Page 11 of Lucky Night

She mustbe.

But why? What’s her plan, what’s her angle?

He takes a seat on the sofa, throws an arm across the back. His penis flops down against his balls.

Patience, men.

Your hairstylist is having a going-away party, he says. And you want us to attend.

Blouse successfully buttoned, she spots her bra at the foot of the bed. Her shoulders sag. She begins unbuttoning again.

Jenny?

I don’twantus to, I’m just saying we could. Stop by. Why not, if we’re going out anyway? He’s cut my hair for fifteen years. We’ve been through a lot together.

He nods. Thinks:

Bullshit.

This is such bullshit!

Why did the fake orgasm throw him? This is what she does. Tells little lies. To avoid conflict, to smooth over hurt feelings. He props his feet on the coffee table, ready to suss out her game. She’ll never admit that she’s lying. He’ll have to force her to spin out her absurdities until they collapse. Then she’ll shrug, and start laughing, and they’ll finally go back to bed.

You’ve been through a lot together? he says. You and Hurv?

We have. She shakes out her balled-up tights.

That’s interesting. You know, I’ve been going to the same barber since I moved here after law school. In all that time, all that togetherness, I’ve learned one thing about him: his name. It’s Raul. And I only know that because it’s stitched on his shirt.

Why is he harping on her about this? And what on earth happened to these tights? Are you sure that’s his name? she says. Are you sure it’s even his shirt?

Good point. Maybe his name is Aloysius and he stole Raul’s workwear in order to fulfill a lifetime dream of being a barber in Midtown. But tell me this. Why must women become intimately familiar with every single person they interact with? Why mustyou alwaysgo through a lot together? Why must you share, and relate, and confide?

We, she says. We women. Because here I am! She waves to him. All women. Ready to explain us to you.

I wish you would. Why can’t you have a simple, impersonal exchange of services for money?

Abandoning her hopelessly tangled tights, she steps into her skirt and wiggles it up over her hips. Whether Herve and I can or can’t enjoy one of your little, whatever, sterile capitalist transactions, she says, we don’t. We like each other. He cuts my hair, we chat about our families, our problems. He’s read both my books.

Something you’ve never bothered to do, she thinks. Snob.

We’re friends, she concludes, reaching for a boot that somehow ended up under the bed.

Are you sure about that? What if he’s not really going to medical school? What if he’s just switching salons and wants to shed some clients?

This is a ridiculous conversation, she says.

You’re tellingme.

She hears the skepticism in his voice. She looks up from the boot she’s struggling to zip. Does he think she’s lying about Herve?

He showed me his acceptance letter, she says.

So you’ve been through a lot of mail together as well?

She bites back a smile. He’s going to school in Topeka.

Topeka! he cries. Of course. Our boy is heading to Kansas, that wellspring of excellence in medical training, to become anMD.

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