The Master of Seduction chapter 9 I must admit This has become A kind of drudgery Michelle finally appears from my blind side, smiles, I accompany her inside to order. Terry, she says, hesitating, vulnerable, I don't have any... Michelle, I snort, not quite laughing, Michelle, don't worry about it. At this point you really don't have to worry about it. She purses her lips, amused, amusing, gesture. I see the glint in the eye, knowing smile. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, Jesus Fucking Christ. She's good. We eat our sandwiches and talk, same table where we first had lunch, same table where I asked her about going out. Right after Bruce fucked up my plans for lunch on my mountain. I agree that Bruce has a nice girlfriend, wish Michelle luck with a maybe job, hear more of her plans to relocate from the latest stable of disaster. Michelle asks about Jaxon, his new home, How's the riding out there? I tell her how much I dislike it, really miss the old place. Yeah, she says, I know. Done eating, we're sipping our teas, smoking, she positions her chair next to mine, we can both watch the cars go by. I swear I think I see Bruce's truck cruise through the intersection, hard to tell, changed the shell on the bed, I swear it's Bruce, good to the last I'm thinking, always managed to turn up just in time to fuck things up. For me. For Michelle. Fuck things up for Michelle. Literally. Funny how he always managed to show up with such diabolical timing. Stalker guy indeed. Fucking cockroach. Well, she says, interrupting the thought, We're back where we started, huh? Yeah, I say, last summer seems like a long time ago. I don't mean that, she says. It was exactly a month ago today when everything really fell apart. And you offered me that job. My fuzzy sense of detachment immediately gives way to the hyperawareness, that's significant, I'm thinking. Michelle knows the exact date, and yes, she's right, a month ago. And I know she still thinks about me, what's happened, wonder if she's been checking that journal of hers, wonder what it says about us, me, God, yes, love to see that, you should write that book Michelle. God knows I won't be starting up again any time soon, cannot take it. Yeah, I say, after thinking a second, it was a month ago. I guess I'm fired, huh? she says. It takes another second to understand what she means, oh, yeah, the job. We're sitting side-by-side, literally rubbing elbows from time to time, I place my hand on the top of her thigh, I'm a good seven, eight, inches south of her crotch, as I say, chuckling, Oh, Michelle, don't worry about that. Before the words all leave my mouth, in the instant before my synapses remove my hand from her thigh, that gentle pat, squeeze, Michelle's hand darts out, grabs mine, and removes it from her thigh, raising it up, pinky finger actually extended, as if she wants to pollute as little of her hand as possible, and drops my hand onto my own lap. Distaste covers her face, yes, just like she's smelling shit, I know something just happened, yes, this is significant, I cannot fucking believe it. And she looks at me, shit smell face, looks at me, says these words, slowly, with emphasis, emphasis to match the look on her face, timing perfect. yes, it's all timing with Michelle, all timing, she looks at me with disgust and says, That's inappropriate. You shouldn't touch me like that. And I'm looking at Michelle with one of my looks, can't imagine what this one says, but now, I am, in fact, angry at her, won't show it, but, yes, I am angry, very angry, might be showing it now, I'm still stunned, flush of adrenaline, bolt of rage, I'm looking at Michelle, and she says, Yeah, and speaking of inappropriate, that message you left the other night was inappropriate too. And Michelle and I look into each other's eyes, I don't see anyone in there I know, the smile, the voice do not exist in this woman, this woman looks at me with contempt, measuring her words, the words just uttered, adjusts her face accordingly, the words to come, gets the expression just right, with a wiggle in her seat, all her being, from eyes, to face, to wiggle of her ass in the chair, perfectly timed to match the words, the look she gives me. You made me squirm with that message. Really squirm, she says, reiterating every expression of disgust, eyes, face, words, the wiggle of her ass in the chair, one great, all encompassing spasm of disgust. The rage within cannot be released, not here, not now. Later, yes, later, I will froth at the mouth, tear my hair out, rip my garments. Had someone provoked a physical conflict at that moment, I would have started to kill him, stopping, perhaps, short of the deed. Depending on speed of surrender. None of this an option now. Rarely do I feel the fight or flight syndrome with this intensity, and an inability to fight or fly. Of course, Michelle is an expert on fight or flight, first thing she talks about in her lessons. In my own case, I've developed a variety of mechanisms to deal with these frustrated tendencies. Only a second or two has passed since I saw Michelle's disdainful visage, that little display, I still have time, yes, be calm, very calm, do not overeact, remain calm. Another second or two go by, this feeling, this specific feeling, level of rage, is familiar, this particular concoction, yes, I remember, all fast-frame forward in my memory. I'm sitting in the kitchen at our house in Benicia, I'm passing a check for thirty-five grand to Tricia, to pay her taxes, the last installment on her debts, for shoes, flowers, given to this woman who considers her husband as a lazy bum. Her benefactor. Me. She mutters thanks under her breath, will not look at me, I say, as gently as possible, Tricia, we can't do this again. And she's already leaving the room, to put the check in her purse, she's on her way back, fifteen seconds have elapsed, I'm still waiting for a response, don't know why, she cannot talk about this, cannot acknowledge that she's the problem, cannot question her own sense of perfection. If we could talk about this, had that ever been possible, I would not have just handed over that check, I don't fucking believe it, real quandary here. And I still love her, the memory of the woman I married, anyway, she's still in there, somewhere, I think, but I wonder if I'll have to divorce her if only to protect my assets from her, to save something for my son's future. And here's the dilemma, painful dilemma, not a dilemma if it's not difficult, painful, I'd pledged to Jimmy, in the fifteen minutes after his birth, just Jimmy and me, alone, the doctors and nurses were considering calling in specialists, not breathing right, and I'm looking at my new son, we're alone, he's lying there, gasping, alomost still, and I promised to do everything I could to provide him a loving home until he was an adult. Whatever it took, whatever miseries, humiliations, I might have to endure, I would submit for the next twenty years. And I'm thinking about all that as I sit in the chair, in my kitchen, in Benicia, thinking how nice it was when Tricia wasn't waging war, against me, distant memory, by then, thinking of all the property I accrued, the houses I flipped, the wealth I generated, the money I spent eliminating her debt. The disapproval I met at every turn, the resentment I evoked at every success, and now, thirty seconds have passed since I said we can't go on like this, still waiting to see if she'll talk about it, can't force it, don't want to blunder into divorce, and there they are, the horns of the dilemma. If I force the issue, she'll divorce me and ruin Jimmy's family. If I don't, she will continue to spend, on shoes, flowers, amounts sufficient to fund his college education. Again. And ruin the family anyway. Destitution. I am on the horns of that dilemma, still waiting for a response. And I'm still sitting in the chair in the kitchen, still waiting, forty-five seconds now, Tricia's arranging things around the kitchen, must keep priorities straight, must be tidy, and I'm still waiting, looking at her, she knows I'm looking at her, she looks down, hesitates, she's going to say something, I can tell, she's going to say something, she turns to me. She's angry, she spits out the words, glaring, You did a lousy job sweeping out the kitchen. Yes, that's what I remember so specifically, that anger, at that moment, that absurdity. Could not fucking believe it, I was so furious I could not look at her, I loathed her, she turned my stomach, I could not remain in the room with her, the air was foul. The message is clear, go to work, you bum, I get up, say, slowly, deliberately, every word emphasized, I am so very sorry. And I go to the far end of the house, turn on the television, a history documentary, and look at old books recently acquired. She follows after me within a minute, stands at the door of the living room, demands to know why I am not sweeping the kitchen. I cannot resist, tried to avoid this, saying this, cannot resist, I look her in the eye, she knows this face, this voice, I say, I just handed over thirty-five thousand dollars to pay your debts because you are grossly irresponsible. Right now, I am not inclined to hear, from you, about my shortcomings, as a housekeeper. Tricia looks at me with hurt and anger, retreats. She knows I am enraged, doesn't matter I did not unleash on her. She knows what I feel, I said the unsayable, I am an angry bully who makes her feel bad just because she wants nice things for the house, for Jimmy, for herself. It is unforgiveable, the divorce, by then, inevitable. She will not tolerate my behavior. Yes, I'm thinking, my behavior was inappropriate. Just as it is now, and I'm sitting next to Michelle, not looking at each other anymore, I'm staring into space, watching the cars and trucks drive through the intersection, thinking, thinking, of that moment with Tricia, how I was thinking then of that moment with Jimmy, and commitments, to Tricia, to Michelle, yes, I'm thinking, with these women, I have met my commitments. Did what I could, in spite of them, their spite for me, I'd better say something here, what are you going to say, ten seconds have passed since Michelle told me I made her squirm. You make me squirm, Michelle said, what, just five, ten minutes after I speculated about her conversations, in my absence, with Bruce, and his dumbass girlfriend, hooking up with that fucking cockroach, and I'm thinking, well, yes, you should squirm, God knows I want to squirm right now, and a wave of disgust washes through me at this moment, I did waste my time on this creature. Michelle is just another fucking cockroach. I'm sitting in the white plastic chair at the deli, my last lunch with Michelle, I presume, staring into space, speculating about crushing this cockroach that makes me squirm. I know Michelle has been yelled at, called horrible names, been beaten, long experience dealing with the sordid consequences of her sordid behavior. My specialty is saying cruel, painful things, politely, rationally, deservedly, I know if I get this just right I can crush her, right here, right now. Crush the fucking cockroach, crush fucking Michelle. But then I'll have scum on the bottom of my shoe. And I realize that she evokes anger I feel for Bruce, for Tricia, not really fair, especially Tricia, same wave of disgust, loathing, still never said anything deliberately cruel, just for the hurting. And we're friends again, I don't loathe her, or hate her, she no longer villifies me, in her head, I think of the anger evoked that day in the kitchen, the anger I feel now, and I think again of Tricia in that kitchen, now her kitchen, yes, I left her with a house, the last time in that kitchen, talking to Tricia, almost, not quite, exactly, a month ago. And she knew I was hurting over Michelle, she said, as lovingly as she ever said anything, kindest act of her life, for me, anyway, she said, Give Michelle time. That was possible only because I managed to hold my tongue. And I'm thinking, all this, I see Michelle clutching the riding crop, imploding, convulsing, slightly, fighting the tears, for a minute, I see her here, at this deli, sitting where she sits now, a month ago, exactly, I don't know what I'm going to do, Terry, helpless, paralyzed, defeated. I see her flinch as Bruceexplains in detail how all the little lines around her mouth make her look old. Oh, Michelle. Oh, poor Michelle. I can't be angry at her, not very angry, anyway. Only