Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“I missed you,” he said, interrupting the kiss, and then continuing it, her arms squeezing tighter. The fight, his body’s stiff resistance to the cold world, sagged, and he held her wearily, hopelessly, feeling her body, tasting her mouth, the sensations mingling dissonantly with Lois’ now more familiar shape and smell.

She led him silently into the bedroom, apparently not resenting his reluctant manner. Why doesn’t she know there’s something wrong? he wondered as she pulled his shirt out of his pants and unbuckled his belt. He stood passively like a little boy, too tired to undress. Because she thinks I’m depressed over the script, he reminded himself. He took over and unbuttoned his shirt.

I am, he told himself. Maybe that’s all it is. Maybe I’ve confused myself over Lois and Betty to avoid facing the enormity of the danger I’m in. I don’t want this, he said to himself angrily, naked, moving toward his wife’s now nude body on the bed. I want to be a genius, he thought over and over as he jammed his penis inside her, roughly moving in and out, grunting with the effort as he pushed himself so hard it seemed he wanted to ram right through her body. I want to be a genius, he thought — I don’t want to be in love with anybody.

Gelb began right away, getting up from the table, pulling Patty toward him when she extended a hand, kissing her on the mouth, his lips slightly open, enough to make it more than a greeting and just less than serious foreplay, a hand encompassing a buttock and squeezing, again with slightly more emphasis than friendliness and less than open seduction. “It’s great to see you. You look great,” he said in a breathless rush. Antony reunited with Cleopatra.

“So do you,” she said, not resisting his embrace. She knew, here, visible in the Four Seasons, that he would never have the nerve to go too far, that he was counting on her playing the stammering, shocked, reluctant ingénue. She wanted to call his bluff, convinced he was acting out a fantasy he would never actually realize. Sure enough, he withdrew quickly, glancing nervously at the other tables and moving to his chair. She meant her compliment. He was tan and trim, looked younger than she remembered, probably because a year and a half had made no difference in his age, but had changed her perspective of how old that old was. David, despite his fifteen-year advantage on Gelb, seemed no younger in manner or energy. Less so, in fact. But he’s still an old man to me, she argued to herself. I’m not attracted to him.

“I feel good,” he said. “Things are going well.”

“They always went well for you,” she answered. The waiter interrupted. When she ordered a Perrier, Gelb insisted she have it with white wine, and the waiter ignored her protests, outraging her.

“I can’t believe it,” she said.

“They know who’s boss,” Gelb said, laughing, as though it were a joke, but it wasn’t, and they both knew it.

“You’re not my boss anymore,” she said, not scoring on him, but a pleasant reminder, a stewardess stating an airline rule.

“I want to be. Not your boss,” he added. “I want you to work with me.”

“That’s nuts.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You fired me. You told me I was incompetent. Suggested—”

“No, no—”

“—I go into advertising or selling shoes, I forget—”

“I was lying!” he said in an angry, embarrassed tone. Patty paused. “I was lying,” he repeated, his eyes lowering apologetically.

The drinks were brought. He took a sip and she did as well, feeling, even with the first taste of wine, the lightheadedness that hit her instantly with alcohol. The desire to run through every red light would soon follow. Don’t take another sip of it, she told herself, reaching for the water glass.

“What do you mean?” she said at last.

“Let’s order. Then I’ll make my confession.” Patty tried to order light, but he wouldn’t accept that, and once again she was left with no choice. He told the waiter to bring her shrimp in mustard sauce to start, and then a steak and salad — the kind of lunch she could never put down. To her horror he ordered an expensive bottle of red wine.

“No matter how much I drink, I’m not going to bed with you,” she said, whispering the last part. Gelb opened his eyes wide, startled. “I’d only throw up anyway.”

Gelb laughed, delighted. “You’re terrific,” he said, beaming at her.

“Yeah. A terrific piece of ass, you mean.” She sneered at him, her eyes daring him to contradict her.

“Amazing,” he said. “I don’t know how I could have been such a fool.”

“You fired me because I wouldn’t go to bed with you,” Patty said, knowing, for the first time, that it was true, really true. Along with it came the exhilaration of being unshackled from almost two years of self-doubt, of failure. She had told no one, not David, nor Betty, that she believed Gelb’s frustrated lust had been the cause of the debacle of her editorial career, partly because she didn’t think they’d think it credible and partly because she had never been able to accept it herself. Now she knew, looking at him, drinking her in, watching her as a consumer does a display of expensive goods he can’t afford, that it was yet another example of sexism, of the patina that had been glossed over the old rules. She looked at the restaurant, at the so-called power lunches that surrounded her, and they were dominated by men. Men, men, men with their blind hairy cocks that wanted warmth and shelter anywhere it could be found, who would sacrifice any promise, years of struggle, any principle, for their moment of sweaty release. What was in that white stuff anyway that they wanted so badly to be rid of it?

“I fired you because I was falling in love,” he said quietly, his tan face solemn. He looked down at his ironed cuff and touched it.

Patty stared at him. He must be kidding. She felt nervous. This was not going right, the map had misled her, the scenery missing the proper landmarks.

Gelb looked up at her, his eyes serious. “I thought I just wanted an affair — God knows, I’ve had enough of them— but I couldn’t pursue it well, kept getting too aggressive, making mistakes because I wanted you so badly. I’d get furious at you, think of you on the weekends, the way you say things — I don’t know. I haven’t felt like this since I was a kid. I’m totally in your power. It’s been a year and a half and I can’t get you out of my head. You’re so beautiful …”

“You want to sleep with me. That’s all it ever was. You want to sleep with me.” She pleaded this as though arguing with a recalcitrant bureaucrat for a passport renewal.

“Sure. Of course it looks like that. And that’s part of it,” he said, laughing. “But you get over wanting to sleep with someone in less than a year. Look, I’m going about this wrong. I was in trouble that year. My job was on the line, I hated my marriage and couldn’t face it. Things have changed. I’m going to tell you something, something you can’t tell anyone—”

“You’re getting a divorce,” Patty said wearily, stunned by his confidence in her gullibility.

“No,” he said, surprised. “No. I wish I were. I’ve been offered the job of publisher at Garlands.”

“No!” Patty said, appalled. Her bad luck stunned her. That morning she had discussed in detail with Betty, an excited and nervous Betty, how they would approach Betty’s publisher (Garlands) about switching Patty’s contract for a second romance novel to a contract with her to do Patty’s new novel. It would be hard for lots of reasons, even apart from the difficulty of being forgiven for the romance novel. Betty had no track record acquiring fiction, Patty obviously had no experience writing it, and so on and so on in the infuriating tautology of publishing logic: they don’t trust you unless you’ve been successful in the past, but how can you become so without someone trusting you? The plan was predicated on Betty’s belief that Patty’s partial manuscript was terrific and the strength of her own solid relationship with the editor in chief of Garlands. And now this meant that was all irrelevant, that Gelb would become the hurdle, that once again he was her boss.