Read Online Whenever You Call by Anna King - Free Book Online Page B

they’ll admit it. First of all, the toilet is always there . We’re not trained to learn to control our bladders because we don’t have to. Second, when you’re writing, you get stuck every other sentence and the perfect thing to do when you get stuck is to pee. The flow of urine into the toilet bowel is an unimpeachable metaphor for the flow of writing, or what you might wish to be a flow of writing. I flung myself into the woman’s room and yanked down my pants. I’d gone three and a half hours without urinating!
    I sat on the toilet for so long that someone rattled the door handle and yelled, “Are you ever coming out of there?” I tried to act nonchalant when I opened the door, but as usual, I failed. Instead, I hunched over and slouched away. On my way out, I noticed a computer with internet access, for a fee. I was also desperate to check my e-mail even though the only person I expected to hear from, or desired to hear from was Mr. Rabbitfish, especially since I’d never heard back from him after the crazy long e-mail I’d sent Saturday night. Just as the toilet used to always be available to me, so, too, was my e-mail. I might have to get a phone with internet capability. The craving was strong, but I checked my watch and knew I’d be late for the afternoon session of Bar Tending 101. As I headed back to class, I also acknowledged that Al’s minute attentions to me, though pleasant, had caused some anxiety. The mysterious, unknowable Mr. Rabbitfish seemed safer.
    Much as I might rail against my celibate situation for the last two years, I was secretly proud of myself. No one could believe that I’d been in such control for so long. Frankly, I could hardly believe it. I neurotically recounted the months, checking to make sure that I hadn’t somehow forgotten some forgettable episode, which, though forgettable, still counted as sex. While I’ve never been promiscuous, a la Isaac, sex had loomed large in my life starting from my first real kiss at the age of 14. I remember that kiss distinctly, not so much because of its physical characteristics and sensations, but because of what I’d been thinking as it happened.
    This is the best thing in the world. Better than homemade brownies, better than making an ‘A’ on the Biology final, even better than sleeping out in the backyard with my older brother and sister. I thought kissing was completely brilliant, worthy of great sacrifice even though, apparently, kissing cost nothing at all. No price to pay, just pure pleasure, a deep bath of love.
    But—glory, glory—it got even better. Because kissing quite naturally grew into sex, which at sixteen I discovered was every bit as great as kissing, if more complicated. Like any good thing, I slowly learned that sex could be abused and even discouraging, but I resisted this side of its nature by deliberately falling in love over and over again. Hence, the myriad marriages. Until Isaac, who turned out to be my clock set to shrill its alarm without stop. I so misjudged him, and myself in the process, that I knew I had to change. No more sex. I was allowed to fall in love, but I couldn’t have sex until I verified that I loved him, he loved me, and that he was compatible with me.
    Impossible. I had set up a hopeless scenario, a tight knot, and that most especially included the gorgeous Al. Sex with him would be fantastically animalistic. No love lost or gained. I climbed the narrow stairs to the second-floor classroom with an argument starting to form. What was wrong with mindless, loveless sex, anyway? I simply couldn’t remember why I’d thought it was a bad idea.
    When I walked in, it was obvious that Al had been waiting for me. He gave me a mock disapproving look, then yelled in a charming Scottish brogue, “Our lassie has arrived and so we resume!”
    Took me a few seconds to realize that he was playing off my threat to wear a kilt the next day. We took our places behind the bar while the word resume echoed