ten, fifteen, seconds have passed since Michelle told me I made her squirm, I must say something now. Still staring into space, all calm, deliberate, I say, You know, Michelle, I'm sorry if you thought that message was inappropriate, or I made you uncomfortable. And I know I've said this before, but as long as we've known each other, I feel like you reach out to me, I reach back, and you pull away. And I've found that a little confusing, sometimes. I turn toward her with these latest words, she looks at me, feigned incredulity, it could not be real, could it, she asks, How do I do that? I don't fucking believe it, I think, I don't fucking believe it, remaining calm, detached, nothing to lose here, except my self-respect, don't be cruel, no matter how artificially obtuse she seems, do not be angry, do not be deliberately cruel. Oh, Michelle, I say, I don't know, exhausted, at this point, at dealing with this denial of hers, that she felt something for me, pursued it. Encouraged me to pursue her. And I understand if those feelings are gone, that I understand, I cannot accept that she will not acknowledge so much of the obvious. She is deranged, I remind myself, Michelle is just fucking nuts. When you asked if I wanted to stay at your place, I say, and changed your mind. You wanted to go to that blues concert in San Francisco, and changed your mind. You said you wanted to go see I walk the Line with me, and then I get that message. Stuff like that. Well, I'm sorry, Terry, if you got the wrong idea, she says. I don't want to lead anybody on, have them thinking about me all the time. Obsessing over me. Oh, no! I'm thinking, you never wanted to give anyone the wrong idea, did you, Michelle? It's only coincidence that you have men stalking you by the dozens, the hundreds, the thousands, yes, they all misunderstand. You're certainly not doing anything to encourage it. No, Michelle, you just, you know, have a couple of drinks, flirt a little bit. Go home with a lucky stranger once in a while. Or not. No, you woudn't want anyone to misunderstand. I take a deep breath, God, this is fucking difficult, she is fucking deranged. Fucking deranged. We are having two different conversations, I realize, I must disregard hers, she's just full of shit. Michelle, I say, chuckling, smiling, looking at her, we're halfway through chick flick here. You know, if you were watching all this in a theater, you'd be sitting there in your seat and saying, What's wrong with you woman? What are you waiting for? Go for it, you fool! I'm looking at Michelle, and she is, now, indeed, squirming, fidgeting, wiggles her ass in her seat, I see a glint in her eye, briefly, hint of that knowing smile, suppressed, lips scrunched together, I visualize the rabid squirrels of her mind, running, furiously, in circles. Oh, God, I'm thinking, oh, my fucking God. What now? She looks at me, away, back again, looks up into space, back at me, blurts out, Something's going to happen. Pretty soon. Next month. Michelle stops, she's thinking hard now, squirrels at work, Oh, God, I'm thinking, please, please, no more of your honesty, spare me, please, God, spare me. You know Peter? she says, hesitates. We've been seeing each other. Did you figure that out? Oh, the thought occurred to me, I say. Well, she says, he's leaving pretty soon. Next month. I don't fucking believe it, I'm thinking, this is really too much. We're having this conversation we had about Dan, a month ago, she was going to end it, by now. Always in the context of us, Michelle and I, getting together. Let me finish milking this man, you're next in line. So what does Peter leaving have to do with us, I'm thinking, this conversation we were having, and how exactly did we get here, I'm thinking, what message, exactly, are you conveying now? Because I really don't want to misunderstand. Are you saying, Michelle, that we can go out next month? After your fuck and chuck with Peter? I'm next? Is that what you're saying, Michelle? Because I really don't want to misunderstand. You wouldn't believe what's been going on, she continues, getting excited, wiggling, again, in her chair, grinding her ass, again, on that imaginary cock. Breathing rapid. Oh, please, God, not this. Again. It's really been crazy, she says, talking fast, her excitement almost embarrassing. Dan started having me followed. And then he came over one night, and caught me with Peter. A few days later, we went out to dinner. I asked if he wanted to talk about it. He just said no. I don't want to talk about it, either, I'm thinking, I'm with Dan. Please fucking stop. And I'm still trying to figure out where we're going here, are you telling me you'll be ready to go out, with me, next month? Have you broken up with Dan yet? Just what the fuck are you trying to tell me, this new, old, sordid tale? Because I really don't want to misunderstand. And she seems to be done, did I miss something, she's stopped talking, she's trying to catch her breath, really got herself going there, grinding that chair with her ass, I wonder who's fucking her now. But not really. This is none of my business, Michelle. Too fucking much information! And I'm waiting, and thinking, appalled all over again, geez, I'm thinking, she is really something. I should speak. Hey, Michelle, I say, you've got to do what you've got to do. And I'm trying to absorb this latest one minute, what does this all mean? It just fucking beats me, so much for my desire to get out of this with a decent memory, something, you know, something not covered with slime, and stink. Not a country western song. But so far, we have resolved nothing, I certainly have not achieved the closure I desired. I did not want to walk away from here reminded anew that Michelle, that fine woman I knew, was such a stupid fucking tramp. I do not recoil, this time, I note, at the thought of Michelle as a tramp. And it really does not matter that she can't help herself. Michelle is some kind of fucking monster. Well, I'm thinking, that's an improvement. Of sorts. Not quite a fucking cockroach. A full-fledged fucking monster. Jesus Fucking Christ! I stand up to go, I am not at all clear where this leaves us. Michelle starts to rise as well, her phone rings. From her daughter. She sits back down, puts her hand up, as if to say, wait a minute. And I'm still trying to absord the significance of these words I've just heard, so easy to infer that there's some hope. For us. I know this is an illusion, hopeless, Michelle is hopeless, I just can't believe she wants to go out of her way to lead me on like this, she can't quite come out and say I don't want to see you anymore. At all. For anything. Go away. Michelle's talking with her daughter, says, I'll ask Terry. Her daughter, apparently, is working on an essay, looking for the right word. I have no idea, tell her to look in a thesaurus. Michelle says as much to her daughter, looks confused immediately after. I don't know, she says, and Michelle starts trying to spell thesaurus for her daughter, stumbles toward the end, gets it right, finally, she looks confused, says, finally, Oh. Okay. Love you. Bye. What was that all about, I ask. Oh, Michelle says, getting up, she was just messing with me. She knew what a thesaurus was. And how to spell it. She's just having fun. And we're walking toward her jeep, I'm still trying to digest our last conversation, what did that all mean, suppressed anger, genuine outrage, at everything, and now I'm thinking about this phone call, what did that all mean? And we're walking, and talking, small talk, this isn't going anywhere, no closure here, what a fucking dumbass, and I'm thinking about this call, just steps away from the table, I'm horrified anew. That nice daughter, Michelle loves her more than anyone in the world, that's what got me going, in the first place, that love she showed, I saw, that mom trying so hard to be good, to the daughter she loves, that fine woman, I saw, the bond she created, loving bond, with that daughter. That daughter went out of her way to mess with Michelle. Just to make a point. Hey, Mom. You're a dumbass. Teenage girl bully, picking on the outsider fat chick. Just like all her friends, Bruce, Annie, her sister, God knows who all, needling Michelle, their retarded world, fucked up lives, not a conventional marriage or family in the bunch, evil high school kids without a fucking clue, all scorn, cruelty, nothing personal. Hug, hug. I gasp, Michelle starts to look my way, I pretend to cough, my heart is breaking right now, all the old hurt, the new anger, suppressed, stored away, benumbed. I'm benumbed, I was anyway, a second ago, detached, I can handle all this now, no feeling really, all an intellectual exercise, analyzing those feelings, I cannot acknowledge, yes, I've finally got this under control. The whole legion of demons emerges in that second, split second, the last two steps, rounding the corner to the front of the deli, where Michelle's vehicle sits, she's talking, I'm walking by her side, uh huh, I say, don't know what I hear, rushing in head, breaking heart, I'm ready to sob. Can't do that, I'm thinking, can't let her think I'm breaking down over a romance, no, don't want to give her the wrong idea, can't stand not fucking her, just what she's used to, I'm sure, won't be that man for her. Yeah, she does make me act like a man, I'm thinking, thinking, wait a minute, that's just what I should do. Try to stay friends, just so she can shit on me, over and over, let her indulge those knowing looks, glint in eye, at my expense, yes, let her play her games as long as she wants. With me. Take the snubs, listen to her stories about fucking other guys, yes, just take it. So she can win once in a while, give her the sense of control she needs, cater to that desperate self-esteem, chase me, please, don't get the wrong idea. Yeah, I'm thinking, if I were a real man, I'd do that. Like Rocky, criminal hero, Angels With Dirty Faces, acted like a coward, at execution, just to discourage the youngsters from following his example. Not so heroic, after all. Yeah, I'm thinking, if I were a real man, I'd figure out how to stay around just so Michelle could shit on me. As much as she likes. Just so she doesn't feel quite as bad, everyone shitting on her. Jesus Fucking Christ. Well, I'm thinking, I'll pass on that. Cannot do it. I compose myself, Michelle has no clue, but my heart is breaking, I feel her pain, she's numb to it, I feel her pain, in full measure. She talks, I nod, bearing hint of smile, uh huh, she's leaving now, don't know what she's been saying, says, Well, I'm sorry how everything turned out, perfunctory hug. I just need to get everything straightened out, she says. What the fuck are you talking about, I'm thinking, but no anger, no hostility, just that maelstrom of confusion she creates, what the fuck are you talking about? I am dizzy, lean against her hood, look casual, cool, can barely stand on my own. Dizzy, head reeling. Still. Well, Michelle, I say, I hope everything works out. And what the fuck are we talking about? I'm thinking. You just need to get everything straightened out? And then what, Michelle? What the fuck are you talking about? But I am not angry. And Michelle's getting into her vehicle, looks up briefly, something catches her eye. She comes around the door, walks to the deli window. A poster caught her eye, picture of a horse. Michelle's standing there in front of the deli window, reading the poster, I stand behind, know what it says, saw it, specifically did not suggest to Michelle that we go to this dinner. For the local horseman's association. She stands there, reads the poster, looks up into the air, cocks her head my way, she's really thinking about this, those squirrels working overtime now, did I really see a glint in the corner of her eye, do I really detect that knowing smile? I don't fucking believe it, I'm thinking, I cannot fucking believe this. And she's really making a show of thinking about this, I expect her to take out paper and pencil to make calculations, nothing to calculate, though, I don't fucking believe it! And I look at the poster, really, for the first time today, saw it before, meant nothing then, just an invitation I would not be making. And I'm all hyperaware here, all the sentiment of moments ago gone, I am doing my own calculations now. This is just fascinating, I'm thinking, I don't fucking believe it. Who is this woman? Who is this fucking woman? And I'm looking at the poster, and the