her the physical, affectionate love she desperately needs. Jesus Fucking Christ! I smile and nod my encouragement. Do you know what he did? she asks, finally, wiggle in seat, hands between her legs, close to crotch, rubbing thighs together. Geez, I'm thinking, she's getting wet down there, Jesus Fucking Christ! No, what? I ask, false, expectant smile. He got up and came back with a porno tape, she says, smiling back, eyes wild. He said I should take it home with me and have a good time. Geez, I say, shaking my head, chuckling, like I think it's funny. Did he throw in a dildo? I feel guilty saying it, trying to be game here, but I feel like I've somehow participated in her degradation, this rejection. She's sharing her humiliation with me, I'm thinking, and I'm joking along. I want to throw up. Yeah, right, she responds. No dildo. You know, she continues, wild, manic eyes, salacious smile. I ought to write a book about all this. Well, I say, if you don't, I sure will. And I'm thinking, well, hey, this is where you say, Michelle, let's get together tonight, scratch that itch. What the hell, what are you doing now, let's go. It might work like you never dreamed, I'm thinking. But I don't want her like that. We say our good-byes, I don't ask if she wants to get together later. I need to escape, don't elicit the hug, don't want to touch her. Violate her more. So much for happy fucking endings, I'm thinking. Driving away, I feel helpless, paralyzed, hopeless, cannot think about this. I just have to do what I have to do. Whatever that is. Oh, Michelle. She's lost it, I find myself thinking, she's fucking lost it. Everything's falling apart around her, lifetime goals, expressed by all of her efforts over the last several years, hopes, evaporating before her eyes, my eyes, facing destitution. all Michelle has left of selfworth is her sexuality, her love, and the man at the center of all those recently disappearing aspirations spurns it, time and again. Not only is she a failure, she's a worthless failure. Can't even give herself, her body, away. Michelle has nothing left, I'm thinking, not even her self-respect. And I'm thinking she probably needed, after telling that story, more than anything in the world, for me to hit on her, mount a blatant sexual advance. Restore her self-esteem, any shred of it, if only so she could reject me again. There's something to that, I think, geez, the way that could have played out, we might both have turned out winners. If I'd made a move, she succumbed, we could've shared some Christmas cheer together, with all that implies. If she'd rejected me, I'd at least have had the consolation of making a bold move, finally, if only to see what happened. And it may have restored her self esteem, her sense of desirability. Even better, for her, I would have confirmed her suspicion of mankind, it's always about sex, that, she understands, making clear, ultimately, my true intentions. all my attempts to assist her, be a friend, revealed as part of the seduction she always knew it was. Not only would her judgment be vindicated, it would wipe away any sense of obligation to me, absolve the debt, I'm just a creep after all, Michelle has plenty of experience handling the attentions of creeps, knows right where to put those emotions, easily forgotten. Yeah, that might have been best for both of us, I'm thinking, especially Michelle, forget all about the humiliation she suffered, I observed, shared, forget the shame. Forget me. Geez, glad I didn't think of that at the time, I actually might have done it, I'm thinking. Made that bold move just for the hell of it. But this is not a time for bold moves, this isn't about me, or any previous hopes or expectations. I just want to see Michelle get through this time in her life with minimal damage. With me or without me. Even if I do believe I might be the best thing that ever happened to her, even if I do question the reciprocal. Yeah, I'm thinking, all I can offer is a degree of damage control, shield her from disaster to the extent I can, foster her self-confidence. Avoid provoking her over our feelings for each other, such as they are. Remember, I'm thinking, be careful. Michelle's afraid of men, doesn't trust men. Michelle's afraid of me, doesn't trust herself. And I'm thinking of her squirming in her seat, that manic intensity as she told the story, a story of brutal rejection, a denunciation of everything they had, she offered, her last attempt to save it all, desperate, desperate over her loss of sexual power, defeat, total defeat. Why did she tell me that? I'm thinking. Why? Michelle had to talk to someone, someone not part of her real life, someone who would use it against her, know her secrets, the depth of her failure, magnitude of defeat. How she felt. It's done. I'll never see her again. One of these days, all of a sudden, I'll never see her again. I'm not going to fuck you, I hear her say. You don't want me. I'm no good. No, I'm thinking, You can't fuck me. A plea. And I'm thinking of Cathy, one of my roommates when I first moved to Los Angeles, found the big apartment through the UCLA housing office, ended up with the master bedroom with bath. She already shared it with a fellow dance student, both upper-middle class girls, Cathy's parents were diplomats, she grew up alone, boarding schools. She met Dallas early on, understood my lack of interest after seeing her, a rebuke to her very womanhood. Dallas made men stop and stare, in disbelief, I once overheard a guy in a bar say, I'd crawl through a mile of snake shit to be with her. Cathy stood about five-foot-six, a hundred pounds, had mousy brown hair, eyes to match, pretty, perhaps, despite the slight overbite. Twenty-three, twenty-four, she carried herself with an air of ennui, slump shouldered, mumbled when she talked, hair hanging, dissheveled. Displayed no energy, all the spark of a wet rag, had no boyfriend, no action. She worked part-time as a waitress while earning a master's degree in ballet, a hairdresser customer asked her to be his makeover model one afternoon. I'd known her a month or two