Fifteen
I am too attached to logic and the nature of kinetics to have this
wish, but I do: Stop right now. Freeze.
Because life is
perfect. For the price of a few spare hours – mere cracks in the sidewalk of my
week – I have achieved a strolling paradise. We meet every day for lunch. No
need to hide – we are well known as friends. If we feel the need to crank up
the touchy-feely, we head for a restaurant with a dark booth.
In a way, however, the
constant restraint is pleasing. I have learned the joy of discipline, of saving
up my pennies. Every once in a while, the in-laws steal my children, Jessie
makes her expected excuses, and I receive an entire evening of Pisarro.
You wouldn’t guess
this from our first encounter, but the sex is not all that wild. She does throw
curveballs – body paints, Halloween costumes out of season (“Naughty Cop!®”) –
but no major productions. Most of the time, it’s comfortable, and direct. You
might even call it lovemaking. The first time that word popped into my head, I was microwaving popcorn in the break room.
I neglected to listen for the three-second gap between pops, and burned my
kernels to a charcoal crisp. (My co-workers spent the afternoon anonymously
cursing me for the smell.) This is the first time in years that I have had sex
with a person and not a fantasy figure. Not since Nancy.
Let me tell you about
Pisarro. Pisarro uses soap made from melon and cucumber. She wears a silver
band on her right ring finger that her father gave her the year before he died.
Her eyelashes are so long that she never wears mascara (but she’s constantly
tugging them, to keep them out of her eyes). She hates country music with a
passion. She cries at the sight of snapdragons, but can’t say why.
Today we’re
touchy-feely at the Café Borrone in Menlo Park. The place is too well lit, but
we’re camped in a far corner near the restrooms. I’m sipping at a frosted
mocha, spiked with bits of coffee bean. It’s a beautiful drink.
“I’m stunned,” says
Pisarro. “I was expecting politics. My boss told me there
would be politics. Two of the people on my staff applied for – and did not get
– my job. Two months, no politics. They follow my every bidding, like a staff
of Stepford wives.”
“No surprise there.
It’s the natural reaction to your sparkling personality and radiating
competence.”
Little half-moons of
light glimmer at the corners of her eyes. (How does she do that?)
“How sweet! You
memorized the script I sent you this morning.” She rubs a hand around my thigh,
extending a finger to tickle my scrotum. “I don’t mean to push, Hopkins, but
when do we get to play again?”
I flash her a grin
filled with secret knowledge.
“Ooh!” she says. “Is
this good news?”
“It is. They’re
sending me to Northwestern for a week to set up a new lab. I leave in three
weeks. I was hoping you could get some time off and…”
“Yes!” She leans
across the table to give me an involved kiss. I hear my mother-in-law ordering
a panini sandwich. The counter is fifteen feet away. I place a hand on
Pisarro’s shoulder, pull smoothly away and spin for the restroom door.
I’m in the hallway.
The men’s room is occupied. Shit! I duck into the women’s. I am vaguely
disappointed. Where are the floral-scented tissues? The basket of chocolate
mints? I check the mirror, rub a spot of lipstick from my mouth, and look
around for something to write on.
A minute later, I’m
ready to make my break. I crack open the door. There’s Darlene.
“Hopkins!” She smiles,
then slowly cogitates my crime. “Hopkins!” she scolds.
“It’s a compulsion,” I
say. “I sneak into women’s rooms and leave the seat up.”
Darlene emits a
squeaky laugh. “Hopkins! You’re such a cut-up. Give your mum-in-law a hug.”
That’s how it works
with Mother Zwei. One must first wait for an invitation. Only then should one
slide in for a light, respectful embrace.
“Are you here on your
lunch?” she asks.
“Yes. I love the
paninis here.”
“No! I just ordered
one. Can you stay and talk? I’m here with my old pal Maggie, and I’m sure she’d
love to meet you.”
I extract my
pocketwatch. “Oh! You know, I really can’t. I’m late for a meeting. Nice running
into you, though.”
She dons her phoniest
smile. “Can’t stand in the way of cancer research. Say hello to my daughter and
lovely grandchildren.”
“I will. Ta!”
“Ta!” she says, and
heads into the restroom.
I swing through the
door at a brisk pace, dropping a note as I pass Pisarro’s table. Ten minutes
later, I’m a block away at a used bookstore, thumbing through a medical
dictionary. Pisarro peers around the bookshelf.
“Well! That was fun.
Friend of yours?”
“Mother-in-law.”
“Holy Shee-boygan.”
“Yeh.”
She holds up a tampon,
still in its wrapper. “Nice note.”
“They were out of
paper towels. Good thing I had quarters.”
“I’ll say. I’ll trade
you for this.” She hands me a to-go cup, filled with the remains of my frosted
mocha.
“Jesus! Are you really
this good?”
She flashes a cocksure
smile. “I’m even better.”
Photo by MJV
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