dinner is on the night Peter leaves. A few days before Valentine's Day. Well isn't this interesting, I'm thinking, what possibilities! And I don't give a fuck anymore, again, oh, yes, I'm thinking, let's just go for it, ride this adventure till you're thrown for good. Hell, I'm accustomed to the squalor now. And my head's rushing again, don't fucking believe it, fuck it. Go for it. And Michelle's standing there, pretending to think, casting those sidelong glances at me, all this takes place in five, ten seconds, oh, fuck it. Well, gee, Michelle, I say, sarcastic voice. I'd ask if you wanted to go, but we know how that would turn out, huh? Great timing, I say, thinking, should have milked Peter pretty dry by then, hey, you said I was next in line. Again. Kind of. The squirrels are hard at work, Michelle's thinking hard about this, says, Okay, it's a date. She looks at me for emphasis, presses her lips together, nods at me, looks me in the eye, yes, a commitment, a deal. Everything short of a handshake. I openly snort, say, quite sarcastically, deliberately, Oh, Michelle. Really. Come on. No, she says, really! Michelle, I say, Michelle. Very sarcastic voice, skeptical expression to match. Look, she says, leaning into her jeep, pulling out her address book, pen, writing. See, I'm writing it down. In my book. It's a date. Honest. Another look, nod, of commitment. Well, I say, okay. And she's sliding into her seat, I say, Hey, wait a minute. You know that box of stuff I gave you? I need it. Can I follow you home and pick it up? I'm not done, she says. Forget about it, Michelle, I say. That's okay. No, she says. I'm almost done. Maybe tonight. I'll call you tomorrow. Or over the weekend. I promise. You sure? I ask. You don't have to. No, I want to. Honest. She smiles at me, one last time, as she drives off. All things considered, my level of self-control is remarkable. This I think as I walk to my car, back out of the parking place, drive down the road toward Napa. I'm approaching Michelle's house in the vineyards, turn off on the road leading to where Jaxon now stays. I pull over onto the shoulder, park in the weeds, turn off the ignition. Yes, I'm thinking, your self control was really admirable. And then I lose it. I rant and rave for quite a long while, keep an eye out for passersby, wouldn't be good for someone to see a red-faced man going crazy in a car. I catch sight of myself in the reflection, I laugh. Might call the police. I certainly would. And I am, indeed, temporarily insane. I don't fucking believe it, I yell, loud as I can, I don't fucking believe it! She doesn't fucking want me to get the wrong fucking idea? Doesn't want me thinking about her all the time? No, I have nothing to think about, no, not fucking at all, I don't. You stiff me for two grand, don't even go through the motions of trying, you stiff me, like that, my message was inappropriate? That message was fucking inappropriate? That pat on the leg, that was fucking inappropriate, friendly gesture, You can't fuck me! she says? After I'm telling her to forget about the two grand? Pat on the leg offends the stupid fucking tramp, inappropriate, got drunk and married in Vegas, so fucking happy you didn't go home with a fucking stranger? My touching you is inappropriate, huh, I was trying to cop a feel, is that it? You stupid fucking tramp piece of shit. Oh, my fucking God! If Michelle could only see me, hear me, now, I'm thinking. She wouldn't bat a fucking eyelash, I'm thinking, I'm sure she's heard it all, she knows sordid, she knows tawdry, yes, Michele should write a book, she could write the fucking book on squalor. Write the fucking book. I'm a complete fucking amateur here, I'm thinking, can't match her if I try. Not that I would want to. I don't fucking believe it! I yell, deafening myself, ripping my lungs at the effort. I don't fucking believe it! I spit, dry, several times, ritual manifestation of disgust, must purge this slime from my soul. Need to catch my breath, relax. I really could have a stroke here, I'm thinking, my head, could, literally, explode here, close enough, I see blood vessels galore, spewing, blood, I see red. I don't fucking believe it, I whisper, hoarse. You need to get a grip, I say to myself. Yes, I respond. Later. Much later. I am just going to be angry now. And try to enjoy it. I take a few deep breaths, start my car, head toward Jaxon's stables, stop, turnaround, drive toward home. And I fucking hate horses too. Thanks very much, Michelle. You stupid fucking piece of shit trash. And all I wanted was to get out of here with a decent memory. Thanks very much you stupid fucking tramp. The imprecations continue as I drive, not quite frothing at the mouth, but I am sputtering mad, spittle flying with my denunciations. My hair, my garments, are intact. I am not quite that crazy. Not yet, anyway. The morning winter light awakens me, I lay in bed looking at the muted white muslin window coverings, back lit. Ten, fifteen seconds, after opening my eyes, I am fully awake, aware, have my bearings. I don't fucking believe it, I think, first thought of the morning. I don't fucking believe it. This is the living nightmare that won't go away. And I am furious within a minute of opening my eyes, I raise myself on an elbow to roll a cigarette, teeth gritted, lips pressed together, my eyes burn with a hatred only I can see. I still see red. You need to get a grip, I say, get a grip. You have indulged this enough. I get up, open the curtains, see mist descending into my little vail from the overarching fog, trees, hills, alternately appearing, disappearing, with the slow moving cloud. I return to bed, pull up the covers against the cold, prop myself up, smoke. And I try to figure this out, sources of this anger, how to manage, dissipate it. There is hatred, too, associated with this, true, malevolent hatred. And Michelle is in the middle of it. I am rational now, I can think about this in a methodical manner. I must. I do not hate Michelle. I am angry at her, but I do not hate Michelle. I hate the world she lives in, yes, that's part of it. I hate Bruce, I hate Annie, I hate that environment of sustained adolescence, I hate how everyone acts. I hate their coarseness, their vulgarity, their confident snears, mostly for each other. I hate what's happened to Michelle, now, then, forever. And I really hate the situation I'm in. That's a start. I do not hate Michelle. I do not hate Peter. I do not hate Michelle's sister, or any of her family. I do not hate Dan, the drunken cowboy, the stalking manchild. But I really hate the situation I'm in. Yes, the situation. What, exactly, is the situation? Yes, where do I stand now? I had pretty much decided Michelle was deranged within a few days after she returned from Christmas. Not in a bad way. But, by then, it was apparent, normal human motivations, responses, could not be expected from her. Something screwy was always going on. The squirrel factor. Whatever disappointments I experienced, to that point, in the fulfillment of my desires, I had absorbed, accepted. That represented a new start. Peter was clearly in the picture, certainly for me, Michelle insured that. And regardless of any hurt I felt as a result of that, I could not complain. I already knew I was dealing with a troubled woman, that she was so much more troubled than I imagined was beside the point. And the rules of attraction are what they are. Fairness, rationality, predictability, just do not easily apply to the mysteries of the human heart. Michelle, of course, has a particularly mysterious heart. Part of the attraction, ultimately, for me. No, I cannot complain about any of that. At that point, fewer than three weeks ago, now, I was content, more or less, with how things had turned out. No. I was not content. I found it acceptable, a positive outcome. Though dissatisfying. I had, after all, just wanted to see Michelle happy, somehow. With me or without me. So I claimed, anyway, to myself. I helped avert the worst of her disasters, helped her maintain her composure. I provided her with a Merry Christmas. I made her cry with my gift, gave her money to buy gifts for others, made it possible to spend Christmas with her father for the first time in her life. I helped Michelle relocate her horses, I bought them feed. I provided all the moral support I could, my best, disinterested advice. I did everything I could to make her feel good about herself. And, finally, I provided a roof over her head, for a month. This I could feel good about, two weeks ago, despite a modicum of personal disappointment. And then there's Peter, again. By that stage, two, three weeks ago, I did, indeed, have reason to believe he was fucking Michelle, or would be soon. Michelle, I knew, by then, would assure it. This certainly did not make me happy. But it was what Michelle wanted, a manifestation of her happiness. And I did, after all, claim that I just wanted to see her happy, with me or without me. This certainly did not make me happy. Despite that, however, I had achieved my goal. A limited one, perhaps, but I had, in fact, achieved a goal. I enabled Michelle to be as happy as possible under difficult circumstances. And whatever sense of pain, yearning, loss I felt, I could feel good about doing a good thing. For Michelle. For myself. And I recognize, again, a beauty in what has transpired in our lives, a time of turmoil for both of us. And something beautiful came of it, as close to a purely platonic friendship as I ever observed between a man and a woman. Regardless of the missteps, misunderstandings, the awkwardness. They all, in fact, elevated the relationship, because it was not easy, it was difficult. We did the best we could, we pulled it off, somehow. Until a couple of weeks ago. Yes, that was the situation then. So why am I so angry now, and, yes, I am angry at Michelle. I am angry because she never showed up. I am angry because I wanted to see her happy, over the long term, to see her get control of her life. And that job I created could have provided that. All she had to do was show up. A few times. Make an effort. A few times. At least go through the motions of trying to fulfill her commitment to me. Not just for me. For her, and her sense of self-respect. And this was the second time I gave her a chance to change her life, fulfill her dreams, even find true love, perhaps, with me. If only for a time. And she never showed up, she didn't even try. So I'm angry at Michelle because she squandered the opportunity of a lifetime. Two, in fact. The opportunity for me to grant benefits on a scale I never before encountered. The opportunity for Michelle to become a real winner, for once. Yes, that makes me angry. But even if she needed to elide her way out of the commitment, for whatever reason, a real job, didn't want to see me, wanted to fuck Peter all day, all night, without distraction, whatever, there were ways to do it. She knew me to be understanding, I never made demands on Michelle, she had every reason to believe she could talk to me, talk to me sincerely, if not graphically, too honestly, no, sincere would do, she could talk to me sincerely about her problems, adjustments to our arrangement. This she chose not to do. She did not show up. She did not answer my calls, she did not return my messages, in any timely manner, if at all. She indulged in petty, transparent deceptions. But most of all, I'm angry at Michelle, for treating me like an object of disgust, at the very moment I forgave her debt. Right before she told me she was fucking Peter. Under a roof paid for with money I provided. To Michelle, for work she did not do. Because she did not show up. Because she was fucking Peter. And then she told me about it. With a glint in her eye, and a knowing smile. And I know she didn't set me up for a con job, I know that, I do know how those work, from the inside and out, first hand experience, but she is, in fact, acting as if she pulled a fast one on me. This makes me very angry, indeed, especially since I saw those glints in the eye, knowing smiles, suspected what they eventually turned out to be. And gave Michelle the benefit of the doubt. I treated her like a lady, a woman of substance, a woman I did not really believe her to be. But could become. And Michelle went out of her way to act like a tramp. This makes me very angry, indeed. Worst of all, and this I find unforgiveable, she is treating me like a chump. And she's letting me know it. This makes