by then, arrived home from work after the project to discover a stranger in the living room, did not recognize Cathy, or anything about her. Her hair now a honey blonde, sassy pony-tail, she wore makeup, lipstick. Cathy now moved with her dancer's self-awareness, shoulders back, head erect, assumed a sexy, slinky walk, all the behaviors of a well-practiced vixen. I'd never seen such a total transformation, she was, inside and out, a new woman. Men started coming on to her, she lapped up the attention, became cocky, dismissive, flip. Cathy discovered her sexual power, wielding it indiscriminately, played the tease with me over household issues, sexualized our every encounter with a hard to get, won't cooperate attitude, have to talk her into it, cater to her somehow. Cathy took me to Venice Beach for my first time after the metamorphosis, wore a skimpy bikini, worked on the newly important tan. I can't fucking believe it, I thought, on seeing her exposed, she was genuinely beautiful, made me shake my head. She had a stubborn streak, an intense ability to focus, and an inappropriate skepticism over unremarkable things. It took a while to realize that she wasn't very bright, knew it, and developed these other tools to compensate. The added sexual power just confused her. Within months of the makeover she quit her job as a waitress and dropped out of school, became a nude dancer at the clubs by the airport, made, for her, a fortune. She once hid a girl from a pimp at our place, I saw them get dressed for nights of working, partying, the nude clubs and the after-hours drinking and gambling joints hidden around Inglewood. One night she awakened me, needed to talk, had to figure something out. A Japanese businessman proposed she marry him so he could get a green card, ten grand, purely business. She agreed, this sounds easy, he started the process. Came back to her, said it was close, wanted to write her a check for a thousand, downpayment. Okay, she said. Then he suggested that since they were getting married, they should try each other out. Somehow, this made sense to her. I'm still half-asleep hearing this, glad my demeanor is so affectless, don't want to display my dismay, and she's describing the flabby old man, stinking of booze, sweaty, humping away on her for a few minutes, getting up when he's done, and tossing the check at her on the way out. It bounced. How could I be so stupid? she asked. I have no answer. We drifted apart soon after that, she'd run into me sometimes with my various girlfriends, lost sight of her eventually. She called me at work a few years later, tracked me down through my bylines, wanted to get together. I arranged to meet her at one of my Venice hangouts, a slick place, reasonable prices, great crowd. She bristled immediately, this was too much like a date. And everything I did for the rest of the evening she treated like a come on she meant to discourage. After a comedy of errors in trying to settle on an acceptably modest restaurant, I discover over dinner that dreams of becoming a ballerina were superseded by her stints at the Kit Kat Club and Jet Strip, that Cathy had tripped over the fringes of the sex trade. Now she was working as a receptionist somewhere, dead-end job, no future, no hope, this she tells me with little sense of regret. It just kind of happened to her. I'm thinking about that makeover, of course. She really wants to talk, though, quiet place, suggests my apartment, so odd, I'm thinking, given that she behaves as if I really want to fuck her, bad, and she's determined to prevent it. We're there, sitting on my bed, comfortably talking about little things, until a lull. Okay, she says, out of the blue, asks, How do you do it? Do what? I ask. I don't know, she says, but of all the people who lived in that place, you're the only one who's really done anthing. And I remember how you were back then. It was like you had it all figured out. How did you do that? she asks, accusingly. And I have no answer, of course, though I have always tried to figure things out, how it all, really, works, but I can't articulate this at the time. And her faces softens, her eyes beg me, and I lean over and take her in my arms, on the bed, and kiss her, gently, more heavily, and she's into it, we're rubbing our groins together, and she pushes me away. Tell me a story, she demands. I look at her blankly, I don't make up stories on command, say, Well, I'm sorry, I can't. And I kiss her again, she responds as passionately as before, we're dry humping each other, a minute or so into the second round, she says, wait a minute, goes to the bathroom. We're getting lucky, here, I think, and Cathy is not my type, won't be falling in love with her, but I like her, would be happy to be friends and lovers with her, over time, might be able to help her figure it out. Find a job with a future, I have connections, know her real talents, provide support, good, honest advice. A modicum of sincere love and affection. And I'll be happy to send her off with a true love, if she ever finds him, with my best wishes. Yeah, I'm thinking, this could work out. That thinking she's irresistable, though, like I need to chase her for pussy, I'm thinking, sure don't need her to jack me around. And I'm thinking all this during the minutes she's gone, and she returns, standing tall, hands on hips, looking down at me, she says, You know, there's something there. Maybe. But I've got to go. Call me sometime. I don't, and never see her again. God damn makeover, I'm thinking. Gave her all that sexual power, never had it before, didn't know what to do with it except fuck up her life, fall for the wrong guys. She sure showed me, I'm thinking, with a chuckle, put everything into perspective. Easily fucked with a bad check, wouldn't give us a chance. Fucking dumbass. Poor Cathy, I'm thinking, I wonder what ever happened to her. Do not really want to know. On second thought. Why is it? I'm thinking, why is it the self-styled sexpots who fall into bed so indiscriminately with random nonentities play so hard to get with men they seem to like and respect? All this runs through my mind on the way to pick up Michelle's Christmas present, I'm not thinking about her, the scene we just experienced, mind adrift, not thinking at all about her fucking that chair, sex partner of the moment. I pull into the engraver's parking lot, still mulling this over, enter, wait at the counter for my item after greeting the proprietor. Oh, yeah! Because they don't care what the nobodies think of them, can act as wanton as they desire, be naughty, indulge their ids. With men they don't respect, men who reciprocate the sentiment. They want to act like a lady with a worthwhile man. And they don't want him to find out their lie, submit to judgment, mutual disillusion. Saying no keeps them safe, their secret safe. Maintains their control. Usually to their detriment. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ. Treat a trashy woman like trash, she gives you pussy. Treat her like a lady, she gives you the treatment. It's hopeless, just hopeless. Poor Cathy. Oh, my God, I'm thinking, Oh my fucking God. Poor Michelle. Terry, I'm just a trailer park girl! I take a deep breath, sigh, the engraver returns with the gift, he got it just right. Of the four riding crops I bought at the estate auction outside London, only one was not monogrammed. A couple of generations old, once owned by Lady Christina Fermorr-Hesketh, it consists of a leather-covered shaft and horn handle, joined at a silver sleeve. Now it bore Michelle's name. That's funny, I'm thinking, again, how I ended up with the riding crops. Michelle didn't mean anything to me at the time, wasn't sure I'd be taking riding lessons, didn't have horses on my mind. I just blindly bid on the last lot available that had a San Francisco connection, happened to be riding crops. The finest, alone worth the fifteen hundred I paid for the four, featured a silver crab claw atop a bamboo shaft, with a gold monogram of three superimposed initials. The Sotheby's catalog, I later discovered, misidentified the letters, attributed ownership to the wrong woman, an individual of no importance. The real owner turned out to be one of the most well-connected women of the western elites, her father a titan, her two husbands born of titans, all people germaine to my historical research. Her maiden name, I had just learned, was attached to a legendary endurance horse race, another odd coincidence. Anymore, though, I'm not indulging the destiny angle much. Destiny this may be, but I'm not sure I'll like the destination. I just hope she likes the gift, I'm thinking, already been worrying for days about Michelle refusing receipt of it, too expensive, too nice. A week or two ago gave Michelle a century-or-so-old photo I came across in travels, striking forty-something New York society woman, taken at a Fifth Avenue studio. Beautiful dress, tasteful jewelry, and the narrowest waist ever seen, never saw its like even when such pictures were meant to show the extremes of the fashion, looked to be only sixteen, eighteen inches. Incredible. On the back, it said something like, Aunt Mildred, before the Incident with the runaway horse. Bought it because it was unique, and cheap, too good to pass up, later thought Michelle might like it, wanted to give it to her. Worried then, too, that she'd reject it on principle, can't take a gift, why a gift, Jesus Fucking Christ, why are you so difficult, I give things away all the time. Not that big a deal, honest, even if I do like you. Pretended to give it to her as an afterthought, a small nothing, she accepted it with amusement and gratitude, just as I'd hoped. I still marvel at the irony of having to convince Michelle that favors I bestow are worthless, so she'll accept them. The riding crop lacks any great monetary value, unlike the others, engraved, evoking aristocratic names, lovely despite its anonymity. I cringe at the thought of saying tomorrow, No, Michelle, it's not really worth anything, I didn't spend any money on you, it means nothing. Just right, for you. Everything you deserve. God, I hate having to think like this. I just can't worry about it. I'm going to treat her how I feel like treating her, consequences be damned. I'm going to treat her as well as I can. God, I hate having to think like this. Chuckling, shaking my head. And I'm thinking exactly the same thing as I drive in Wednesday morning, prepared for the eruption, argument, prepared to convince her of the riding crop's insignificance. God, I hate having to think like this! Michelle sees me pull in, goes to her jeep while I park, now she's striding toward me, purposefully, what now, I'm thinking, see a small bag in her hand. Gift? Hi, Terry, she says. I didn't want to forget to give you this. Merry Christmas. Thanks, Michelle, I say, approaching from my car. Come here, I've got something for you. She follows me the few steps back, I pull out the riding crop, apologize for its lack of wrapping, adding, but I did tie a rawhide bow on it! And we're standing next to my car at this point, and I hand it over to Michelle, she takes it in hand, admiring it, stunned. She clutches it to her breast, emits a tiny sigh, looks up at me, disbelieving, says, No one's ever given me anything like this before. Michelle folds into her self, leaning back on my car, not quite doubling over. Her lips compress until they disappear, she closes her eyes, tears leaking out despite the effort, every muscle in her face constricts. Her body quivers in this semi-erect fetal position, slightly convulsing, she buries her chin in her chest, successfully choking back the sobs, gasping, almost silently, for breath. I don't know what to do, I want to take her, hold her, I'm afraid to touch her, powerless, I'm afraid she'll break, already broken. I look away, don't want to embarrass her, make her feel more vulnerable, even more naked, in my eyes, she's speechless, still rocking slightly, thirty, forty seconds, almost a minute, she finally catches her breath. Sorry about that, she says, recovering, breathing deeply. I get really sentimental sometimes. I love it, Terry. Thank you. The