Page 6 of Lucky Night

He is giddy. El Cheapo. He rolls around in the sheets, back and forth, a happy hound. No more evasions and maneuvers. No more baroque veiling talk. Him and her,bodies uncloth’d. Before behind between above below.She can have all the water she wants.

Convenience penalty.

You really are an asshole.

He hollers for her again. Jenny!

Rightrightrightrightright. She just needs one more look. Feet apart on the cold marble, she twists, peering over her shoulder. The mirror is one of those big jobbies, wall to wall to ceiling to sink, with a magnifying insert, which…which we will not discuss. No, we will pass over the magnifying insert. We’ve got troubles enough. She tightens her butt, then relaxes it. The results are dismaying. When she’s not clenching, her bottom is smooth, if plentiful. When she clenches, it shrinks up nicely, but those nasty little divots appear.

She looks over her other shoulder. Maybe a different angle…

Nope.

Junior year abroad, that was her downfall. It was twenty years ago, but nothing’s been the same since, asswise. Florence. The pizza. The ice cream. Wine in cheap student bars. She and Daphne, her blond bouncing roommate, used to huddle at the kitchen table clutching their coffee, the oven door wide open, blasting heat. Laughing like maniacs because the apartment wasstillso fricking cold.

They were in Italy! Nobody told them there was winter there!

God they were dumb.

Henrik lived upstairs. He was Swedish, a philosophy student. She couldn’t believe it the first time she saw his tight turquoisebriefs, so at odds with his Nordic solemnity. They were about to have sex, but she couldn’t stop giggling.

Which didn’t go over well.

Clench. Release. Clench. All the food on set didn’t help. Craft services, they called it. She kept picturing women hunched over in one of the trailers, assembling junk food with glue guns and glitter paint. She’d tried to make a joke about it to Juan Pablo, but he didn’t understand. She’d been bored all week. It was supposed to be exciting, beingon set,but she was always in the way, with nothing to do except amble around and admire how faithfully they’d re-created Wilderkill. How they’drealized her vision,as the production designer kept saying.Wouldn’t you agree the house is essentially a character in your novels?She’d nodded, oh yeah, totally, but she didn’t agree. A house is a setting, not a character, duh. Still, she didn’t want to be rude. So she listened and nodded as various intense and possibly highly medicated movie people explained her books to her. Nodded, snacked and avoided Juan Pablo’s increasingly loaded looks.

European men. They think they can get away with anything.

Seduction. Tiny underwear.

She shivers. Chilly in here. She touches a folded washcloth, a tiny round soap wrapped in pleated tissue. Whatever happened to Henrik? And Daphne. They were so important to her back then. People disappear if you don’t keep up with them. Especially the friends of your youth. Sometimes they disappear right in front of you, changing so much they become unrecognizable. The way Tom says she’s become don’t think about Tom right now. Tom is fine. You’re fine. Somewhere in the world, Daphne and Henrik are fine.

She could look them up on Facebook. She should.

She probably won’t.

There’s another mirror above the tub, offering another dispiriting view of the old stern. The old tailpiece. She wonders what Nick thinks. She knows what he says he thinks—he never stops saying what he thinks. But is what he says he thinks what he really thinks? Could he be secretly repulsed by her abundant flesh and itsnumerous small indentations? No, dummy. He wants you. Think about how he looked when he opened the door—that wasn’t politeness, okay? That wasn’t suppressed horror. She remembers what she said when she saw him, and she cringes. He didn’t seem to catch it, thank God. His hands were already on her.

She looks over her shoulder again. Alas, my vast Florentine ass. She watches it in the mirror. Clench.Uhnnh.Release.Ahhh.

She grunts absurdly, like a weightlifter.

Uhnnh. Ahhh.

Woman! he yells. Have you fallenin?

She jumps, startled. Moves to the sink. There’s a man waiting for you, dingbat. She splashes water on her face, pats it dry. What you needed, what you lacked and longed for—you have it, and you’re in here goofing off in front of the mirror! She smooths her eyebrows. She has to make an effort to appear comfortable when she’s naked with him. He said something once, praised her for her unselfconsciousness. And so with him she is the Jenny who is loose-limbed and carefree. Not a mass of quivering female insecurity. She combs her bangs with her fingers. Then it’s not really you he’s waiting for, is it? And if he knew the real you, he might not be so eager oh stop. You’re in this to please yourself, not him. That’s what you’ve always said. Still, he probably wishes you were a tiny bit less bottom heavy oh my Godstop.

That is one ginormous bathtub, boy. They could have a bath later. She should go back out. Surely his neediness has abated by now. She hadn’t really wanted water, or to pee. She’d just needed a little distance. From the bed, and from the look in his eye. Right after, that’s when he clings—the only time. She has learned to flee it, to harden herself against it. Otherwise…

The toilet! She said she had to pee—she better make some relevant noises, or he’ll be sure to comment.What, no flush? Letting it mellow?She lifts the lid and squats. Her belly fold smiles up at her. Hello, doll. You’re looking stop with the body stuff, honestly. The criticism. It’s boring. It is what itis.

It is what it is, she says. What it is, what itis.

What. It.Is.

There’s a phone on the wall beside her. A man put it there. Must have been a man. And men look at it—or will look at it, Nick said this place is brand-new—men will look and be pleased that they can wheel their deals and master their universes while ensconced on the old throne.

Not that they’ll ever use it. No man likes to talk while shitting.

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