me very, very angry. Indeed. And the mysterious little girl walks into my consciousness, I remember, finally, clearly, for the first time in almost fifty years, where I got that image. A little girl who lived in the apartments next to our big house in San Francisco. I was five or six, she was only around for a few months, they moved on soon after we moved in. She was the first little girl I really knew, and played with, my first real experience with a woman my age. She sees me playing army in the backyard, asks if she can play. Yeah, okay, I say. But I don't want to play army, she says. I want to play house. I don't want to play house, I say, incredulous. I know! she says. We can play army, and then we can play house! I think about it, not sure I like this, but she wants to play with me. Maybe, I'm thinking, maybe. Okay, I say, we can do that. And I tell her where to deploy, she looks pouty, and says, I want to play house first. Okay, I say. Then we play army? Uh, huh, she says. We shake on it. Then we play house until I can stand it no more, she tells me everything I am supposed to do, very bossy little girl. I want to play army now, I say. No, she says, I don't want to, and you can't make me. I'm stunned. That's no fair, I say. We made a deal and we shook on it! That doesn't count, she says. I'm a girl. Yes, very angry. Indeed. Eventually, I get out of bed, heat some water on the stove, shave, bathe, go to the coffeehouse on the corner, pace and smoke outside between visits with my friends. All I have accomplished is to focus my anger on Michelle. That makes me more angry, but I am in control now. This would all be rather theoretical, try to figure out went wrong, move on, it's over. But she finally promised me a dinner date. After repudiating, in my mind, our rather lovely friendship. When I thought it was over. After resigning myself to the fact that Michelle was just a sad, self-jinxing woman. After I overheard that conversation with her daughter, Hi, Mom, you're a dumbass. And if we'd parted at that moment, if Michelle hadn't seen that poster in the window, I could have left with a minimal sense of victory. Michelle, happy for now, me, content that I'd done the right thing. I could have left with a feeling of relief, of completion, mission accomplished. I was in the mood, ready to drive off, wistfully, small, ambiguous smile on my face, a shake of the head. Oh, well, not what you expected, but it was a hell of an adventure, worth every minute. Even if she is one fucked up broad, she was a hell of a woman. A fine woman, somewhere, in there. At that moment, I could have left content. To an extent. Despite the ups and downs in those two hours, at the new stables, the deli, Bruce, the revelations about Peter, Dan, the shower of disgust she sent my way, the glints in the eye, the knowing smile, the memory of all the glints in the eye, knowing smiles, disregarded. It all ended up aright in my mind by the end of the phone call with her daughter. I could not be angry, self-righteous, judgmental with that woman, everyone's dumbass, most of all her own. Yes, at that moment, I could have left content. But Michelle went out of her way to set me up, all over, again. To ask her for a date. And she said, Yes. I promise. Honest. The very absurdity of this offends me. I laboriously find, meet and cultivate every attractive woman I can, to befriend her, become familiar, discover how compatible we might be, engaging in friendly, innocent activites, not suggestive of romance. And if the mood invites it, I make a move. I avoid the dating syndrome just because it's all over when you ask for a phone number. He wants a date. I've got him. They stop stringing you along, maybe, go on the date. But since it's a date, they know what the man hopes, they will resist romantic overtures in direct proportion to the money expended, the man's efforts to be kind, generous, thoughtful. I'm not going to fall for that. I spent three, four months trying to seduce Michelle into a non-date date, without success. Before asking about asking her out. After she had plenty of time to see what kind of man I was. Before being subjected to her elicitations of interest, just to snub me. She didn't want to give me the wrong idea. And now she has agreed to the date she always suspected I wanted. And according to the code by which Michelle fucks, to go on a date implies she is going to fuck the man in question. This does not correlate with my dating experiences. I have almost never gotten laid after a date. And I have gotten laid alot. And here is my new dilemma, this is what angers me, for a variety of reasons. I have reason to infer that Michelle is considering fucking me by virtue of agreeing to a date. And Michelle has reason to infer that I might expect a degree of romance on this date. And I have reason to expect that Michelle will fuck me again, and not the way I'd like. And I'm thinking of our last two encounters, after the hysterical phone call, at her house. After my trip to the new stables, at the deli. I see Michelle limping, with that glint in her eye, the picture of Dan on the refrigerator. The don't-give-a-fuck-attitude. I don't care if you don't believe me, Terry. I don't care what you think of me. That's the point! Nor does she think much of herself. That's the point. I see Michelle at the deli, sitting next to me on the white plastic chairs, the look on her face. You make me squirm, she says. You disgust me, I hear. That sentiment, regardless of me, is disgusting. I do not, however, desire to feel disgust when I think of Michelle. You make me squirm! Her self-disgust, I'm thinking, is quite enough for me. But not for Michelle. Oh, I'm thinking, yes, perfect! I desire not to be disgusted by Michelle. And Michelle, by now, has demonstrated an uncanny ability to figure out what I desire, just to deny me. Michelle will guarantee my disgust for her. Under normal circumstances, I'm thinking, this thought would make me just sob, animal wails, clawing at the floor. She says, Guess I'm fired, huh? I hear, You don't want me. Honest. I promise. You'll see! And that's the point of the date. Michelle plans to demonstrate, in excruciating detail, just how disgusting she is. I have much to look forward to with this date. Yes, I am very angry. Now. Indeed. And, yes, Michelle, I'm thinking, you did, finally, fuck me. Along with Peter. And yourself. Over, and over, and over, again. That is exactly the message, I now realize, she intended to send with that last lunch at the deli. And she certainly was not going to be making love with me any time soon. Fucking people is just too much fun. However it's accomplished. And Michelle is in control again. This is not good, I'm thinking. I should be happy that Michelle has consented to go out on an official date, despite my problems with the concept. In Michelle's code, it's a good thing, a sure thing. Her rules, though, display a remarkable flexibility when I am involved. I'm pacing and smoking, furiously, in front of the coffeehouse. I knew this, thought this, undercurrent of thought, the moment I took the bait, still processing the data presented by Michelle, in the happening. That's why I posed the proposition as I did. Michelle's getting into her jeep, I see her stop, looking in the direction of the window. I knew what she was looking at, knew she was looking at that poster. By the time she had walked by me to take a closer look, by the time I turned, slowly I turned, I was already thinking, Oh, my fucking God. Here we go again! I don't fucking believe it. Before she made it to the poster in the window, before she started reading it, I was already thinking, okay, if I just ask her to go, I'm vulnerable to an immediate snub. Not going for that. By the time she started reading it, before her painful display of thought, insane squirrels, rabid squirrels, running rampant in that fevered head, I was ready. I did not ask her to go on a date. I challenged her. I'd ask you to go, Michelle, but we know how that would turn out, huh? Sarcastically. Skeptically. An absurd proposition, in the proposal. And she accepted the challenge. Took the bait. Honest, Terry! I promise. It's a date! And before she passed by me again, on the return to her SUV, I was already thinking. Ah. Gotcha. Yes, we will see, finally, without any misunderstanding, what honest means to Michelle. What a promise means, to Michelle. Yes, perfect setup, I'm thinking. I set Michelle up, to set me up, for a deliberate act of cruelty. I do not expect to be disappointed. Just disgusted. And I'm thinking of these men I know of from her past. And I'm thinking of the drunken cowboy who beat her. And I can't imagine beating her anymore that I can imagine making love to her. But I can understand how such a limited man could be driven to beat her. And I'm thinking of her manchild, who stalked her to Dan's house, driven to write Hor on the walls. And I can't imagine calling her a whore anymore than I can imagine beating her. But I can understand how such a limited man could be driven to insult her. And I'm thinking of Dan, her boring, anal retentive slob of a boyfriend. And I can't imagine rejecting her anymore than I can imagine calling her a whore. But I can understand how such a limited man can be driven to loathe her. And I'm thinking of one day in the weeks before Christmas, Michelle had mentioned another instance of Dan's neglect. Michelle, I said, you need to get out of that relationship. It's horrible for your self-esteem. He treats you like a leper. And I understand completely. Now. Yes, I'm thinking, a fucking leper. And she can't help it. Does not matter, I'm thinking, thinking, thinking how I couldn't bring myself to hold her when she cried, clutching the riding crop. I couldn't bring myself to touch her when she cried, at the deli, I don't know what to do, Terry. Yes, I'm thinking, a fucking leper. Squirming in her seat, getting excited, telling me about whispering dirty things into Dan's ear, wiggling her ass on an imaginary cock, new twist on the concept of oral sex, verbal sex, with me. Yes, I'm thinking, that image. A real fucking leper. That image. Michelle. A fucking leper. Disgusting to look at. Dangerous to touch. That's inappropriate, Terry. You make me squirm. Ugh, I'm thinking. Just disgusting. A real fucking leper. Stop it stop it stop it, I command myself. I do not want to think like this. Do something, I'm thinking, distract yourself. I'm too angry to read, I'm too angry to write. I am too angry to do anything besides making myself do something. I drive away from the coffeehouse, what to do, what to do, to distract myself, I'm thinking. Yes, I'll go buy some books. I head toward Sonoma, great rare book store, oh, fuck, I'm thinking, involuntarily. I have to drive by the old stables. I have to drive by the turnoff to the new stables. I have to drive by Michelle's cottage in the vineyards. I have to drive by the deli. Oh, fuck, I'm thinking. I can't fucking bear it. I've been going to Sonoma for almost fifty years, by this road, shortest, most direct, route. I can't fucking bear it. Thanks, Michelle, thanks for the fucking memories. Thanks, fucking, again. Worse, I'm thinking, if I go that way, I could, conceivably, run into Michelle, see her anyway, she see me. Stalker guy, I'm thinking. Jesus Fucking Christ. Can't even drive this fucking road anymore without making a shit-smelling face. Just disgusting. Stop it stop it stop it! I'm feeling not bad now, dissipated some anger by indulging it, I'm passing the hill hiding the old stables, I'm approaching the turnoff to Sonoma, I see it, I get angry all over again, I can't fucking make this turn, cannot go by Michelle's house. I drive past, continue for a mile or so, take another turn, longer route. This is better, I'm thinking, yes, this is better. I park on the square, walk toward the book store. I pass the spot where Michelle disappeared into the darkness that night, I pass the cafe where we had our last pre-Christmas lunch together. I try not to get angry. A few minutes later, I step into the shop, go to the Western history section. There are several rare texts here that I know I want, been thinking about them, I know I want them, pick them out. Another title catches my eye, but I think I may already have it. By now, I have all the well-known histories, many slightly obscure texts, I have so much, now, that I've lost track. Ah, yes, I'm thinking, not furious, subdued anger, that's why I wanted to catalog my