Read Online I Am Having So Much Fun Without You by Courtney Maum - Free Book Online Page B

drunk on any given evening, knows when you are constipated, that she has stooped over to pull your graying chest hair from the drain, and that the familiarity between you has transformed from something comforting into something corrosive. You can’t believe that you used to spend entire afternoons with your tongues inside each other’s mouth. Can’t remember when it started: the tit for tat, the scorecards, the bonus points and penalties for things promised and not done. No one explains that the busier you become with your careers and house and children, the more time you’ll find to disappoint each other; squirreling away indignities like domestic accountants. Tallying regrets.
    And after years of emotional stockpiling, no one said how you would find your way into another woman’s body like an infant finding his thumb, how it would unclog the years of muck and allow you, on your walk home now, to stand in line at the butcher shop with your joy for life intact, appreciative and optimistic and tolerant of the old woman in front of you who can’t decide between veal or chicken because why should she rush? The world is full of choices, each more delightful than the last.
    Why is it called “cheating”? Is it all that bad? I married my lover, time turned her into my sister. Truly, badly, I want my lover back. But we’ve twisted each other with our unspoken failures and our building scorn. A near decade later, we’re warped. We are polluted. The well of love is black.

5
    BY THE beginning of October, it was looking more and more likely that the British would join the United States in military action against Iraq. I was back at my favorite news kiosk, rifling through headlines inspired, apparently, by the lexicon of cowhands ( HE’S GOT ’EM, GO GET ’EM! ), trying to brainstorm ways I could develop an Iraq-themed project without coming across as a desperate opportunist, when I got a call from Julien that he needed to see me.
    I found Julien in the gallery’s storage closet, standing on his head. The watercooler next to him belched out a bubbly glug.
    â€œJulien,” I said, blinking. “What the fuck.”
    He bent one leg back and then the other, tucked his head against his kneecaps for several seconds before getting up.
    â€œIt’s good for stress,” he said, dusting off. “Did you meet Bérénice?”
    I confirmed my observation of the Toulousian receptionist but did not share the fact that I found her reception skills somewhat lacking, as she had neither greeted me nor offered to take my coat. “How long has she been here?”
    â€œShe just started, but already . . . here.” He pushed open the door for me so we could exit the closet. “Let’s go to my desk.”
    Julien’s desk was less cluttered than usual. Whether this was for the benefit of his new intern or accomplished by the intern herself, I have no idea, but I do know that Bérénice was one of those girls with a really severe bird look to her. Instead of making herself busy while we talked, she sat there across the room from us, peering over with her freaky eyes.
    â€œBérénice, dear, do you think you could pop across the street for a bit and bring us back some sandwiches? Ham and cheese? And get one for yourself.”
    Julien got up to deposit some euros on her desk, which she stared at for a while before unceremoniously stuffing them into the front pocket of her jacket.
    â€œIt’s very strange,” Julien whispered, as she headed for the door. “She doesn’t have a purse.”
    Once she was gone, Julien shared with me the shake-up of the morning.
    â€œThis British fellow,” he said. “He wants you to bring the bear.”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œThey want you to hand-deliver it, the painting. It’s Bérénice that talked to them this morning, so of course I called them back and said she was new here and