But then I call him the next night and he comes over.
He starts coming over regularly. Nights we work together. Nights we don’t. After a few weeks, I start calling him my boyfriend sort of, adding the sort of only when I’m talking to Mel. We have sex that I tell myself is good, it is good surely, certainly it is okay, it is definitely not terrible, and then afterward he tries to educate me about the jazz harmonica, which he says is the most underappreciated of instruments. He’ll be deeply stoned on the generous joint he rolled himself from the bag of pot I keep for him in my freezer, drunk on the alcohol he toted over here in a worn plastic bag. I’ll watch him pace my bedroom, going on about dissonance and scales, his head too big for his body, his glasses too big for his face. I remind myself that these lectures, delivered in his underwear with an earnestness that I tell myself is charming, are better than watching him laugh through a very sad and disturbing film, his second-favorite post-sex activity. I remind myself that I didn’t need to call him tonight, though I just did. Just like I called him on Wednesday. And Sunday and Monday. For fun.
After eight or so weeks of dating him, I still can’t explain his appeal to Mel, who often ushers me into the kitchen to have short hissing conversations about how he’s lame. It’s a descent to sleep with him. A Descent. When I tell her casually that Archibald’s coming over tonight, she says, “He is?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing. You’ve just been seeing him a lot.”
“Just for fun, though. He likes me,” I say, sort of wanton. When she says nothing, I ask, “Do you think he likes me?”
“Do you like him?”
“I like the way he touches me a lot,” I say, thinking of how on the subway the other day, he grabbed my boob through my shirt and how it was actually pretty embarrassing and I told him repeatedly, People are watching, because they were and he said, Let them. But this is not a good example. I think of how I can wear a bra and underwear around him and I don’t have to hide my middle with my hands the way I did with Kurt, a friend I lost my technical virginity to a summer ago. He was a virgin too. What we did in the half dark of his dad’s truck was a platonic arrangement, so that we would no longer be freaks to ourselves or the world. The next day, he took me to see Rent and we had a seafood dinner on King Street. Archibald doesn’t take me to dinner, but I can be naked in front of him. Under bright lights. In full daylight. Actually naked. Breasts. Thighs. Stomach laid bare. This is a sight that excites him. And when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the half dark of the hallway on the way to the bathroom or kitchen, I don’t look away. I stay there. I look at my body and I am fascinated by what I now see to be its appeal. But I could never explain that, even to her.
“He touches me like . . .” I lower my voice. “. . . like he likes my body. Like, actually likes it.”
“So long as you know what you’re doing,” Mel says.
I tell her I do. So I keep calling him. So I call him almost every night. Most nights he comes.
He’s on his way right now. Probably still on the subway, though maybe, hopefully, already on the bus. I look at my watch. Running late. Sometimes the buses take time. He might have missed his connection, which he often does. Soon he’ll be here. Ringing the doorbell. Running his hands down my hips. Telling me he can’t believe a girl like me is even interested in a guy like him. And I’ll smile like it’s all too true.
The phone rings just then. I think it’s Archibald so I just say, “Where are you?”
“Is Archibald there?” It’s a woman’s voice, pointy and full of purpose.
“No, he isn’t.”
“Is this Lizzie?” the voice asks. She says the word Lizzie like it’s a loaded thing, a cup she’s ready to smash against a wall.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
Crackly silence. A dog yipping in the background she attempts to shush. The dog keeps yipping. She shushes him again. This time more violently.
Then: “Are you sleeping with him?”
Now it’s my turn not to say anything. The phone feels heavy and slick in my hand. Mel’s mouthing at me, Who is it?
“Who is this?” I ask.
“This is Britta,” says the voice, gathering gravity. “His girlfriend.”
Mel raises an eyebrow at me. “Girlfriend,” she repeats.
The woman on the other end of the line acquires flesh, a face, blond hair, tapping nails. I say nothing.
“Is he on his way over there? He’s on his way isn’t he? Hello? Hello?”
“Helloooo?” Archibald calls from the doorway. “Anybody home? Sorry I’m late. Oh, you’re on the phone,” he mouths, then shuffles into my room.