inventory. Because I didn't know what I had, or needed, anymore. That's why I wanted Michelle to come into the office. I am angry again. Try to subdue it. I compile a stack of books I'm considering buying, take it to an easy chair in the backroom, start perusing the pile. Welling anger. I cannot pay attention to what I am reading. Full blown anger. Jesus Fucking Christ, I'm thinking, great distraction, I'm madder than ever. Thanks again, Michelle. Thanks for the memories. Michelle doesn't call concerning the box of research, not the next day, not over the weekend. It's Monday morning, I'm pacing and smoking in front of the coffeehouse, not at all surprised, not angry. I know she's busy, has things to do, am not going to judge her reliability on this. But it does not bode well for this date. If I were Michelle, I'm thinking, whatever else was happening, I would pay special attention to me right now. Especially after what has transpired. A slightly elevated sense of consideration for me, given what has happened so far. If I were Michelle, I would have made the effort to organize the research, and get it to me, just for the sake of doing it, just to show I was reliable, dependable, where I was concerned. Especially under the circumstances. I go to my car, see I have a message from Jaxon's owner. What am I going to do, I'm thinking. My lease fee is due, not sure I want to renew. Jaxon's a great ride, but I hate where he lives. And somewhere, inside, I realize, horses, now, turn my stomach. Involuntary thought. Thanks, Michelle. Thanks, fucking, again. Thanks for the fucking memories. Stop it stop it stop it. I call Jaxon's owner, prepared to end the lease deal. We get through the preliminary greetings, I hesitate before starting to tell her my intentions, she speaks first. She's decided to sell Jaxon after raising, training and owning him for 12 years. Difficult decision for her, she says, but it's time. And good for Jaxon. She is selling him to people who live in the country, people who want to race him. You know, she says, endurance races. Like the Tevis. I was telling them how you've been riding him for the last couple of months, she says. How he just wants to keep going after galloping for an hour. Well, I say, I'll miss him. But I wasn't too crazy about riding out at the new place anyway. I'm glad to hear about where he's going, though. That sounds great for him. I hang up, thinking, well, God damn. That's nice. Jaxon, anyway, will get to fulfill a dream he doesn't know he has. Not until the living of it, galloping over the mountain trails, matched against other horses, galloping as fast as he dares. Well, I'm thinking, that sounds like a happy ending for Jaxon, anyway. I can at least feel good about that. Yeah, I think, Jaxon in the Tevis, I love that idea. That's the family of the woman whose riding crop I bought at the auction, the one topped with a silver crab claw. Thats the T in the monogram. Nice little coincidence, I'm thinking, and I had no intention of buying those riding crops, had no idea the best of them had this association. Had no idea I'd be riding Jaxon, that I'd get him into shape the way I did. Yes, I'm thinking, a nice little coincidence. Not an omen. Certainly not a fucking omen, certainly not an omen meaning anything concerning Michelle. No, this is just a nice little coincidence. This is an excuse to call Michelle, I'm thinking, it is legitimate to talk about Jaxon, what's happened, kind of thing friends do, I'm thinking, resentfully. That I should have to worry about calling a friend, go through these calculations, is it okay? Yes, I'm thinking, that's the point. Michelle really doesn't know what friendship is. Especially with a man. Especially with me. So I agonize over a phone call. But it will also serve as a reminder about the research, give her a chance to do the right thing. I won't mention it, but you might expect that in hearing from me, Michelle could conceivably remember she'd promised to do something for me. And hadn't done it. I make the call, she does not answer. No surprise, I imagine her, that moment, looking at the phone, a look of annoyance, Oh, shit. Terry. I leave a message. Give her the news, express sadness, thanks for setting up the lease deal in the first place. Ending the call, I hear her voice, see her face, Now you can come out everyday, Terry, whenever you want! I think of those messages of a week or two ago, Gee, Terry, I miss seeing you everyday. I miss seeing your face. Heart flutter. You make me squirm! Flash of anger, wave of disgust. Sad, I'm thinking, just fucking sad. She returns the message the next day, with one of her own. Took her time, I'm thinking, thinking it significant. Yeah, she says, too bad about Jaxon. We'll find another horse for you. Yes, I'm thinking, I'm sure you will. If you can remember who I was, my name, things like that. Yes, I'm sure. No mention of the research, I note, thanks again. Two, three hours of work, still isn't done three weeks later. Michelle can't bring herself to do the smallest thing to meet her commitments to me, not the smallest thing. Ah, but I desire it. Cannot happen. I think of the imminent date, yes, a perfect setup, I'm thinking. She set me up, to set her up, for a deliberate act of cruelty. But whose, I'm thinking, whose? Who's deliberate act of cruelty? Yes, I'm thinking, there are some interesting possibilities here indeed. The rains blow through again, days of intermittent drizzles, showers, drenchings. The dirt road along my ridge is a mire, getting worse by the day, driving home becomes ever more problematic, especially at night, in the fog. I have to pick my line carefully, drive fast to keep from getting stuck, hope I don't slip into a tree, or over the hillside. On its own, the rain is sufficiently depressing, day after day, no blue sky, let alone sun, to encourage a bad attitude. The road situation exacerbates the mood, this is real, getting home might be a problem any day now, I'm on the edge of anger all the time. And then I note it breaking out regularly, unexpectedly, with every drive in the country, every time I see a horse, or a barn, I'm back at the old stables, in the rain, with Peter, and Michelle, moving her horses, in the rain and the muck. Every time I drive the highway upvalley, every time I look to the eastern mountains, I think of the old resort, ruins barely discernible, and think of that box of research. Every time I open a book, I think of the inventory we did not do. Every time I drive toward San Francisco, I see the ranch Michelle did not buy. The occasional eruptions turn into a sustained, bitter anger, I'm thinking, all the time, yes, thanks for the memories, Michelle, thanks for the memories, you've managed to pollute all the roads of my life, many of my pleasures, you've infected everything, Michelle, fucked up everything. Jesus Fucking Christ. And I end up back at the date, deliberate act of cruelty, I expect a great snubbing, she's fucking Peter under the roof I paid for, and she's going to shit on me all over again. I know this. I should just stand her up, I'm thinking, thinking immediately, how would she notice? That presumes she intends to show up. The prospect of the date brings me to a sustained fury, diverted by speculations over our relationship, three weeks of angry ups and downs. I find it very interesting, however, to consider the nature of events in retrospect, now that it's over between us, whatever it was. To look at the early clues, remember hints of suspicion, later confirmed. To assess the non-date dates Michelle set up, my inability to profit from them at all, though the non-date date was a specialty. I'm wondering about the number of times Michelle may have thrown herself at me, but I didn't notice. Wondering about her sense of rejection when I missed those micromoments, little openings. I missed. If only, I think, if only. If only Michelle weren't fucking nuts. And what about this date? I have to game this, I'm thinking, consider the possibilities, contingency plan. She may cancel, not show up, something. Seems very likely. I'll consider that later. After it happens. How will things play out if it actually comes off, though? Ideally, we'll be able to have a nice time, be comfortable, there may or may not be a romantic opportunity that night. I can't help but consider that Michelle has clearly implied that when she goes on a date, sex happens. I do not expect this. She would insure it did not happen on any date with me. She presumes I desire it, cannot happen. If it doesn't, we may go out again, Michelle encouraging a courtship. Might end well, might not. That's alright, that's all I ever really wanted, a chance to find out if we had a chance together. Or Michelle may come fully prepared to manage the situation, feign pleasantness, enjoyment, but with a distance. Give me the date, the chance she thinks I always wanted, then blow me off. She's ended her obligation. And here's what I fear, realizing the fear in the speculation, I fear she may look for opportunities to snub me. I touch her, innocently, You make me squirm! Or she may seize yet another opportunity, even manufacture one, to tell me I got the wrong idea, she doesn't think of me like that. How could I imagine she was ever romantically inclined toward me? Yes, I'm thinking, if that happens, I could go off on Michelle, might not be able to help myself. I might find myself saying some very cruel things to her. Scary, I'm thinking, very scary. Even worse, I'm thinking, I'm so ready for a fight now, I may not be very good company. Just perfect, I'm thinking, I can imagine Michelle saying, to herself, Well, gee, I was thinking of making love with him, but he's just not much fun, really. Kind of stiff. Oh, well. Sorry. Geez, I'm thinking, she's just fucked up everything with her games, deceptions. Michelle, could, finally, reach out, with an open heart, only to have me snub her. I have, after all, considered standing her up. Saying cruel things to her. Jesus Fucking Christ. Okay, I'm thinking, I just have to plan to do this, go on this date, see what happens. I have to go through the motions, fully expecting Michelle to renege on the evening. I have to participate in yet another transparent charade. This angers me even more, oh, this is great, I'm thinking, just great. And the rain continues, day after day, my anger mounts, day after day, every time I think of the date, every time I see a horse, every time I drive friendly old roads, now rife with hostile associations. Thanks, Michelle. Thanks for the memories. And this is what bothers me most of all. I'm afraid I will end up hating Michelle, I'm afraid she'll deprive me with every opportunity to leave from her with even the inkling of a happy memory, a trace of good feeling, from what was, once, a very sweet friendship. Because Michelle thinks, Michelle acts, like a tramp. Like a whore. Regardless of how many men she's slept with. It's not about sex. It's about using the promise of sex, the suggestion of sex, as a weapon. Even if sex is not the issue, Michelle will make it the issue. And use it as a weapon. And it does not really matter that she can't help herself, doesn't know what she's doing. The damage she wreaks is no less devastating. My state of mind is dangerous, I'm thinking, I could do anything if she sets me off, no telling what I might say. By the time the date is a week away, ideas are bubbling, cruel phrases, concepts jumping into my consciouness uninvited. I imagine Michelle has been yelled at, many times, called many names, in the heat of anger. No, I would not do that, not my style. I will cold-bloodedly eviscerate her, I'm thinking, no yelling, name-calling, for me. I will plant ideas in her head that will torment her forever. Yes, I'm thinking, fair trade here, you polluted my memories of the past, I will infect your future with doubt, shame, think you have self-esteem problems now, Michelle? Just wait. And I know she'll be able to handle it, get over it, survive, but the thoughts will follow her, she'll feel the pain somewhere, sometimes. When she least expects it. Yes, I'm thinking, please, Michelle, do not set me off, do not create an opportunity to snub me. Please, Michelle, do not make me hurt you as you've never been hurt before, But first, no matter what, Michelle must show up. I'll give her a little help. The annual surfing competition at Mavericks Beach is announced for a few days hence, conditions just right for monster waves. She's working