Jonathan Lethem - You Don't Love Me Yet

“I mean, I guess I just always felt there was an understanding that we were sort of heading in a certain direction. There was you and Matthew—I mean, not anymore, I guess. But you can see how it seemed. The two very attractive and sort of flighty people had gotten together and the two somewhat more, uh, quiet and serious ones—”

“No, no, Bedwin—”

“Well, of course not now that we’re, um—”

“No, Bedwin,” she wailed. “Two people can’t just drift toward each other so slowly, like glaciers, like continents, it’s not fair to their friends—”

“I don’t understand.”

“I have to go, Bedwin.”

“I love you, Lucinda.”

“No, you don’t,” she said, though it was only what she’d told herself an hour earlier, less. “You don’t, you don’t.”

For the second time that night she fled.

no complaints, no telephones, no band, no friends, no zoo, no kangaroo, no driving wildly to any other person’s apartment, not even her own, none except that one to which he might return. No clothes, either, her garments were a false skin. She shed them as she moved across the floor to the bed, scattered them one by one until she pushed through his green curtain nude. No conversation this time, no false confrontations. She never wanted to know who Susan Ming was, should never have asked in the first place. She would only exist here in the complainer’s bed until he returned.

He would. And find her. As he’d found her before, on the telephone, naked of anything but delight in him, expecting nothing. She’d return to that state. Had, in fact. And so waited, in the vast dark. Alone, consoled by the green curtain drawn around the smaller arena of the bed. The room was seamless to sound, a perfect rehearsal space, as it happened. Maybe all that had occurred to this point was only a kind of rehearsal. A demo tape. The band, her friends, her life. Now what mattered could begin. It was often this way, life consisted of a series of false beginnings, bluff declarations of arrival to destinations not even glimpsed. Seemingly permanent arrangements dissolved, stories piled up, exes amassed like old grievances. Always humorous in retrospect how important they’d seemed at the time. The little fiasco with Bedwin, for instance, already a legendary moment, rapidly receding into the past. Lucinda Hoekke was twenty-nine years old.

Spread on his comforter she made the attempt again to touch herself, inventorying what he’d had under his hands, what he’d nudged and lapped with his lips and tongue and blunt warm penis, all that she’d bared to him, now bared to the air and her own cool dry hands. What she’d given him was enough for anyone. She only had to have it ready here and not let the clutter of language rise up between the complainer and what she offered him—herself. She left herself unfiddled, unorgasmed, only triggered, tuned aware. In the perfect silence and the imperfect dark, night-lit clouds passing in pale drawn reflection on the white ceiling. She waited, closed her eyes, limbs buzzing with readiness. Parted lips. Imagined him returned. Soon enough snored.

The voices came to her, what seemed just instants later, in a dream of the loft flooded with orange sunlight, toasting her brain through shuttered eyelids. She basked in this light without opening her eyes, smiled and arched her back, kept from breaking the spell of her half slumber, not sure why the dream should please her so much as it did. It involved two people she adored, two members of Monster Eyes, her band.

“I appreciate your making the time to meet with me on such short notice.”

“Sure, buddy, why wouldn’t I?”

“This sort of thing is extremely difficult for me.”

“Do you want something to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Sorry, this place is a wreck. I’ve got to get someone in here to clean it up.”

“I don’t mind. It was very generous of you to let us rehearse here all those times.”

“Cripes, Bedwin. I was in the band then, remember? Quit thanking me for everything, you’re making me nervous. It’s like the buildup to some kind of accusation.”

“I don’t blame you for anything.”

“That’s a relief. I’m going to make some coffee. This is pretty early by my lights. Sure you don’t want any?”

“No, thanks. I’ve been up for hours. Anyway, I’m awfully sensitive to caffeine.”

“Me too, why else drink it? Pull up a chair, tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I need to talk to you about the songs.”

“What about them?”

“Now that we’re not working together, I figured we should address the, uh, situation of our sort of semi-voluntary collaboration, so we can find some way to resolve things and move forward.”

“This was your idea, or someone put you up to it?”

“Mine and Denise’s.”

“What about the rest of the band?”

“Actually, there is no more band.”

“That was sudden.”

“It happened last night.”

“What happened?”

“It’s not going to be possible for the band to go on from this point. I can’t explain any better than that.”

“Fair enough. I don’t need an explanation. What’s the scheme with the songs?”

In this uncannily exact and extensive dream Lucinda now heard the whirling racket of coffee beans in a miniature grinder, the tap-tap of the grind being emptied into the espresso machine’s strainer.

“Denise and I may continue with our musical project under another name. Several of the songs I’d like to go on playing. As I told you, I find this very awkward.”

“I get it. This is like a divorce settlement. What I can’t understand is why Denise didn’t come too.”

“She’s a little upset about this whole thing. Anyway, as I understand it the songs belong to you and me, no one else.”

“I guess that’s right.”

“I don’t want you to feel that Denise and I want nothing more to do with you from here on, but I think it’s important that I leave here today with this matter clarified one way or the other between us, so that no other, uh, parties will be able to, uh, exploit any ambiguities, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s a fascinating problem. Really, you could slice it a dozen different ways.”

“You should probably tell me what you have in mind.”

“For instance, we could just divvy them up, you get some, I get some. Or we could split them down the middle, lyrics and music. Take out what we came in with, right? Only, what good does that do anyone? Maybe we should split them the other way, you take the words, me the tunes. That way we’ve each got what we didn’t have before. You’re good at music, you can write new melodies. I can easily think up some more slogans for your songs. Let a thousand flowers bloom.”

“That’s an odd thought.”

“Or there’s the option of a nihilistic conflagration. We can declare the songs dead to either one of us.”

“However awkward, this collaboration represents a significant chapter in my creative life.”

“Well, that sinks it, then, I’d say. You sure you don’t want some of this coffee? It came out perfect.”

“If you had some orange juice, I’d have that.”

“Better yet, I’ve got a bag of oranges, we’ll squeeze some. Just let me wash off a chopping block. What a sty. You want some toast or something?”

“Sure. What do you mean ‘that sinks it’?”

“Well, despite collaborating on those songs, Bedwin, you’re looking at someone without a creative life, let alone one with significant chapters. The whole line of thinking is pretty exotic to me.”

“So you’re going to keep the songs just because you’ve never created anything of value to anyone before?”