Read Online The Bleeding Heart by Marilyn French - Free Book Online
Authors: Marilyn French
Tags: Romance
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afterwards, having led me to think it might matter, it might be something more than the usual casual screw. Oh god I hate men.
She got out of the tub and scrubbed it hard, then tied her hair back and put her robe on. It was chilly in the apartment, but she walked barefoot, not caring if she was cold, walked barefoot into the kitchen, not caring if she stepped on a sliver of glass. She hated herself even more than she hated him. She poured some jug wine into a chipped goblet, found her eyeglasses, went into the sitting room and opened her briefcase, spreading more papers on the round table.
The hell with him.
She began to code the notes she’d taken the past two days at the British Museum. But her mind wouldn’t work, it fought her. After an hour, she sighed, closed her file, righted a cigar, and moved herself with her wine to a comfortable chair.
What was it with men, that they could switch feeling off and on? As if they had separate selves, pieces not essentially connected to each other except by the fact that they inhabited the same body. One was full of desire and tenderness; it was vulnerable, needy, wanting. Another full of rage, vented at the slightest provocation. And another that was dressed in shirt, suit, and tie, and sometimes even a vest, crisp and ready for action. Body and mind in uniform.
They have compartments for things. Work. Buddies. Women. Sports. And they could act different in each room.
Whereas she had only one room. She was the same whatever she did. She was popular with students because she was a person with them, not a disembodied “teacher,” an Authority. Her books had been called humane , which in her field, and because she was a woman, meant that they were taken less seriously than books one could never suspect of harboring such a quality. Oh, if she’d had a class to go to, an appointment, she’d have left, of course. But first she would have hedged him round with embraces, assurances of love, of her sorrow at leaving him, of her guilt….
That was it, damn it.
No, it wasn’t. It went beyond guilt. It came from thinking about others, not all the time or before herself, but thinking of them at all. Which was what men never did. She would have known, let herself know, that it hurts to be left under any circumstances, and would have reassured him of her return, complete with time and place down to the minute. And the whole time she was away, she’d have been anxious that she might be late returning to him at the time she had set. She’d rush back to the apartment. And he wouldn’t be there. Not himself worrying much about deadlines, he would not expect her to keep hers. He might even have forgotten what she had said. He’d be gone for a stroll in the park, to pick up some milk, having a beer with a neighbor.
She put down her cigar. It was a rotten way to be, the way she was.
And what can you do about that?
She picked up the cigar again and puffed furiously. Well, maybe it wasn’t such a great way to be, but at least it was a kind way to be. There was no excuse at all for the way he was, turning himself off as if he were an electric light. Acting as if he didn’t even know her, as if she were a prostitute and he’d paid the bill.
Was it true that love was the core of women’s lives and not of men’s? It wasn’t the core of hers, hadn’t been for years and years. Yes, but the moment she did let herself feel even a little she was back in the same old morass. Men did things so that they protected themselves; women did things so that they protected others. It was grossly unfair, but all she had to do was stop doing it
But I don’t know how. Besides, I’m not sure I want to. What I want is for men to be like women.
Yes. Years ago—before I was celibate? Probably—Bruce Watler. An MLA meeting it was. So attractive, vibrant and dark, wrongheaded of course, but wonderfully so. We’d met before, we were on a panel at Perm. Intelligent. Sensitive. Didn’t bother with
She got out of the tub and scrubbed it hard, then tied her hair back and put her robe on. It was chilly in the apartment, but she walked barefoot, not caring if she was cold, walked barefoot into the kitchen, not caring if she stepped on a sliver of glass. She hated herself even more than she hated him. She poured some jug wine into a chipped goblet, found her eyeglasses, went into the sitting room and opened her briefcase, spreading more papers on the round table.
The hell with him.
She began to code the notes she’d taken the past two days at the British Museum. But her mind wouldn’t work, it fought her. After an hour, she sighed, closed her file, righted a cigar, and moved herself with her wine to a comfortable chair.
What was it with men, that they could switch feeling off and on? As if they had separate selves, pieces not essentially connected to each other except by the fact that they inhabited the same body. One was full of desire and tenderness; it was vulnerable, needy, wanting. Another full of rage, vented at the slightest provocation. And another that was dressed in shirt, suit, and tie, and sometimes even a vest, crisp and ready for action. Body and mind in uniform.
They have compartments for things. Work. Buddies. Women. Sports. And they could act different in each room.
Whereas she had only one room. She was the same whatever she did. She was popular with students because she was a person with them, not a disembodied “teacher,” an Authority. Her books had been called humane , which in her field, and because she was a woman, meant that they were taken less seriously than books one could never suspect of harboring such a quality. Oh, if she’d had a class to go to, an appointment, she’d have left, of course. But first she would have hedged him round with embraces, assurances of love, of her sorrow at leaving him, of her guilt….
That was it, damn it.
No, it wasn’t. It went beyond guilt. It came from thinking about others, not all the time or before herself, but thinking of them at all. Which was what men never did. She would have known, let herself know, that it hurts to be left under any circumstances, and would have reassured him of her return, complete with time and place down to the minute. And the whole time she was away, she’d have been anxious that she might be late returning to him at the time she had set. She’d rush back to the apartment. And he wouldn’t be there. Not himself worrying much about deadlines, he would not expect her to keep hers. He might even have forgotten what she had said. He’d be gone for a stroll in the park, to pick up some milk, having a beer with a neighbor.
She put down her cigar. It was a rotten way to be, the way she was.
And what can you do about that?
She picked up the cigar again and puffed furiously. Well, maybe it wasn’t such a great way to be, but at least it was a kind way to be. There was no excuse at all for the way he was, turning himself off as if he were an electric light. Acting as if he didn’t even know her, as if she were a prostitute and he’d paid the bill.
Was it true that love was the core of women’s lives and not of men’s? It wasn’t the core of hers, hadn’t been for years and years. Yes, but the moment she did let herself feel even a little she was back in the same old morass. Men did things so that they protected themselves; women did things so that they protected others. It was grossly unfair, but all she had to do was stop doing it
But I don’t know how. Besides, I’m not sure I want to. What I want is for men to be like women.
Yes. Years ago—before I was celibate? Probably—Bruce Watler. An MLA meeting it was. So attractive, vibrant and dark, wrongheaded of course, but wonderfully so. We’d met before, we were on a panel at Perm. Intelligent. Sensitive. Didn’t bother with
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