at a nearby vet clinic at Half Moon Bay, I'll see if she wants to get together for lunch while I'm down there. I call Michelle a few days before, no answer, no surprise, I wait for the message prompt, I imagine Michelle looking at her phone, that minute, making that face, Oh, shit. Terry. I leave the message, tell her I'm coming down, ask about lunch, give me call. No, I'm thinking, no, I do not expect lunch to happen. But perhaps, just perhaps, this will act as a little reminder about our date over the weekend. Michelle does not call. Not that day, not the next day, not at all, day after day. And the date approaches. Yes, I'm thinking, Michelle is making it very difficult for me here, she is giving me many reasons to think ill of her. To feel the full measure of disgust I am inclined to feel. I am not grateful. And now it's Friday, the dinner's tomorrow night, and I don't have tickets. I spend an hour or two playing phone tag, leaving messages with the horse association, buy a couple of the last tickets, hundred-and-fifty bucks. And I know Michelle won't show up, and I'm very, very angry, by the time the transaction is over. Yes, I'm thinking, any normally considerate person would have returned my call concerning the lunch, if only to decline, we could have discussed the dinner, plans and such. She is not a considerate person of any sort, not with me anyway, she is brushing me off. The next morning, I call, she does not answer, I imagine that face, annoyance, as she checks the phone, Oh, shit. Terry. I leave a message. I tell her when I'm coming by to pick her up, tell her what I will wear so she can plan accordingly. And a few hours later, I see that Michelle has left a message for me. Gee, Terry, she says. I'm filling in for somebody at the clinic today. Sorry I can't go. But give me a call. I'll be around on Tuesday, and I'm off for a week. Cold fury consumes me, I don't fucking believe it. I don't fucking believe it. It's a date, Terry. See, I'm writing it down. I promise. Honest. There is no misunderstanding this time. What really sends me over the top, however, is the suggestion that I call her. So we can get together Tuesday. And she's off all week. As if she ever returns my calls anymore, as if she intends, ever again, to treat my like a friend. Like a human being, with feelings. I'll never be able to call that fucking cunt ever again, I'm thinking, imagine her looking at the phone, making that face, Oh, shit. Terry. Screening my call, screening me, out. Leaving a message. Days later. Call me. I don't fucking believe it. And Tuesday, I'm thinking, yes, just fucking perfect. It's fucking Valentines Day! Does she know that? Is she suggesting we get together on Valentine's Day, is that it? What, another lunch at the deli? Sandwiches? If I suggest dinner, on Valentine's Day, will I get the lecture again, I don't think of you that way, Terry? Michelle is setting me up again for a snubbing. I don't fucking believe it. I fucking hate that woman. I absolutely hate Michelle. I don't fucking believe it. Yes, I have an ending now. Not a happy ending, perhaps. But an end. I have a plan. Valentine's Day will be just right. Yes, I'm thinking, thanks for the memories, that's the perfect theme, I'll give Michelle some memories. I will punish her with sentiment, evocations, of our time together. She will get a clear sense of just how much she threw away. I had accumulated a variety of horse-related items over the months, already a tendency, indulged in full, since meeting Michelle. I select the right wooden cigar box, solid, hinged, little clasp for closure. Line the bottom with antique burgundy velvet. To the inside of the top, I glue a cloth patch, rider on bucking bronco in its center. The motto says, Oakley, Cowboy Capital of the World. The very town Michelle did not want to live in, cried over the prospect. Into a gilt-brass, heart-shaped, antique locket, I place that picture of Michelle, hugging Lucy. The picture of the warm glow, the picture I cannot now bear to see. The locket I have engraved with the initials, M & L. I trace the shape of the locket, in ink, to the left of, and below, the cowboy patch. In the middle of the heart, I write the same initials. In the corresponding corner, I attach a little, embossed, brass cowboy on a bronc. Underneath, I write, Charlie Brown and Me. Inside the box, I put a medical diagram of a hoof, a hundred years or so old, beautifully illustrated. Atop it, on the left side, I position the locket. On the right side, I hang an antique, lead cowboy, on horseback, richly painted, but damaged, he's missing his gun arm. The small noose around his neck is barely visible. The full significance of the symbolism I do not expect Michelle to discern. But she will certainly get the idea. I know her vulnerability to sentimental gestures, much as mine, know, by now, her vulnerability to my gifts. I do, after all, know her as few others. She loved my little gifts, made her all the more suspicious of me. Does not matter now. Then I prepare the little black bundle. This I will not deploy, if at all, until I see how she responds to the box. Criteria of the response left undefined. As Valentine's Day approaches, the blind, cold, fury within grows to blizzard proportions, I try to get a fix on these particular feelings. I am not angry in a conventional sense, just determined to do what I am going to do. But I cannot think anymore, not in any complicated sense, just mundane decisions, motions of life. I have no personality anymore, I am just this creature, determined, now, to the exclusion of everything else, to accomplish this mission. I am not capable of reconsidering anything, by now. My friends at the coffeehouse find me quiet that Tuesday morning, Valentine's Day, I spend more time pacing and smoking out front than usual. I am not thinking a thing, I am killing time till the mission, calculations as to timing and execution worked out in a subconscious, but aware, process. But I am not thinking a thing, as me, the individual I am. I have become a grim machine. On a mission. Consequences be damned. I head to Sonoma in the mid-morning, if Michelle has horses to feed, she should be done, maybe back home. I drive by the old stables, I wince, deep inside, as I make the turn toward town, I drive by the road to Jaxon's home, I approach Michelle's cottage in the vineyards. I drive past her house, see her vehicle isn't there, turn around automatically, no thought, no thought at all, no thought needed, drive to the deli. I get a cup of tea, sit outside, on the white plastic chair, at the very table, where so much of our history transpired. In the same place where I saw the glints in the eye, met Bruce, met Peter, listened to Annie say, Like mother, like daughter, Michelle ask, When was the last time you were in love, say, I'm sleeping with Peter. Guess I'm fired, huh? I do not think about these images, feel nothing associated with them, do not acknowledge them, it's all subconscious, but I'm aware, know they're there, does not matter. I am unthinking, unyielding, uncaring. I exist only as a creature on a mission. Intermittantly, I pace and smoke. After an hour, I drive the short distance to Michelle's, still not there, drive to Sonoma. I park on the square, walk around it, see memories of Michelle at every step, every turn. The bar, the spa, the outside table where we had Christmas lunches. I go to the book shop, take some volumes to the back room, try, unsuccessfully, to read, look at the pictures. I am surrounded by books, think, somewhere, deep inside, about the inventory we did not do. Michelle never showed up. Bitter anger, somewhere, deep inside, do not feel it, but duly acknowledged. Cannot afford to start thinking, must leave. I walk around the square again, thinking, somewhere, deep inside, I loved this town, been here fifty years, cannot bear it now. But I can bear it, no problem, grim determination. Another hour or so passes, I return to Michelle's house, not there, automatic turnaround, back to town. I park on the square again, walk across it, passing the spot where I encountered Michelle that day I first saw her at the bar, passing the spot where she offered me the corn dog. The first non-date date. I follow her path to where she disappeared into the dark, into the Basque bakery, where we had our last lunch before she left for Christmas. Where we talked about the job. I sit and eat lunch, take my time, maybe she'll be home now. Midafternoon. Getting late, she'll be picking up her daughter from school soon. Do not want to do this with the daughter around. Another hour gone, I return to Michelle's, she's not there, go to the deli. Another cup of tea. I drive to Michelle's again, I approach the house on the gravel road, drive beyond the cottage, her jeep is there. It is time. I park, take a deep breath, get out of my car, cigar box in hand, black bundle hidden at the small of my back, in my waistband. I walk up to the porch, climb the stairs, see the old leather horse collar I gave Michelle hanging to the side of the door. My things are everywhere around here, I think, deep inside, yes, she loves my gifts, ignores me, no feeling associated with the thought. I knock on the door, Michelle's daughter answers. Too bad, I think, really wish she weren't here. Complicates things a bit. Only a bit. Hi, I say. Can I talk to your mom? She hesitates, uncomfortable, Let me check, she says, closing the door. Check what, I'm thinking, deep inside, unthinking. Going to screen the call? Screen me out? Oh, shit. Terry. Through the glass, I see her disappearing into the interior gloom, just as Michelle comes forward to meet her, words exchanged, Michelle looks up, sees me, she makes some kind of face. Bad sign. Black bundle. Michelle drags herself toward the porch, lips pressed together, leaden movement, yes, really happy to see me. She opens the door, she's wearing pajamas and a robe, Michelle says, Hi, Terry, weak, melodic voice, all vulnerable, smiling, watery eyes. She embraces me, pulls herself into my stiff form. What are you dressed up for? she asks, releasing me, I tell her I'm going to have dinner with my ex, my son. Oh, she says. I'm having dinner with my daughter. Why didn't you call me? You know I'm off all week? You got my message? Uh, huh. Here, this is for you, I say. Cold, no emotion, grim visage. Happy Valentine's Day. I say the words slowly, with emphasis, an edge. I hand the box over. What's this, she says, glint in eye, but vulnerable. You're giving me a box of cigars? You can look at it later, I say. She has not invited me inside. This is an act. I have to go, I say, hesitating, she says, Well, I'll be around all week, give me a call. I'm going to Florida tomorrow, I say. What's in Florida? she asks. Family reunion at my sister's, I say. Oh, okay, she says, weakly, seems a little bewildered. My cold manner, I presume, never seen this version of me. Well, she says, give me a call when you get back. Yes, call Michelle. Oh, shit. Terry. Yes, the black bundle. I pull it out from where it's hidden, let her have it as I turn to leave, look of puzzlement last thing I see on her face, the daughter's rushing to Michelle by the time I walk down the stairs. Well, it's done, I'm thinking, it's done. Can't undo that. It's really over now. I drive away from her house, retrace the road back toward the highway, drive by the old stables, head toward Benicia, dinner with my erstwhile family. My normal self re-emerges, I am thinking again, there is a howling within, the full import of what I have just done overcomes me. I see the Michelle I just saw, that vulnerability, I feel that embrace, I hear that voice, all helpless. What have you done, I'm thinking, what have you done? Oh, my fucking God, I'm thinking. What have you done? I went out of my way to hurt Michelle, that's what I did. In an act of cold anger, cold calculation, I went out of my way to hurt Michelle. Michelle gave you the right to do anything you wanted, I'm thinking, anything. She asked for it, over and over again. Michelle went out of her way to stiff me, to rip me off in a deal, because of her need to control men. To control me. After I saved Michelle's ass, she made me feel like she conned me, she played me like a sap. She can't do that to people, I'm thinking, she can't do that to men. And she can't do that to me. I am not convinced by this same reasoning that made so much sense a few days ago. What have you done, demands that inner voice, I see Michelle