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Authors: Nathan Walpow
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conversation about a year ago?”
“Yes. And then we didn’t share the bed. Now I think we should.”
“Bad idea,” I said. “Because when we
did
sleep in the same bed a couple of nights later—”
“Nothing happened.”
“But it almost did.”
“And, if it had, would that have been so bad?”
“That’s the alcohol talking.”
“I don’t think so.”
I sighed. “It would have changed things.”
“There’s a fresh toothbrush under the sink. Go use it.”
I went and used it. When I came out of the bathroom Gina was sitting on the side of her bed in T-shirt and panties. She popped up, nearly lost her balance, righted herself, headed for the bathroom. When the door closed behind her I listened for retching sounds. When there weren’t any, I undressed. I kept my underwear on. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t ever seen me naked. But the last time had been seventeen years before, and it didn’t seem the right moment to break the string.
I slid under the covers. Soon she came back in. “You’re on my side of the bed,” she said.
“Right. Sorry.” It was my side too. But that time a year before when we’d shared a bed, we decided that, if we ever did it again, the one whose place we were at would have dibs on it. I shoved over.
She turned out the light, got under the blanket, snuggled up next to me. She was cold, her feet like ice cubes. But she warmed up nicely.
Eventually she said, “This is nice and cozy. Why don’t we do this more often?”
“Because Jill would have minded.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have told her.”
I felt her pressed up against me. It was, indeed, nice. It was, indeed, cozy. My loins stirred. I willed them not to. Gina and I were, after all, just friends. My loins ignored me.
“Do you think it would?” she said.
“Do I think what would what?”
“Making love. Screw up our friendship.”
The moon was behind a cloud. I couldn’t make out her expression. I could, though, smell the alcohol on her breath. “I don’t know. This isn’t the right time to find out.”
Half a minute later she said, “You’re probably right.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m not. But how do we know?”
“We don’t. Go to sleep, Gi. We can talk about this some other time. When you’re not quite so vulnerable.”
“You promise? You promise we’ll look into being lovers?”
“I promise.” I gently kissed her dry lips. “Now go to sleep.” Within a minute or so she did, and as soon as I saw she was safe in dreamland I joined her there.
8
I LURCHED OUT OF BED A LITTLE BEFORE NINE. G INA’D MUMBLED something during our alcoholic interlude the night before about having to be at the Pacific Design Center at noon, so I let her be.
Outside, it was a bright Monday morning. Fluffy clouds floated over the Hollywood sign. I took La Cienega south, driving slowly, letting the cool spring air chip away at my hangover. Jefferson Airplane’s
Surrealistic Pillow
was in the cassette player. Traffic was light. Young women walked their dogs; joggers reinforced their hearts.
As I pulled across Melrose I had to stomp on the brakes to avoid being squashed by a bus. I sat in the intersection screaming obscenities, staring as a bus-side placard, which told me I should watch
Nash Bridges
Friday nights on CBS, swept by six inches from my bumper. A man in a toga saw me yelling and gave me the peace sign. At his feet a lava lamp stood idle, with its white goop congealed at the bottom of the purple liquid. Then he held up a sign. THOU SHALT NOT LEND UPON USURY UNTO THY BROTHER. As I drove away I gave him back the peace sign.
At home, I dealt with the canaries and went out to the greenhouse. I didn’t have time to do my rounds properly, but I thought I’d breeze through and see if anything startling had happened. I stumbled across the discocactus. The bud had done its thing. The spent flower lay across the cephalium. I cursed, told myself there’d be more buds, wondered about the
“Yes. And then we didn’t share the bed. Now I think we should.”
“Bad idea,” I said. “Because when we
did
sleep in the same bed a couple of nights later—”
“Nothing happened.”
“But it almost did.”
“And, if it had, would that have been so bad?”
“That’s the alcohol talking.”
“I don’t think so.”
I sighed. “It would have changed things.”
“There’s a fresh toothbrush under the sink. Go use it.”
I went and used it. When I came out of the bathroom Gina was sitting on the side of her bed in T-shirt and panties. She popped up, nearly lost her balance, righted herself, headed for the bathroom. When the door closed behind her I listened for retching sounds. When there weren’t any, I undressed. I kept my underwear on. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t ever seen me naked. But the last time had been seventeen years before, and it didn’t seem the right moment to break the string.
I slid under the covers. Soon she came back in. “You’re on my side of the bed,” she said.
“Right. Sorry.” It was my side too. But that time a year before when we’d shared a bed, we decided that, if we ever did it again, the one whose place we were at would have dibs on it. I shoved over.
She turned out the light, got under the blanket, snuggled up next to me. She was cold, her feet like ice cubes. But she warmed up nicely.
Eventually she said, “This is nice and cozy. Why don’t we do this more often?”
“Because Jill would have minded.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have told her.”
I felt her pressed up against me. It was, indeed, nice. It was, indeed, cozy. My loins stirred. I willed them not to. Gina and I were, after all, just friends. My loins ignored me.
“Do you think it would?” she said.
“Do I think what would what?”
“Making love. Screw up our friendship.”
The moon was behind a cloud. I couldn’t make out her expression. I could, though, smell the alcohol on her breath. “I don’t know. This isn’t the right time to find out.”
Half a minute later she said, “You’re probably right.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m not. But how do we know?”
“We don’t. Go to sleep, Gi. We can talk about this some other time. When you’re not quite so vulnerable.”
“You promise? You promise we’ll look into being lovers?”
“I promise.” I gently kissed her dry lips. “Now go to sleep.” Within a minute or so she did, and as soon as I saw she was safe in dreamland I joined her there.
8
I LURCHED OUT OF BED A LITTLE BEFORE NINE. G INA’D MUMBLED something during our alcoholic interlude the night before about having to be at the Pacific Design Center at noon, so I let her be.
Outside, it was a bright Monday morning. Fluffy clouds floated over the Hollywood sign. I took La Cienega south, driving slowly, letting the cool spring air chip away at my hangover. Jefferson Airplane’s
Surrealistic Pillow
was in the cassette player. Traffic was light. Young women walked their dogs; joggers reinforced their hearts.
As I pulled across Melrose I had to stomp on the brakes to avoid being squashed by a bus. I sat in the intersection screaming obscenities, staring as a bus-side placard, which told me I should watch
Nash Bridges
Friday nights on CBS, swept by six inches from my bumper. A man in a toga saw me yelling and gave me the peace sign. At his feet a lava lamp stood idle, with its white goop congealed at the bottom of the purple liquid. Then he held up a sign. THOU SHALT NOT LEND UPON USURY UNTO THY BROTHER. As I drove away I gave him back the peace sign.
At home, I dealt with the canaries and went out to the greenhouse. I didn’t have time to do my rounds properly, but I thought I’d breeze through and see if anything startling had happened. I stumbled across the discocactus. The bud had done its thing. The spent flower lay across the cephalium. I cursed, told myself there’d be more buds, wondered about the
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