Andre Aciman - Eight White Nights

“No, this is another friend.”

“Do you care for him too?”

She gave me a withering glance. “You want war, don’t you?”

“That’s not what I want at all.”

“What do you want, then?”

She was right. I had no idea. But there was something I definitely did want and it had to do with her, or it was through her that I would find it. Or it was her I wanted and all my doubts were just my last-ditch way of avoiding seeing this simple truth. That I wanted her. That I was destined to lose her. That I had shot my wad and didn’t have a single card left to play.

“I want you to give me another chance.”

“People don’t change, you certainly won’t. Besides, what does another chance mean? Is this something you picked up at the movies?”

“You’re always tweaking and putting me down.”

“That’s because you’ve been giving me palaver. When you’re good and ready, I want this,” she said, suddenly putting her right hand on my crotch and grabbing everything I had there in her palm, not letting go, all the while doing something that felt like a squeeze. “I want you — not the puppy face, not the snide antics, nor your evasive asides. I want you in the moment, here and now. For this, I already told you, I’ll go the distance and do anything you want, anything, anything. When we’re good and ready.” She stopped squeezing me without letting go yet. “But don’t ruin it. You ruin it with your silly games and your cold feet and your other nonsense, and you’ll never live this down — this much I can promise you.” With that, she put her hand inside my trousers and reached for my cock. “You want my breasts? I want this.”

“Now can I go?” she asked, as if I were holding her back with my cock.

I nodded.

“Are we going to the movies this evening?”

I hated my voice.

“Yes, we are.” Why? I asked, not knowing why I’d asked her why.

“I thought I just told you why.”

“And what are you doing now?” I couldn’t help myself.

“Now I’m going to meet someone who’s been kinder to me than I deserve.”

•

I had already purchased our tickets and was waiting outside the movie theater, drinking my large cup of coffee to keep warm. I was doing penance, and she was late. Something had already warned me she’d be late. I was trying not to let it bother me. I knew that five more minutes of this would make me more anxious, that anxiety might upset me, that I’d try hiding being upset, but that it would all leak in so many oblique and treacherous ways that were sure to draw her fire and finally erupt in all-out war. I tried keeping my anxiety in check. Please don’t stand me up, Clara, just don’t stand me up. But I also knew that it wasn’t the fear of being stood up that had caused the surge in anxiety. It was the image of her doing to this other friend what she’d done to me, her hand squeezing and caressing his cock, making the same speech. No, not the same speech. She’d make love to him, totally and completely, then hop in a cab headed uptown and show up at the movie theater, all wired and frisky, didn’t want to miss the credits, have been thinking of you all afternoon, not upset, are you? Who knew what she’d been doing on the afternoon of our first movie.

But if I was sincerely worried about her someone, it was also to avoid thinking how she’d touched me, or at least not use up the thrill of that moment by thinking too much on it. I wanted to dip into it, take furtive nips, and then run to safety, like a bird nibbling tiny tidbits. I was a leave-some-for-later type, she the here-and-now, guzzle-all-you-can-in-the-moment. No woman had ever put her hand there without first knowing that she could. Even my caresses last night, for all their boldness when we leaned against the wall of the bakery at three in the morning, had none of her nerve. I wondered if hers was a merely symbolic groping for a man’s balls, which explains why she rubbed my crotch somewhat before letting go of it, as if to make light of the package, or whether she had pressed me with the heel of her palm to tease me, to feel me, to turn me on, to show what she was capable of?

In between the worrying and the fading memory of how her hand had held me hovered hazy reminders of what had happened earlier outside the Met, things I didn’t want to think about, and could still manage to banish, but that were still there, like an enemy waiting for the gates to open, but equally capable of breaking them down or of digging under them if he wished. This morning I’d almost buckled on the ground — the tourists, the stands, the children, the crowd milling everywhere, the sandwich men dressed as playing-card kings and queens, everyone sucking the air till I seemed to be floating on helium. I’d never forget this day. It had started bursting with desire, my hands off Signor Guido, and look at me now, sipping coffee, which I wasn’t even supposed to drink, humbled, crushed, vulnerable, prone to new setbacks as soon as the Xanax wore off. I did blame her.

Why had I allowed this to happen? Because I had hoped, because I had trusted? Because I’d failed to find something to hate in her? Because everything, just everything was beautiful and promised to take me to that one place where I felt I belonged but had never seen, and that my life would be one big nothing without it?

“You didn’t think I’d come,” she said, after stepping out of a taxi in front of the theater.

“Well, maybe you wavered a bit. Did you want me to worry?”

“Stop.”

She took the second coffee from my hand, no doubt in her mind that it was hers.

I also produced a roll of Mentos, which made her ecstatic. Or perhaps she was making up for not thanking me for the coffee by throwing profuse thanks for the candy.

“Want one?” she asked, tearing open the package. The first one was red. She always loved the red, hated the yellow. “I want the red,” I said. But she had already put it in her mouth with a teasing you’re-not-getting-this-one-unless-you-come-and-get-it-if-you-dare smile. I would have kissed her in the mouth, found the candy, stolen it with my tongue, and, after playing with it awhile, given it back to her. Suddenly, with our imagined kiss racing through me and the thought of her fingers passionately combing my hair, something arrested me: they may not have made love this afternoon, but they got very close, almost too close.

Meanwhile, not a word about where she’d been or what she’d done. Her silence on the matter confirmed my worst doubts. I stewed in them all through both of Rohmer’s films, poisoning both films.

By the time we were out at midnight, it was impossible not to sulk. “What’s eating you?” she asked. My “Nothing” was not even trying to be dramatic or visibly cryptic; it was a glum “Nothing,” and I didn’t care to hide it.

“You didn’t like the films?”

“I liked them.”

“You don’t feel well?”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s me.”

What lay ahead was a field of nettles that I wasn’t eager to cross barefoot.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked. “Let’s have it. Let’s just put it out there.”

It took me a few moments to find the courage.

“I just wish you hadn’t left this afternoon. I felt terrible.”

“I had to see someone.”

I tried to put on a placid, indifferent face, but I couldn’t resist.

“Do I get to ask who?”

“Whom? Sure, ask away.”

“Who, then?”

“You don’t know him, but he’s a very dear friend. We talked about you. About us.”

I was trying to find my bearings, but didn’t know how.

“Everything confuses me. I’ve never been this confused. Nor have I ever told anyone I was so confused. Ever.”