bow, too. I'm never taking it off. We look into each other's eyes, don't know what I see in hers anymore, but I know I have touched her deeply, and she's saying as much. She rubs her sleeve across her cheeks to dry the tears. She looks at me again, our eyes lock, she deliberately approaches me, arms out, I go for the hug, she stops it short, to kiss me, for the first time, ever. On the lips. She embraces me, hard, lingering, I can't really respond in kind, I reflexively recoil from her physical touch now. I can't help it, wonder what she makes of that. A hint of Dan's repulsion, rejection? I can't tell her that I fear her vulnerability, fear hurting her, somehow. Hurting her, perhaps, anyway. Oh, God, I'm thinking, this is just killing me. Why can't we acknowledge what's going on here? Whatever it is. Oh, Michelle, I say. I'm so glad you like it. We walk up toward the overhang with the skull, I hook my arm in hers, say, I'm pretty sentimental too. You know that movie It's a Wonderful Life? I start crying whenever I see the commercials for it. Really? she says. Yup. Really. We sit at the picnic table, and I open her gift to me, a Christmas ornament. It's a shaped, tin horse, embossed for three dimensions, painted to resemble Jaxon, with his name on it. On the back, it says, from Michelle. That's kind of funny, huh? That we got each other personalized gifts? Yeah, imagine that, I say. Thinking, destiny. Terrifying destiny. Wait a minute, she says, goes back to her jeep, returns with a stack of pictures. I'm giving these to friends, here. She does it with a hesitancy suggesting that I might not be a friend, or that she questions my interest in having a picture of her. One, a portrait taken in Mexico, shows her smiling, sunset behind, wearing a t-shirt that says Country Girl. The other is almost identical to the photo she sent me before, by email, with her dogs, that elusive smile, the picture that says Come and catch me. If you can. In this image, Michelle smiles broadly, simple, no hidden meanings. Nice pictures of you, Michelle, I say, thank you. And I'm thinking, yup, there was a message in that photo, she had different versions of it, one neutral, one suggestive, she sent the latter. Wish I knew what was really going on in that head of yours, I'm thinking. No I don't. On second thought. I know enough already. Troubled past, troubled psyche, chaotic present, burning, almost uncontrollably, with sexual desire and passion. Profound doubts about her self worth. And she might be afraid of falling in love with me, she's thinking of fucking Peter, and there is nothing I can do to influence events, or Michelle, in any predictable manner. It will be difficult enough just trying to do the right thing, without disaster, difficult enough to remain friends. Even knowing as much as I know. Because I know as much as I know. We sit under the cold sun, making small talk, I'm thinking of her exhibition yesterday, squirming in the seat, aroused, thinking of what I just saw, her physical, emotional crumpling, result of a nice, thoughtful gift. No one's ever given me anything like this before, she said. And regardless of my own feelings for Michelle, of any future we may have together, however brief or extended, I'm angered at the thought that such a fine woman hasn't had many nice things happen to her, no matter how difficult her moods, questionable her behavior. I'm outraged, I realize, that her essential goodness goes so unrewarded by life, unappreciated by the people who surround her, now, most of all. Even if nobody else in the world can appreciate how extraordinary she is, how worthy, I do. I want her to know it. Even if she does treat me like a chump. We end up lunching at the restaurant on the square again, good sign, Michelle doesn't mind being seen around town with me, we're deviating, easily, comfortably, from the rigid routines she applies to me to keep me in my place. Bruce doesn't appear, thank God, not running into Bruce has become a minor obsession for me, note I make a face whenever I think of him, unconsciously. I look like I smell shit. Instead, Alex walks by, Michelle points her out. She pretended not to see me, Michelle says, sneering. She didn't show up Monday or this morning. Doesn't answer the phone. Won't call back and let me know what's going on. I cut her a lot of slack, but she's such a loser, she doesn't have a clue. I set her up with a great opportunity, riding that racehorse. She could've end up doing a lot of work for those owners, but she blew it. She can't even face me now. Such a loser, she concludes, emphasizing each word, knowing look. I'm going to fire her. We end up lunching on the square the next day as well, the absence of tension more evident, that undercurrent of resistance seems daily to diminish. She even suggests we go together in her jeep. Geez, I'm thinking as we walk down the street, if only we could keep going like this, acting normally, like two adults who might like each other, for a while, we could move this along. Or just finish it. Wish she weren't leaving tomorrow. This time we go to the Basque bakery, another hopeful deviation, I think of my last visit here, oh, yeah, the day of the omen, the rainbow. Maybe not so hopeful. On second thought. All this I'm thinking as we talk, enter, get settled. She tells me about her plans, getting the horses out of the stables, looking for a new place, all uncertain. She's already losing boarders, she'll be lucky to find room for her horses, her stint as a ranch manager is over. She's looking for work as a vet tech, has some leads, bad hours, distant locations, but she's confident something viable will appear. If worse comes to worse, she'll go back to work for the county animal control. Geez, I'm thinking, trying to sound encouraging, upbeat, do not say this to her, fucking dog catcher. Michelle gets to be a dog catcher. If she's lucky. You'd own that ranch by now, I'm thinking, if you hadn't gone out of your way to fuck it up. Just to be dfficult with me. Might have been set for life, all your dreams come true, your fierce independence