Lawrence Block - Getting Off

He nodded. “And speaking of bicycles, he’s learning to ride one.”

It’s a tricycle, and he still hasn’t learned to put it in the garage. But of course she couldn’t say that.

The food came, and he said he knew she’d offered to buy him lunch, but it was going to have to be on him. This, he said, would be a small way of making it up to her for the way he’d treated her in New York, back in the bad old days.

“You treated me fine,” she said.

“I was acting out sexually, and I exploited you.”

“Acting out? Whatever it was you were doing, I was doing it, too. And I must have enjoyed it, and felt just fine about it, or I wouldn’t have hit on you yesterday.”

“You weren’t hitting on me.”

“Yes I was,” she said. “It’s what I’m doing now, too. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Kim—”

“I know you’re attracted to me. Aren’t you?”

“You’re a very attractive woman.”

“And you’re an extremely attractive man, and if there weren’t other people around I’d be under the table with your cock in my mouth. You used to like that, and I’ll bet you still do.”

“We shouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Why not? Graham, I know you, I know what you like . Are you going to try pretending you don’t enjoy having your cock sucked?”

He just looked at her. He was getting hard, she could tell. And something came back to her, some rush of memory from out of nowhere.

“You wanted to fuck me in the ass! That’s what you promised me, when you went off to your meeting. We’d meet for dinner and come back to the room, and you’d have plenty of lube on hand, and you’d fuck me up my ass.” She looked at him levelly, licked her lips. “See? If you want to make it up to me, that’d be a good place to start. You owe me.”

The son of a bitch was hopeless. He went to AA meetings and SCA meetings, so no wonder he didn’t have time to mow his lawn. SCA might have been fun if there was a decent amount of backsliding involved, but he took it seriously, the idiot, and he took his wedding vows seriously, especially the part about forsaking all others.

It infuriated her, and she was on the verge of losing it when she caught hold of herself. No point in cursing the fish when it wouldn’t take the bait. More effective to reel in and try again.

“I’m sorry, Graham,” she said. “I guess I’m not used to rejection. It’s not something I get a lot of.”

“I’m not rejecting you , Kim. It’s just—”

“I understand. You’d actually love to fuck me, but you won’t let yourself. Because it doesn’t fit with your new life.”

“I might not have phrased it quite that way. But that’s close enough.”

“So now we’ll go our separate ways,” she said. “Will you think about me when you masturbate?”

He flushed deeply.

“I get it,” she said. “You don’t do that anymore either, right?”

“It’s a form of acting out,” he said, “that we don’t encourage.”

“ We meaning SCA?”

He nodded.

“I’m glad I’m not a member,” she said, “because I have to tell you, Graham, I’m gonna have my hands full tonight. I’ll put on some music and I’ll get out my sex toys and I’ll imagine all the things you and I aren’t gonna do to each other. Oh, is this conversation making you uncomfortable?”

“I think you know it is.”

“Well, if you get all worked up, you can go home and knock off a good one with Wifey. The two of you do have sex, don’t you?”

“Of course we do.”

“You’ll be thinking of me,” she said.

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not? Oh, I think it is. You’ll be inside your precious wife, in whatever position’s ordinary enough so that it doesn’t come under the heading of ‘acting out,’ but in your mind you’ll be doing me in the ass. You’ll be hotter than a forest fire and she’ll wonder what got into you, and in the morning you’ll be all racked with guilt and have to go to a meeting to confess your sins to your buddies. But you won’t dare be too specific about it, or they’d all get hot and the meeting would turn into one big circle jerk. Which, now that I think about it, would be a big improvement all around.”

Well, gee, she’d lost it after all, hadn’t she?

Rita was cooking something. The aroma, richly inviting, caught her up when she opened the door.

She’d prowled around restlessly all afternoon. First a movie at a mall theater, where she kept changing her seat. That was easy enough, the theater was weekday-afternoon empty, but she couldn’t find a seat that wasn’t too near or too far from the screen, couldn’t let herself get into the story, and finally couldn’t remain in the theater for longer than forty minutes.

She stalked out, then roamed the mall, walking in and out of stores and up and down aisles. She didn’t need anything, didn’t want to buy anything, but she tried on a pair of jeans in one boutique and flirted with a cell-phone salesman in the Radio Shack. It occurred to her to take him in back, to an office or rest room, and scratch the itch that Graham Weider had inflicted. Blow him, fuck him, whatever. And then kill him, but with what? There might be something in the back, a pair of heavy-duty scissors, a letter opener, a heavy glass ashtray to hit him with. No, not an ashtray, because smoking wouldn’t be allowed, but maybe a desk lamp, maybe a paperweight.

Could you count on finding something? No, of course you couldn’t. And the guy was a doofus anyway, built full in the hips, and he waddled like a penguin, and she didn’t really want to do him in the first place. She wanted to do Graham Weider, and she couldn’t, the bastard had turned her down, and the way her luck was running today she’d get the same reception from the penguin, and she wasn’t sure she could take it.

She got out of there. And found another store to walk into, and walk out of.

And now she was back home, and Rita was telling her that she hoped Kim hadn’t eaten, because the only way the beef bourguignon recipe worked was if you cooked enough for four, so—

“It smells terrific,” she said, “and no, I haven’t eaten. In fact I didn’t have much of a lunch. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, how’s that?”

She hopped on her bike and rode to a liquor store she’d noted earlier. What did you drink with beef bourguignon? The clerk, who couldn’t keep his eyes off her tits, recommended a Nuits-Saint-Georges or a Chateauneuf du Pape. The Nuits-Saint-Georges was two dollars cheaper, and that made the decision for her.

Pull the clerk into the back room? The look on his face suggested he wouldn’t put up much of a struggle, and afterward the wine bottle would serve as a handy blunt instrument. He was all alone in the store, so she could go through the register on her way out, and very likely pocket a few hundred bucks for her trouble. And then she could take the murder weapon home and share its contents with her landlady, and that had a certain undeniable appeal. Oh, get over it, will you? She got on her bike and headed for home.

The wine made quite an impression on Rita. “Oh, I bought wine,” she said, “but nothing anywhere near this good. I picked up a halfgallon of California red and used half of it in the stew, thinking we’d drink the rest with the meal. But we have to have yours, it’s a Burgundy, it should be perfect with beef bourguignon.”

As indeed it was. The meal was simple, just the main course and a salad, and she hadn’t eaten since she stormed out of the Italian place in the middle of lunch, and Rita had prepared a superb meal. She had the radio tuned to an Easy Listening station, and the conversation stayed comfortably superficial until they were about halfway through the bottle of Nuits-Saint-Georges.