performed in our laps. Akiko watches my ex-mistress avidly; I can feel the static dancing on her skin. And the ex-mistress, having seared us both with one greedy glance, plays her part with an uncalled-for ragefulness. But at last it is over and we escape into the night air. Thankfully, the sky overhead seems particularly expansive.
Akiko says:
“Who is the actress? Do you know her? It seemed like she was aware of us the entire time. I actually picked up a great deal of animosity!” Curiously, at that moment my anxiety vanishes and I feel whole again.
“Well, yes. You’re right. I wasn’t sure at first, but I do know her. Or did. She was once a client. I didn’t realize she was still acting. Gosh—she must be close to sixty. A very neurotic woman.”
I know I should stop there, but something compels me to go on.
“A fascinating woman, talented, beautiful—although she looked haggard, I thought, tonight. I suppose that had to do with the role. Or her ongoing difficulties; I imagine she is still as unhappy as she ever was. A fascinating and unhappy woman.”
I repeat the word “woman” purposefully. The word itself turns me on; I am stirred. I can grow hard just saying the word “woman” aloud. When I was a boy I was able to bring myself in the shower just by saying the word over and over. When I say “woman” around Akiko, I feel thrilled by the risk. “Woman” is another clue she hasn’t yet fathomed.
That night after the play, after talking about the actress, I felt entire. I felt warm and secure and of a piece so that once we were in the car, I seized hold of Akiko and kissed her passionately; I would have fucked her then and there in the car in front of the theater if she had allowed me to. But she did not. The moment was lost and so it goes; this is one of the many ways a shared life begins to unravel, because then, when we had returned to the house and in the midnight driveway Akiko reached out to claim what was offered just minutes earlier, I pushed her away, oblivious to her rising anger and dismay, cognizant only of the mane of death, the stench of flesh roasting over coals … I stumbled forth alone into the house to fumble with the day’s mail in its basket from Pakistan or who-knows-where, as if it mattered to me in the least.
1
AKIKO IS WEARY. She is losing her luster. The force of his gravity is bearing down on her. These days she picks up splinters as easily as a cook picks up spoons; she bumps into things and trips on the stairs. The last time he looked at her he noticed the bruises on her legs and thighs. As young as she is, she begins to scowl; he catches her scowling unawares. He thinks it seriously impedes her beauty. Somehow it never occurred to him that one day she too would scowl, would join the scowling ranks he has left in his wake.
2
THE WORLD THEY SHARE is seriously shrinking. Perhaps this explains why he notices objects he had not noticed before. The room in which they eat is spare, but there is a statue of some kind on a stand in a corner and it casts a shadow that, when he looks its way, actually causes him physical discomfort. Which is ridiculous. Yet when he looks again, the malaise returns. To be precise, this shadow makes the skin on his scalp grow painfully tight, as though it were shrinking.
Akiko sits across from him. He notices how her lashes also project shadows; they scamper across her cheeks each time she blinks. The sight unnerves him. Her lashes seem longer, as does her face, the lines at each side of her mouth. And the shadows in the room. They, too, are longer.
Without a word, he rises and goes to the corner to investigate whatever it is that looms there. He finds an unfamiliar statue of oiled wood: a dancer of some kind with far too many arms. Hindu. She appears to be scowling, showing her teeth.
And her tongue! The length and breadth of his thumbnail, it seems to be thrusted at him aggressively. He says,
“Have I seen this before?” He picks up
Akiko says:
“Who is the actress? Do you know her? It seemed like she was aware of us the entire time. I actually picked up a great deal of animosity!” Curiously, at that moment my anxiety vanishes and I feel whole again.
“Well, yes. You’re right. I wasn’t sure at first, but I do know her. Or did. She was once a client. I didn’t realize she was still acting. Gosh—she must be close to sixty. A very neurotic woman.”
I know I should stop there, but something compels me to go on.
“A fascinating woman, talented, beautiful—although she looked haggard, I thought, tonight. I suppose that had to do with the role. Or her ongoing difficulties; I imagine she is still as unhappy as she ever was. A fascinating and unhappy woman.”
I repeat the word “woman” purposefully. The word itself turns me on; I am stirred. I can grow hard just saying the word “woman” aloud. When I was a boy I was able to bring myself in the shower just by saying the word over and over. When I say “woman” around Akiko, I feel thrilled by the risk. “Woman” is another clue she hasn’t yet fathomed.
That night after the play, after talking about the actress, I felt entire. I felt warm and secure and of a piece so that once we were in the car, I seized hold of Akiko and kissed her passionately; I would have fucked her then and there in the car in front of the theater if she had allowed me to. But she did not. The moment was lost and so it goes; this is one of the many ways a shared life begins to unravel, because then, when we had returned to the house and in the midnight driveway Akiko reached out to claim what was offered just minutes earlier, I pushed her away, oblivious to her rising anger and dismay, cognizant only of the mane of death, the stench of flesh roasting over coals … I stumbled forth alone into the house to fumble with the day’s mail in its basket from Pakistan or who-knows-where, as if it mattered to me in the least.
1
AKIKO IS WEARY. She is losing her luster. The force of his gravity is bearing down on her. These days she picks up splinters as easily as a cook picks up spoons; she bumps into things and trips on the stairs. The last time he looked at her he noticed the bruises on her legs and thighs. As young as she is, she begins to scowl; he catches her scowling unawares. He thinks it seriously impedes her beauty. Somehow it never occurred to him that one day she too would scowl, would join the scowling ranks he has left in his wake.
2
THE WORLD THEY SHARE is seriously shrinking. Perhaps this explains why he notices objects he had not noticed before. The room in which they eat is spare, but there is a statue of some kind on a stand in a corner and it casts a shadow that, when he looks its way, actually causes him physical discomfort. Which is ridiculous. Yet when he looks again, the malaise returns. To be precise, this shadow makes the skin on his scalp grow painfully tight, as though it were shrinking.
Akiko sits across from him. He notices how her lashes also project shadows; they scamper across her cheeks each time she blinks. The sight unnerves him. Her lashes seem longer, as does her face, the lines at each side of her mouth. And the shadows in the room. They, too, are longer.
Without a word, he rises and goes to the corner to investigate whatever it is that looms there. He finds an unfamiliar statue of oiled wood: a dancer of some kind with far too many arms. Hindu. She appears to be scowling, showing her teeth.
And her tongue! The length and breadth of his thumbnail, it seems to be thrusted at him aggressively. He says,
“Have I seen this before?” He picks up
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