indulged. Do anything you want again. So fiercely fucking independent of me you fucked yourself. Jesus Fucking Christ! After eating, we're sipping tea, I start talking about the work we'll be doing together after the New Year. First, a few days at my office, to create a catalog of my history library, maybe four or five hours a day. She'll pull the books, tell me titles and authors, I'll type up the entries. Then, I need some scanning done, the first step to publishing a rare book on winemaking, written by America's first wine baron. The man who first planted vineyards out by Michelle's. This she can do at home, I'll supply a laptop and the scanner, she can continue her job search, whatever, work when she can, wants, really shouldn't take more than a week or two. This could be a big deal, I say. I've been talking to people I know in the wine industry, and this could cause a stir. I'll show you how to do the web design, and you can take credit for the whole project. We could get some good publicity out of this. That could go along way around here. She tenses before I complete the last sentence, looks petrified, says, No, I don't want that. Hey, I say. Whatever. During the silent gap of a few seconds, she stares into space briefly, looks worried, addresses me. Terry, what if I can't do this? she asks. What if I screw it up? Michelle, you can't screw it up, I say. Honest. You'll do fine. The expression of doubt, tension, remain, her body has constricted, she sits forward in the chair. And you know, I say, hanging around my office a bit won't be a bad idea. Those guys over there can open a lot of doors. There's no telling what could happen. She looks puzzled, thoughtful, I imagine, again, the squirrel-powered cogitation. We get back to the stables, I'm leaving, this is the last time we'll see each other until after Christmas. When she's not looking, I sneak a bottle of wine, from these hills, into her jeep. To drink with her father, perhaps, over the holiday. It's finally time for me to go, we approach to hug. She kisses me, again, on the lips. Good-bye, Terry, she says. And Merry Christmas. We exchange a lingering glance, I depart. The mental processes at play in the immediate aftermath of this separation little resemble anything I know as thought. Mind consciously blank, all of my activities depend on habit, the effort to think limited to accomplishing small, routine tasks. Something has happened to us, is happening, we are narrowing a gap, we are drifting closer together. This I deeply, dimly, perceive, know, avoid thinking about it, terrified by the prospect, the illusion, of hope. The impulse to make something happen, to interfere with the ineffable currents at work, misdirect the flow, perhaps, nags at the periphery of awareness. I drive to town, I meet friends for drinks, I go to dinner, my distraction obvious, my absent-mindedness awkward. I am not engaging with others, I don't engage myself, I think of nothing, just feel, passively, the effects of various scenes bubbling to the surface of recognition. Memories of the last week, I do not know what to think, am incapable of trying. Without judgment, discrimination, I indulge certain images, I see Michelle clutching, desperately, the riding crop, I see the picture of Michelle with the dogs, both versions, Catch me if you can, I see Michelle trapped, save me, please, in peril. My every effort threatening doom. I drive through the tunnel of redwoods to my mountaintop, bump along the dirt track through the oaks, arrive home in the dark, random stars blink through the roving, dripping rain clouds. I light the gas lanterns, turn them low, build a fire in the cast iron stove, make a cup of tea. Sit, in the dark light, on the couch of my childhood, sip tea, smoke cigarettes, just be. And absorb the impressions, the feelings, of the week, the month, I give in to an impulse, thoughtlessly, retrieve the pictures Michelle gave me, pin them to my wall. Somewhere inside I'm saying don't jinx this, don't get your hopes up, don't look at those pictures, don't delude yourself, familiar thoughts, feelings, fears, disregarded. I don't care anymore. Yes, I do, caring just doesn't matter, caring won't help. And I look at those pictures on the wall, barely distinguishable in the mute obscurity, I can't really make out Michelle, as Michelle, doesn't matter, my imagination supplies the colors and details I cannot see. My own images of Michelle supersede her own images of herself, given to me, a gift, what do I really see? And I see, and feel, the events of the last week, or two, Michelle's breakdown, my inadequate responses, who knows, maybe, just right, her recovery, our later comfort in each other's presence. Growing trust, kisses on the lips. And I wish she hadn't gone away, something might have happened, don't know, don't try to, And I see her face, her eyes, her body, salacious smiles, wiggles in the car seat, sly looks. Single tear drops, wet cheeks, convulsing fetal position, standing. Broken heart, shattered dreams, crippled spirit. Kisses on the lips. And I don't think, or feel, or understand, but know, passively know. I know I touched her. I made Michelle feel loved. An unalloyed love, free of conventional restrictions, unaffected by knowing Michelle, her secrets, her shames, better, perhaps, than she. There is something wonderful in this, this love we share, we cannot understand. And I'm sitting on the couch, limp, legs extended, arms loose, staring into dark space, the void beyond the gas light. And I recognize a transcendent beauty, never glimsped before, by me. Tears cascade down my cheeks, sit silent, in the darkness, at peace. And I feel nothing, no yearning, no pain, no hope, no desire. At peace. In the days of Michelle's absence over Christmas, I remain in a state of suspended speculation, going through the motions of life, unthinking. Ideas spring to mind, impulses beckon, inertia resists. I should call her, see if she arrived safely. Don't, unthinking. I should call her, to say Merry Christmas. Don't unthinking. I visit the stables, ride Jaxon in the arena when its