Charles Baxter - The Feast of Love

“Oh, I’m not that mean —”

“Yes you are.”

“Not to him, I’m not. Besides, you don’t know him. He makes me into a nice person, sometimes. You don’t know what he can and can’t do. I’m different with him than I am with you. You know, now that you mention it, maybe I should apologize.”

“To whom? To me? For being in bed with me?” he asked. “You’re being vague. That’s not like you. It’s not me you should apologize to.”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m getting at. You’re missing my point. Deliberately. Well, Bradley…” Somehow I couldn’t finish the thought. I couldn’t remember whom I thought I should apologize to. He had confused me for a minute. That wasn’t like me. My mind felt bleary.

Right about then the phone rang. He told me not to answer it, but I did, leaning over him so that my breasts brushed against his legs. It was a solicitation call, one for window treatments. I hung up briskly and looked over at David.

“What about Bradley?” he asked me, as if we hadn’t been interrupted. “Speaking of whom, why are you here with me?” His eyes, I thought, were quite bright with something like curiosity. “Let me get this straight. If you’re planning on getting married to this Bradley, this coffee guy, this sketch-pad fellow, what exactly are you doing here in bed with me? And how come you didn’t tell me until now? You’re supposed to be fat with your new love. You should be thick with it.” He scratched his shoulder and frowned squarely at me. “You should be strutting around arm in arm with him. You should be nestled with him, listening to those Mingus albums of yours. Instead, here you are, and you’re in bed with me. I thought this marriage idea of yours was a goof. You always said it was a goof.”

“A goof? No, I never said that. I’m sure I never said that. I wouldn’t use that word. I don’t know. As for us, you and me, we’re having sex. What do you mean, what am I doing here with you? I’m doing what we always do together. We talk and make love, and make love and talk.”

“Well, if you’re going to marry him…”

“I am going to marry him.”

“Then you shouldn’t be curled up naked with me like this, should you? Correct me if I’m wrong. You should be out there, wherever ‘out there’ is, with Bradley, this fiancé of yours, and being with him.” He waited for a moment. “Exclusively.”

“ ‘Exclusively’? Oh, come on. Don’t be priggish about this,” I said, collecting myself. “ Exclusively. What a word. I don’t see why. Why I shouldn’t be here, I mean. You’re married, after all. You’re the married one. The guilty party.” I pointed at his finger. “When we’re both naked, just the two of us, you’re still dressed in your wedding ring. I’m not even married yet. I’m just that plain old traditional figure, the other woman. The mistress.” I had his cock in my hand. I was determined to keep this light, comic, social, and not insane, and I started to suck him playfully, but he wouldn’t let me go any further, shaking me off, and he sat up.

“Stop that. We need to talk. That’s different,” he said. “My being married.”

“No, it isn’t,” I told him. “It’s exactly the same. You can’t criticize me.”

“You’re wrong,” he said. “You’re going in, a first-timer to marriage, lecturing me on ethics while you go down on me. You’re betraying him before you’ve even been faithful to him. What kind of scene can you call that? You haven’t even tried to be faithful. There was a time when I was faithful to Katrinka. You’re so restless, Diana, you haven’t even given your own marriage a chance. You’re pre-bored, for Chrissake. You’re like a monster who wants me to play with all your toys, out of sheer boredom.”

“You’re jealous, David. That’s sweet.”

“No I’m not. I’m taken aback, is what I am. I’m really taken aback.”

“ ‘Really taken aback.’ Listen to yourself. Look at the words you’re using. You’re not one to give me lectures on faithfulness, buddy boy. Is this some sort of guy solidarity thing?”

“Well,” David said. “Well.” He gathered himself, sat up in my bed, and stared at me. I looked away. “Hey, Diana,” he said, “look at me.” I did. No problem there. “You’re a pretty strong woman, you know that? And you’re beautiful. But the trouble is, you’re a thug. What do you think you’re doing here, doing this lonesome-girl thing in bed with me? Are you just playing with this guy? Do you love him? This Bradley person? Do you love this guy you’re going to marry?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is. It’s always that simple. So. Do you love him?”

“He’s lovable, David. That’s what counts.”

“No. That’s not what I asked. Lovable is different. Do you love him?”

“What a question. I don’t know,” I said. “Sort of.” I grinned and shrugged.

He wound back and slapped me, hard.

I got out of bed, right then, right away. I stood naked next to the window. On the bedside table the little votive candles that we always light for lovemaking were blown out by the breeze of my passing. “You bastard. Get the fuck out of my house,” I said.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” he said, a calm and sexy insolent look on his face. “Nope, I think I’ll stay here for a little while.” He snaked down under the sheet. “I’d like some coffee, if you please, Diana.” He thought for a moment. “Decaf.” He then gave me a strange look, one I can’t describe, as if he’d been gratified by hitting me.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” I said. “Don’t you hit me ever, you bastard.” I said this calmly.

“You’re marrying a man you’re not sure you love?” he asked from where he lay, scary and calm. “That’s what you’re doing? You cunt, you deserve to be slapped.”

“Don’t you ever call me that.”

“What?”

“That word. I hate that word.”

“Yeah, I agree. It’s an ugly word. But, you know, somebody should knock some sense into you. Honey pie, I should beat the living shit out of you.” At once he was on his feet, putting on his boxer shorts. Standing there, he cut a figure (David’s vice is his physical vanity), and I couldn’t help it, I watched him. He has nice legs, powerful thighs, every inch of which I had kissed and put my tongue upon, and I didn’t care anymore. “I’ve never hit a woman before in my life. Now I see the logic in it, if it’s you,” he said. His voice was heading toward a shout and soon would arrive there. “I would save you a ton of grief if I beat the living crap out of you, so you didn’t marry someone you didn’t love.” His eyes were glistening and bright with rage. “Goddamn you.” He was pacing. “You’ve just hired him as an entertainment. This is beneath you. Excuse me while I do the dishes. I have to calm down.”

He went into the kitchen. When I heard the sound of running water, I sat on the bed and I cradled my face in my hands for a few minutes. My cheek was burning where David had struck me. I made small wrinkles in the bedsheets with my toes. I was trying to think but seemed to be out of basic cognitive resources. That was new for me. I’m good at the complexities of argumentation. Somehow I hadn’t — I don’t know why — expected him to react the way he had. At last I stood up and put on a nightgown and went into the kitchen.

David was standing there in his boxer shorts, washing the soup bowls and rinsing them, washing the wineglasses and rinsing them, all with his usual care and thoughtfulness. I looked at the curve of his spine as it plunged into his shorts. I thought of how I would miss his body, the soups, the wine, the talk — the whole of this beautiful fucked-up man. I would miss the commotion we made together. That more than anything. Making love to him was like going through a car wash, except you came out dirtier and more alive at the other end.