at the porch, her daughter hovering in the background, Michelle helpless, trying to be nice to me. As much as she could. Give me a call, she said. That was not a setup. She really has no idea what she's doing. But that was the point of your little gesture, I'm thinking, went out of your way to let her have it on Valentine's Day. To give Michelle an idea of how angry you are. So you set out to hurt her. Yes, hurt Michelle. On Valentine's Day! What have you done! By now I'm feeling very bad, I feel absolutely evil, I am sick inside, I might vomit, I am gasping. What have I done, I'm thinking, how could you do that? I'm driving along the highway just below the hill with the ranch on it, the ranch I wanted for Michelle, I am blind with grief, despair, if I weren't driving, must keep driving, if I weren't driving, I might collapse. Rushing in head, what have I done, oh, my God! My cell phone rings. I pick it up, flip it open. Michelle's number appears on the display. What the fuck, I'm thinking, I didn't expect that. Sure not going to answer it. I put the phone down, bewildered myself, now, that's really interesting, I'm thinking. What could that be about? I departed from Michelle's about half-an-hour ago, was that long enough, I'm thinking, was that long enough? Hmm, I say, audibly, can't wait to hear that message. Five minutes pass, I punch up my voicemail. There is a message. I wait, but there is nothing, no sound. What the fuck, I'm thinking, first time that ever happened. I'm really bewildered now, curiosity has the best of me. Hey, I'm thinking, nothing to lose. It's over, you have your ending. Nothing, absolutely nothing, to lose. Am I ready for this, I'm thinking, can you handle this? Whatever it is? Fuck it, I'm thinking, go for it. I call Michelle. The image just starts to come to mind, Michelle, looking at the phone, the face. Oh, shit. Terry. Before it fully conjures itself, just as I'm aware of its emergence, someone answers the phone. Terry? Michelle? Did you get my message? she asks. Yeah, I say, but there was nothing there. That's funny, she says, continuing, muted excitement. I just read the story. You told me you were writing about us, but I had no idea, I, I don't know what I thought. And we're talking about the story, excitedly, we're talking without affect, without thought, just a flood of mutual enthusiasm, about what we think, feel. At the same time, that other voice in my head, I can't believe it, what the hell is happening, I really can't believe it! And I'm trying to listen to what Michelle is saying, to respond appropriately, but I'm just talking, no problem there, at the same time trying to manage the sense of incredulity. Are you going to use my last name? Michelle asks at one point. Oh, no, I say. I'm changing all the names before I'm done. Everything. Really? she says. Sounds disappointed. I don't fucking believe it, I'm thinking. I don't fucking believe it! I pulled it off, without even trying, pulled it off, last thing I would have tried. I treated Michelle badly, just right. And she's calling me. And answering my phone calls. Immediately. I really don't fucking believe it. The black bundle consisted of the story I had so far written, which got as far as that day when I first saw Michelle in a bar, Venus revealed, coyote ugly fantasies and all. When I stopped writing, because I couldn't take it, couldn't absorb it. I enclosed the pages within a card I made. I folded over a piece of black construction paper, cut a heart out of the front. Inside I attached a piece I wrote for her, opposite that, the picture of Michelle and Lucy walking away from me. Xeroxed. A white heart appeared on the cover. Here is what I wrote. Dearest Michelle-- I've never had such a good friend degrade herself so deeply to deny the friendship. I touched your heart, so you hardened it. Turning your back on opportunities unimaginable you dedicated yourself to being a loser. But I still like you anyway. And you can always count on me. Even if I can never count on you. Never am I so dangerous as when I feel self-righteous anger, a clear demand to do the right thing. To somebody else, teach them a lesson. Should the act in question coincidentally fulfill some base desire, for revenge or conquest, so much the better. I get to indulge, guilt free, very bad tendencies for very good reasons. My intent was to hurt Michelle as much as I dared with this card and the story segment. It is not in my nature to be a victim, let alone cast myself as one, people do not victimize me, they victimize themselves by trying. I have a long record of crafting devastating examples of what happens to people who go out of their way, in specifically malignant fashion, to cross me. I will not be another confused, wounded man for Michelle, she's had plenty of those, whining about how she may have hurt me. She hurt our friendship, she damaged what she got out of it, she sabotaged herself with the manipulative behavior, catch and release Michelle. She was so determined to let me know that she found me unacceptable as a lover that she destroyed this wonderful relationship we'd forged, without having a clue as to what it promised for her. I wanted her to feel bad for what she did to us, the friendship. Not what she did to me. She did nothing, much, to me. She savaged herself, threw away a future, undermined what we had relentlessly. I had to nail her for that. Thus, my little piece, in which I proclaim her a loser. For throwing away our friendship. For throwing away me. Never have I crafted such a piece of writing, designed to puncture a heart, make the victim feel guilty for the wound. Michelle, specifically, the cruelest thing I ever composed, composed for her. The story, as far as it had gotten, described my initial view of Michelle, a very fine woman I don't think she fully appreciated. Ending it as I had, something I contrived just before Valentine's Day, hinted at what was to come, a close look at the woman who asks for trouble. But I don't know what I expected to happen as a result of giving these things to her, besides making her think, and feel bad, about what she did. But not to me. I wasn't thinking clearly in the three days between the date and Valetine's Day, I just needed to provoke her thought, take control, somehow. It never occurred to me, in any detailed way, how she might respond. But the idea that she might be weeping bitter, regretful tears over the sentiment shown with the cigar box, the nice story about us, and my denunciation of her as a loser, was, I must admit, exceedingly satisfying. So I gave permission to myself to teach her as painful a lesson as I could contrive. It wasn't really about my pride, or anger. No, I was just an agent of cosmic justice. Karma, if you will. I did not expect Michelle to call me immediately following what was, after all, a deliberate act of cruelty, and I was quite unprepared to exploit the situation. As far as I was concerned, it was over. And I couldn't begin to think about finishing the story, even though the Valentine's Day ploy seemed to provide some kind of ending. Until now, and I'm in the middle of this conversation with Michelle, what next? I'm in the middle of this conversation with Michelle, we've never been so spontaneously honest with each other as this, I can't believe what we're saying. As if we've taken off the masks, not afraid, we need to communicate feelings for real. We clearly like each other, we care for each other. There is no doubt. So much is going on in my brain I can barely keep track of all the multiple themes, voices, all overlaid with the mantra, I don't fucking believe it. I don't fucking believe it. And Michelle's telling me she's sorry I'm going to Florida, she's going to be around all week, how much she wishes I'd called after her last message to me. Cancelling the date. Why would I call you, Michelle? I say, plaintively. You stopped answering my calls, you didn't answer my messages, you never showed up for work. And then you went out of your way to make that dinner date with me, that was your idea, Michelle. And you cancelled on me at the last minute. I forgot, Terry, I'm sorry, she says. Why didn't you call to remind me? Michelle, I say, I shouldn't have had to call to remind you. Remember, this was your idea, you said, See, I'm writing it down? And last Monday I called to ask you about lunch, Michelle. Did you mention the dinner? she asks. Michelle, I say, I shouldn't have had to mention the dinner. You should have called me back anyway. Remember, I called to ask you to lunch? You never called back, Michelle. And friends are supposed to call friends back. That's what friends do, Michelle. Oh, Terry, she says, she's trying to be as sweet she can to me, I definitely detect that, Oh, Terry, she says, I didn't mean for you to feel like I was ignoring or avoiding you. I'm sorry. And the whole time we're talking, my inner selves argue, in fast, heated debate, alright, she's giving you permission to say these things to her, this is real, yes, but those lame excuses for standing you up, yes, but she's letting me say these things to her, doesn't have to. Michelle could cut you off, cut you down, any time she wants, could have already have done it. She wants to hear what you have to say. Michelle is willing to listen to my anger. But Terry, she says, not defensive, almost chiding, playful, that voice, I don't understand why you would have given me these things if you feel that way about me. I can't believe this, I'm telling myself as we talk, I can't believe this, and I'm trying to make the most of this opportunity, must watch what I say, but I don't care anymore, on some level, I have to let her have it, be honest, for her sake, and I can't believe what I hear myself say next. Michelle, I say, I really like you alot. You have a fine woman in you somewhere, but she's at war with your inner slut. And the slut's winning. Terry, she says, I've never been a slut, you don't really know me. And she's not angry, I can't believe it, I'm thinking, this woman really has heard it all, she's a master at this, but I'm going strong now, she's taking it, we are communicating, I can't believe it. Michelle, I say, I'm not talking about having sex with people. But you need men's attention, your self-esteem is based on having strange men admire you, and you need to manipulate them. And it gets you into trouble. Terry, I'm not like that, she says. All I ever wanted was a little house with a white fence. Why would I do that? Michelle, I say, I've never met anyone who has so much trouble with stalkers, guys following you around, bad relationships. You think that's a coincidence? Terry, she says, I'm a vet tech, I'm a nurse. I'm a nurturing person. Guys misunderstand. And you don't know about the good relationships I've had, the nice men I've been with. Oh, yes I do, I'm thinking, I think I do, thinking of that guy in New York, got her into shape, got them a house, she ran away. Michelle, I say, I treated you like a friend. And you went out of your way, to behave like a piece of ass, you wanted me to chase. Just so you could say no. My demeanor throughout resembles that of an attacking prosecutor, scoring his points against the unflappable witness he can't break. Michelle allows me to attack her like this, I can't believe it. My bill of indictment continues, Michelle takes it in stride, never seizes the opportunity to smack me down. She really wants to reconcile, I'm thinking, and she's much too comfortable with this kind of drama, seems actually to enjoy it. As if she were a service you could call to find a proxy for the girlfriend who wronged you, a woman to yell at. And I don't know how it happens, from where comes the shift, but my unpleasant rant exhausts itself, Michelle's talking to me in that voice, all rich velvet, like the lining of the cigar box, and she's telling me again how she wishes I weren't going to Florida, I'm off all week, she says, again. I have to call her when I get back, she says, again. And the call's over, I'm at the house in Benicia, and I'm walking in for dinner. I don't fucking believe it! My heart soars with ecstacy, somehwere, deep inside. Not letting that bird out, yet. Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out what just happened, remember what Michelle and I just said, and all I remember of that Valentine's Day dinner is that we ate lamb. And I'm driving home afterwards, I'm thinking, you really fucked up and got it right. I could not have planned that, could not have planned that if I'd tried, realizing, however, that I knew my gesture would make something happen. Never would have predicted this, though. I don't fucking believe it! The wistful mood of resignation returns, I now fully realize I've restarted the game, recognize that I am, in fact, now, closer than ever to a relationship with Michelle. Of a different sort. The conversation we had revealed a new world of possibilities, cast us into a bright future. Maybe. The old misgivings flog me with memory and doubt, what the fuck, I'm thinking, I do not care, I am ready for anything. There is no sense of triumph. But I note that my hostility for Michelle has dissipated, I know the doubts I hear are real, but know as well Michelle really is doing the best she can, trying to make things right with me. Her tolerance of my plaints evidence enough. Somewhere, deep inside, however, I seem to retain that permission to do to Michelle whatever I want. That this sentiment might not be consistent with what I presume from this last conversation, however, evades my consciousness. It lingers even so. And the next morning I'm driving to the airport, feeling woozily good about everything, but storm-tossed, feel like I see my destination after the ordeal, know I might still miss it. I am beyond worry, now, beyond thinking about it. Whatever happens, happens. And Michelle was rewriting my story, giving me that happy ending I'd somewhere hoped would result from honoring Valentino, as I did, on the day. I grab my phone, check my messages, nothing new, listen for Michelle's message again. It's dead air, nothing, for twenty, thirty seconds, I hear her voice. She's been crying, fighting the sniffles, she's talking to me, choking back tears, I start crying as I drive, I wish you were here, now, she says, I wish you weren't going to Florida. And she's telling me no one ever gave her anything like this before, the cigar box, she read the story, it touched her, doesn't say so, I can tell, she's spilling her heart out to me on the message. I'm sorry, she says. Everything's been so crazy, I was depressed and suicidal, I'm sorry, Terry. I wish you were here, now. And I'm driving to the airport, and I'm sobbing, and I'm thinking, I always learn what I should have done too late, I'm thinking, maybe this time it will be different. The muffled doubts bubble from below, recognize, dismiss them. I wish you weren't going to Florida, she says, I sob some more. And I navigate the traffic with tear-filled eyes, the occasional driver notices my breakdown, doubletakes, I smile, I just don't believe it all, and I listen to the message again. And Michelle's talking about the story, expresses worried but amused curiosity about what happens next. Something about coyote ugly? Well, I'm thinking, definitely an excuse to call Michelle, work this opportunity. I enter her phone number, she picks up immediately, Hi, Terry, that voice. Hi Michelle, I say, I finally heard that message you sent, and I start to tell her what happens next in the story, how that admirable woman I knew turns into someone else that day at the bar, and before I know it, I'm ranting at her again, the injustice of it all, she went out of her way to shit on our friendship, and Michelle's taking it, responses all tenderness and understanding, until, finally, she says, Terry, I don't want to get into all that again. I'm sorry, she says, I own what I did, I take responsibility for it all. But I don't want to go on like this, Terry. And I'm thinking, what an asshole, I'm thinking, what an asshole. I can't believe I started attacking her again, can't believe how willing she is to listen, hear my hurt and anger. Jesus Christ, I'm thinking, she's really giving me a chance here. She's giving us a chance. And then she's telling me she'll be gone when I get back, has to go to a horse sale out of state, putting Lucy on the block. But I'll email you, she says. And I'll call you. And I'm back in the clouds, again, back in the fog, again, don't know where we're going, but it feels wonderful in a way I've never before detected, it feels good, really, and the muffled doubts can barely be heard. I hadn't been to my sister's place in Florida for a year-and-a-half, since right after I got fired from my last job. Since you're not doing anything, Kate says during a phone call back then, why don't you come here for a couple of weeks? I need a little help cleaning up, and I'm going to be in Delaware racing. After these hurricanes, I could use some help cleaning up. Two French girls are arriving to stay for three months, learn American training and racing techniques. I can keep them company, watch the place in Kate's absence. A little vacation, almost. Tricia, of course, objects. I'd delayed telling her of the job loss so we could make it through the weekend, and her birthday celebration, without the dark cloud. I tell her a day or two later, I'm helping her unload groceries, I explain what happened, the wait to give her the news. And I know, of course, to expect something, she'll exploit this in her war against me, her need to beat me, to win. I'm sorry, she says, turning to get more sacks from the car. That's too bad. And I'm waiting, waiting, five, ten seconds, she turns back, bag in hand, says, We'll tell Jimmy at dinner, but we need to be careful so he doesn't get worried. He already knows money's tight right now, and I'm afraid this might upset him. Uh huh, I say, thinking, just fucking perfect, hears I lost my job, in fewer than thirty seconds takes care of the condolences and tries to make me feel guilty, inadequate, for making the kid feel insecure. And the only reason money is tight is because she won't stop buying shoes and flowers. I never met anyone so effective at eliciting guilt from people so easily, through graciousness, smiles, concerned words. And I never met anyone so guilty of making people feel bad. I am an expert, by now, took years to figure out how she did it. I mention the Florida plan as we walk into the house, totally unacceptable, she has a variety of reasons, most having to do with her dislike of my sister. She can't just say that, though. And it has nothing to do with the girls. I don't tell her about them. I don't think you should go, she says. You have responsibilities here. Yeah, I say, Whatever. I'm going. She glares at me, angrily, lips, jaw, clenched. I return the gesture, look of affectless contempt, there, I've done it again, I'm mean, not sensitive to her desires. That's right, I'm thinking, fuck you too. And I don't really like my sister, either, would like to, can't, I know her pleasant scenario will be less pleasant in the living, she always manages to get me, somehow, or tries. Two hurricanes had passed over her thoroughbred farm on the lake in the last several weeks. Central Florida was devastated, entire forests broken like match sticks, what I'd seen on the television couldn't begin to capture the scope of the catastrophe. Many of Kate's sheds lost their corrugated roofs, one of her rental houses needs a new one, she'll get it for the cost of materials if I help her roofing buddy on a few jobs. The buddy, a horse client, tells me how it is, the first day. How if you die and go to hell, you turn up as a roofer in Florida. He does not overstate the case, the work is brutal in the heat, I'm lugging eighty pound roles of tar paper up the ladder, hammering until my hand can't hold a hammer. Each night, too exhausted to go right to a shower, I dive off the board into her pool after work, my filth adding little to the leaves and muck left behind by the hurricanes. The French girls share an apartment at the back of the house, next to the pool, they can't help watching me, I make a display of being a great water man, subtly. I stand on the diving board, shirtless, my dirty khakis hanging low on my waist, lean torso dripping sweat. I perform a merely decent dive, jumping as high in the air as I can, launch into the water, they can't tell the difference, I swim the length of the pool under the surface, swim a few laps above, lounge around as I drip dry. Monique and Claire are watching, can't help it, they see my antics, this much older man confident in boyish hijinks, they see me jump bareback on the old horse between the pool and the lake, grab him by the mane, give the old plug a kick. He takes off as if from a starting gate, he's racing as fast as his old legs can carry him, right down the hill, toward the lake, toward the massive tangle of trash left behind by the hurricanes. We're headed into the debris field, I'm scared now, I'm going to be thrown onto a branch, impaled, something bad is happening any second, getting closer, I have the mane in both my hands, I lean back, pull back, yell, the horse stops short. I am not thrown. God damn, I'm thinking, that was close. Not fucking bad, not fucking bad. I turn the horse back up the hill, he walks slowly back to where he started. The French girls seem entertained. They're tough, pretty women in their mid-twenties, ride race horses at Longchamp, near Paris, working class girls. Monique understands English well, can't bring herself to speak it. Claire doesn't understand well, has no trouble trying to talk. I talk to Monique, who translates for Claire, who answers me. They pick up the farm routine right off, I don't know what they're really doing, but they are riding the horses rigorously, feeding them. They avoid me at first, I do nothing to break the ice, they come out in the evening to smoke as I swim, we become friendly, get to work on both at once. The neighbors and friends who drop by wonder if they're lesbians. I start smoking again, their cigarettes, we talk for awhile each evening, they're dismayed at the squalor they see everywhere, this is not the Florida they expected. Monique has a boyfriend, Claire does not. They are equally appealing. Within a few days I'm taking them to dinner in town, looking for fun bars to amuse the girls. They start getting calls from home toward the end of our first week. Something about a hurricane. Kate hates the television, has no cable, gets two, three stations, badly, the news is never on when I watch. I do not know until the day before it arrives that another monster hurricane is coming right at us. Again. Never hapened before, three passing over the same place in one season. We spend all day Saturday getting supplies, flashlights and batteries, propane lantern, canned goods, fill the jeep's gas tank. We eat out at the last open restaurant in town, Chinese feast, return to the house to wait. But first, we turn the dozen horses out, less chance of injury than if they're trapped in a stall, less chance they'll hurt themselves banging off the walls. The power cuts off before the wind develops gale forces, every station on the radio, television, features the same emergency broadcast, we hear reports of mounting catastrophes soon to occur in our county too. The palm trees bend sideways, lightning crackles across the sky, bucking, rearing horses appear and disappear, careeening wildly through the field between pool and lake. Branches, lawn furniture, ragged shards of corrugated steel, all dance insanely through the air outside the picture window. The three of us sprawl on the floor, backs against couches, drink wine by candlelight, as the maelstrom intensifies toward midnight. Monique goes to bed, leaves Claire and me alone together. And all I have to do is lean to my right a little bit, extend my arm, pull her to me for a kiss, I can take her, she's waiting, I see her trying to see me from the corner of her eye, what am I waiting for? And I wait, and ponder, I see Tricia's sneering face, hear her scorn, God knows I owe her little enough at this stage, and Claire wants me to make love with her, she's waiting, I can't do it. And I get angry sitting there, only chance in my life, I'm sure, to make love, to a pretty French girl, during a hurricane. I can't do it. I'm still married, know it's over, soon anyway, but I can't do it. I haven't cheated on her yet, not going to do it now. I will not give her an easy excuse to get rid of me, she must destroy this marriage on her own, without my help. This will be her doing, not mine. And Claire glances at me briefly, gets up, says good night, I feel horrible for rejecting her. I rage inside at the love, affection, I will not have, so desperately need, over the next week. And I don't expect Claire ever to forgive me, provide another chance. I don't fucking believe it.