raining. Neglect Charlie Brown, because of his tricks, nobody around to help, if trouble. One day it's just dry enough for a ride in the vineyards, eery, a thick, hovering fog, nothing visible above the trees, skyless gray, accompanying mists. I sit in my white plastic chair, smoking, before I ride, not thinking, about all the images coming to mind, all new against this colorless backdrop. Michelle and Lucy, dogs and horses, coming and going. Gone. The already muted pain of leaving all of this behind negated by the relief I know I'll feel. Something, anyway, is over. I just don't know what. Jaxon responds tentatively as we ride toward the vineyards, on turning him down the hill, he rebels, baskstepping, fidgets in place. I circle him around try again, he does not want to go, never seen a sky like this, air like this, a world of gray. I can't let him win, but he's scary scared, could do something drastic if I try to force him, I dismount, lead him down the hill, whacks on the rump with the riding crop necessary for encouragement. We ride a short stretch, come to the first fork in the road, Jaxon balks again. He will not go. I turn him around, ride back the way we came, reverse course, and try again. He stops as before, same place. Dismount again, walk him further along the road, pulling, cajoling, to the next fork. Remount, and he will not proceed. Following half-an-hour of this, I admit defeat, we return toward the stables. He stops, snorts, looks around, every few steps, sniffs the visible air, wary, anxious, I've never been afraid of riding him before, but I am now. The fog has unhinged him, I fear his fear. Great last ride, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ. The ever more oppressive rain mounts new offensives by the day. Every ride might be my last. Great fucking ride. I'm ready to leave. Good riddance. Michelle reappears a couple of days after Christmas, I'm trying to decide what I want to do with Jaxon, whether to ride English or Western saddle this morning, the spotty rain confining us to the arena. I'm sitting in my chair, she drives up, parks nearby, says, Hi, Terry! on exiting the vehicle. She strides over to me, I get up, we hug, sit down. The tentative vulnerability of a week ago has disappeared, her body language, demeanor, displaying recovered strength, confidence. We talk about our respective Christmases, I tell her about spending it with my ex and son at my aunt's, our last together, the aunt and the remains of her family leaving for Arizona after 50 years. End of an era for my family, my last remaining relatives in the state. So, I ask, how was Christmas with your dad? It was really nice, she says. We did all the traditional stuff. And he gave me a set of dishes from his mom. They're blue and white, that Chinese design. Oh, yeah, I say. The blue willow pattern. My mom had some of that. I've got it stashed away somewhere. She leans forward in her chair, hesitates, looks up at me, to the ground, back to me. Uh oh, I'm thinking. You know, she says, that was the first time I've spent Christmas with him since I was two? It's the first I can remember. Really? I say, relieved. Oh, that's nice. I'm glad you were able to do that. You know what else? she asks. No, what? I couldn't have done it without you. That three hundred dollars you gave me? It really made the difference. Thanks. Michelle, don't mention it. I'm glad it helped. Oh, hey, she says, an afterthought. Do you know anything about a bottle of wine in my backseat? Well, yeah, I respond. I snuck it in that last day. Thought you might drink it with your dad and his wife. Well, she says, thanks again. I appreciated it. All of it. Oh, guess what! she says on rising. What? I ask. I found a stable. But it's not very big, I don't know if I can make it work. But maybe. At least I have a place for my horses, still do lessons. And I've got some jobs lined up some at clinics so I can work double shifts, on call. You know, stay over for a couple of days a week. Get overtime. Oh, that's great, I say. She's got to go, run errands, the routine we've known is over. I ask about her plans to move, she has to be out by New Year's Day, she'll be busy. Need help? I ask. Maybe, she says, but I have some of the Mexicans lined up. She just can't accept my help. Again. Well, let me know, I say. Jesus Fucking Christ. Early after seeing her the next morning, she says, Hey, you know that bottle of wine you gave me? Yeah? You'll never believe what I did last night. I just sat at home, and kicked back, and watched a movie all by myself. And I drank the whole thing. All by myself. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, getting drunk by yourself. Perfect. Oh, Michelle, I muse, my blundering bacchante, embrace me as your guide. Before it's too late, you fool. I'll show you spiritual peace through drinking and fucking. Well, gee, I say, instead. You should have called me. She responds with one of her knowing looks, glint in the eye. The expression evokes a memory, has nothing to do with Michelle. Yes, it does. But it's not Michelle I'm thinking about. There's a little girl in my head, don't know where she comes from, can't quite visualize her, can't identify her provenance. But I'm thinking now of the little girl who played The Bad Seed, some similarity, still not her. Like her though. And I can't see the little girl, but I hear her, voice from a shade I can't summon, I hear her say, Hi, little boy. Wanna play? Then, she says, but I don't know who she's talking to, can't get a fix, she says, I don't play with boys. They're mean and they're rude! And that's all I can bring forth, know it's not the bad seed girl, but it's the kind of thing she said. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking. What's with that? And we're alternately walking around together as Michelle does chores, or sitting side-by-side, and I'm thinking again, can't help it, can't help thinking about this situation, again, some more, despite complete failure in developing a workable understanding of it, I'm thinking, for alomost a month now, we've flirted with the idea of sharing activities together, discussed Christmas outings, if only for Michelle to disallow their realization. And I understand that this is a difficult time for her, I understand her confusion, her panic, her sense of helplessness, as well as her inability to handle her situation as smoothly as she might, but the mitigating factors are undeniable. And I understand all this. And the last thing I am inclined by nature to do, especially after knowing her for eight months, is to find any fault with Michelle. I cannot, however, overlook the irony of this situation. For a variety of reasons, not wholly selfish, I've devoted a large degree of my recent life to looking out for Michelle, trying to take care of her, subtly, without compromising her sense of dignity, or independence, to protect her from the worst effects of her misfortune, economic and emotional. Just yesterday she's telling me that her first real Christmas visit with her father would not have been possible without my intervention. And I'm thinking ever since, how nice, how nice this has worked out for both of us, so far. We achieved a small measure of perfection amid chaos, this difficult relationship of ours managing to grow. And I knew Michelle would need me at some point, and the disaster I divined, had, at last, befallen her. I provided just the support she required, economic and emotional, I had, in some way, saved her life, saved Michelle, from complete defeat. And I offered, along the way, a chance to fulfill all her lifelong dreams, of financial and career success, of a complete independence, with me or without me. Even offered an opportunity, perhaps, to discover the elusive love she sought. And I'm thinking all this, and how sweet it is, how genuinely beautiful, and it culminated in the days right before Christmas, I saved Michelle from the jaws of catastrophe, it was some kind of perfect Christmas story. And in large part, a story of platonic love, suggesting a certain purity. And I'm thinking all this without any sense of self-congratulation, any feeling that Michelle owes me anything, the last thing I want, instead, I feel strangely blessed to have been chosen by fate for this role. And I'm thinking how for months, with little help from Michelle, I'm thinking that I did everything within my power to help her, support her, to make her happy, with no expectation of reward. I treated her like a true friend. And I'm thinking that by the time she left for Christmas less than a week ago, we had, in fact, stumbled into a happy ending, of a sort. And I'm thinking, despite all this, Michelle seems relentlessly, aggressively, incapable of reciprocating my efforts to any appreciable degree. How consistently she goes out of her way not only to be difficult, but to make me uncomfortable, to embarrass me. To treat me with suspicion and sharp words. And I'm thinking, most of all, despite my obvious, undeniable efforts to make Michelle happy, it occurs to her, not at all, to do anything she knows might make me happy. She has a complete incapacity to treat me like someone with feelings, an apparent unawareness that I might even have any feelings. This aside about drinking the wine, by herself, last night, evokes all these speculations, and it seems exemplary of our relationship. I give her a bottle of wine to show I care. She drinks it by herself to show she doesn't. And lets me know it. After the events of the previous weeks, I find this profoundly unsettling. Especially in the wake of the Christmas interlude, that feeling of peace, and resignation, acceptance of whatever might happen. Briefly, Michelle seemed to have stopped fighting me, just to fight. The truce seems to be over. My internal mood darkens, attempt to disguise the shift, Michelle doesn't notice, she has plans, has to get ready for her move. I ride Jaxon, she goes about her business. That night I'm pacing and smoking again, not thinking much. I've long abandoned attempts to formulate a coherent strategy to work her, have no real expectations. I do, however, think about that bottle of wine, that smug, knowing look. It's fucking sad, I'm thinking. Tomorrow, I decide, I'm going to make a move. I'm going to tell her we should have dinner together. She'll ask why, and I have the perfect answer. Because it's my birthday. How can she say no to that? Surely, I think, I'll find out tomorrow. Michelle wants to get to work, she's in control again, needs to move equipment and shuttle horses by the dozens. There are no Mexicans, Michelle has no money to pay them, she does need help. She drives me out to her new stables, five miles distant, shows me around, she'll be moving some horses here, others around our two, respective, valleys. We're driving back to the old stables, Michelle gets a call from Bruce. They're talking, she laughs, ends it, shuts the phone, looks at me, smiling. Did you hear that? she asks, mischievously. No, what? Oh, Bruce was just joking around, and he asked if I was with the stalker guy. That's what he calls you. Stalker guy. He's just joking. Very funny, I say, smell of shit on my face. And Michelle seems to think it's very funny, too. Michelle drops me off back at the old stables well before noon, we plan to meet a couple of hours later for lunch at the deli after she finishes the errands she needs to run. It's raining again, getting heavy, Jaxon and I are restricted to the arena. After returning him to his stall, I notice that Charlie Brown is gone, and not to her new place. Wonder where he ended up. A little before two, when we arranged to have lunch, Michelle calls, got tied up, won't be able to make it. I'll see you tomorrow, she says. Well, actually, Michelle, I say, humorous, commanding voice, I hope, you should have dinner with me tonight. She does not follow the script. Oh, Terry, she says, exasperated. If you had any clue what was going on. Everything is so crazy right now. If you only knew. Yeah? I say. Tell you what, she says, chuckling. One of these days, after things settle down, I'm going to invite you over to my house for dinner. Okay, I say, thinking, yeah, in my fucking dreams. And she's in a hurry, obviously wants to disengage, has to go, and I say, Oh, wait a minute. What happened to Charlie Brown? Oh, she says. Peter helped me take him over to a place in Napa yesterday afternoon. Seeya. Click Happy fucking birthday, I'm thinking, and I can think no more. Jesus Fucking Christ! I'm thinking that night on the mountain, I do not fucking believe this, I do not fucking believe this. That's really funny, I'm thinking, cannot believe how that turned out. Let's see, I'm thinking, this morning I was ready to make a move, was thinking how bizarre it is that I can't get Michelle to do a single thing with me, really, to celebrate the Christmas season. How, what, less than a week ago, she was kissing me on the lips, searching in my eyes, desperate, trusting embraces. And just as so many, many, times before, these heart-breakingly tender moments, affections, disappear, as if never realized, regardless of the intensity shared. And this is what I was thinking this morning, this predictable evaporation of Michelle's goodwill, almost over night, I'm going to confront this some more, play with it, provoke the issue, just a little here, have a little fun, see what happens. Because it's not as if, say, acting like a normal adult works here, and despite my shortcomings, I know them, they are many, I know them, I am long beyond questioning my own behavior in any misunderstandings shared with Michelle. Simply put, her life is a complete mess, inside and out, literally, figuratively, a long history of great failure, modest successes, if any. Prospects of a similar future. Yes, my judgment is better than hers. I live the quintessence of the self actualized life, been pretty successful in my loves and wars. Yes, I'm thinking, my behavior is outlandish, but it is successful, I manage to get away with it, and I did the conventional things well, too. And, yes, even in my failed marriage, I cannot take much blame. It, too, was substantially successful. And despite its ultimate failure, despite a willingness to accept blame, responsibility, I cannot deny the reality. My shortcomings fell well within the range of acceptable marital behavior. Tricia, despite her generally apparent perfection, extracted a hundred thousand dollars from me in a matter of years, debts she incurred, I paid, for shoes, flowers. God only knows. And she threw me out because she refused to tolerate my disobedience anymore, my talking back. Threw away our family. So, generally speaking, at this point in my life, I am fundamentally predisposed to trusting my judgment, my interpretation of events, concerning affairs shared with women. From a man's perspective, women are, indeed, unpredictable creatures, often mysterious, seemingly, irrational. This is a given. On the other hand. On the other hand, I believe that Michelle is seriously deranged. I don't mean this in a bad way. I cannot deny that fine woman I thought I knew. She is there, she exists, a treasure trove of great talents, qualities of character, good intentions, the inclination, the fortitude, to execute them. I cannot deny that wild woman I saw emerge, found attractive, cannot deny my sympathies to the impulses. But she is uniquely miswired, somehow, there are disconnections in her personality, values, an inclination to disintegrate. With long experience, she knows how to maintain herself, to survive, anyway. And for months I've been trying to figure out what's going on with her, and by this morning, I finally understood, I think, seen the evidence every step of the way, knew she was damaged in every sense of the word, I thought I finally understood. On some level, yes, Michelle is deranged. And I like her anyway, I've already resolved to take what comes, already made a commitment considering that anything might happen. I'm ready for anything. I will be a friend. And I'm thinking, that's where I was this morning, when I left here, what excellent preparation for that phone conversation. Yeah, I'll have a little fun here, make a move. What do I have to lose? Michelle, I say. You should have dinner with me tonight. Oh, Terry, I hear. I'm fucking Peter, instead. And I'm pacing and smoking, really cannot fucking believe this, what else is new, I'm thinking, how long have I been saying that? Jesus Fucking Christ. Yes, I'm thinking, good thing I finally decided, before that call, decided that Michelle was, in fact, fucking crazy. Just the anasthesia I needed, yes, did take the edge off the pain. And on turning to pace in the other direction, I catch sight of the pictures of Michelle stuck on the wall, can see her smiles, in both those pictures, free, self-confident smiles, and I'm thinking about the last time I saw Michelle smile, yeah, this is significant, for some reason, when, when, oh, yeah. That would be yesterday. She thought it so funny. That Bruce called me the stalker guy. And I'm thinking of the efforts she contrived, consciously or not, to keep me around, suggest the accidental rendevouz, to invite my attentions, my time. I'm thinking of all the benefits that flowed from that relationship, mutually shared, I'm thinking, I saved her ass, as a friend. Stalker guy. Yes, happy fucking birthday, thanks for everything. And I look at those pictures, see Michelle's knowing smile, yesterday, now, forever, I see that knowing smile, see Michelle laughing, laughing at me. And it hurts, hurts deeply, I'm surprised, doesn't hurt for the obvious reasons. I have, by now, so thoroughly buried my emotions, I have, by now, learned to detach from my feelings for Michelle, no, I do not hurt for the obvious reasons. It hurts, I'm thinking, it hurts to see Michelle act like that, to degrade herself like that. Regardless of me. Regardless of Peter. This is between the two of us. Michelle is the object of my affectionate concern. I am the object of her amiable contempt. This is no way to behave. Regardless of me. Regardless of Peter. I remove the pictures, I remove the tin Jaxon from my wall. Toss them into one of my curio bins. I just can't stand to see her act like that. Oh, Michelle. Fucking Michelle.