You don’t think about his unpleasant wife—you have heard the marriage is a political one, whatever that means. You don’t think about his sons. You don’t think about your mother the vice principal or your father the cardiac surgeon and how hard they both work so that you can work at an internship for no money. You don’t think about your grandmother Esther and your great-aunt Mimmy, who both survived the Holocaust. You don’t think about the only time you had sex, with a boy who was your boyfriend but who definitely did not ask permission. You don’t think about the summer you spent at fat camp when you were fourteen. You don’t think about how much you hate your body, which has never done a thing to you really. You don’t think about your body at all. You certainly don’t think about sweet, funny Charlie Greene. You don’t ask yourself whether you would even want a man like the congressman.
The point is, you don’t think. You didn’t want to think, and you don’t think. You wanted to feel something other than guilt.
You walk over to him, and you press your lips up against his lips, and you push your tongue into his mouth. You are bold and fearless and reckless. You like being this kind of girl.
His tongue meets your tongue for a second, and then his tongue propels your tongue out of his mouth with a muscular force. He pushes you away from him and then he holds you at arm’s length. He looks around to make sure you’re alone.
“I understand your impulse,” he says. “But this is inappropriate. This can’t happen again.”
You nod and you grab your backpack and you run out to your car.
That night, you consider the phrase, “I understand your impulse.”
Does he mean:
A. I, too, had an impulse to kiss you.
B. I understand why someone like you would want to kiss someone like me, though I do not, in fact, share your impulse.
C. In general, I understand that people have impulses to kiss other people.
You decide that it is impossible to know what he means. Still, you pose the choices to your roommate, who is having a fight with her girlfriend. The roommate thinks the answer is A.
The next day, Saturday, Charlie Greene calls you on the phone.
“What happened to you?” he says.
“They held me at the office.”
“I thought it was something like that. Next time, like, call or something. Anyhow, my grandmother still wants to meet you,” he says.
“Okay,” you say.
“She thinks she knows your grandmother,” Charlie says.
You get a call on the other line. You don’t recognize the number, but you flip over anyway.
“Aviva,” the congressman says. “I’d like you to come into the office today.”
Usually, the supervisor calls with the schedules for the week. Part of you wonders if the congressman is going to fire you, and part of you wonders if the congressman is going to kiss you again.
You don’t take a shower. You slept in track pants and a T-shirt and you don’t bother changing. You don’t want to look special. You don’t want to look like you care.
You drive to the office, and your hands are freezing, which is what happens when you are nervous.
You take the elevator up, and when you arrive, Aaron Levin calls you into his office. “Leave the door open,” he says.
He says, “I want you to find out everything you can about the government’s involvement in the redigging of the Kissimmee River.”
“Yes, sir,” you say.
The Internet search takes twenty minutes. The Kissimmee is the longest river in Florida, and like any river, the Kissimmee started its career as a series of irregular, undulating curves. In the middle of the twentieth century, a time of optimism and foolhardiness, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers decided that the Kissimmee could help with flood control and be a useful navigational tool for planes if it were straight. Win-win! They dug out the sides of the river, killing innumerable species of flora and fauna and damaging the river practically beyond repair. From an environmental standpoint, the Kissimmee River is a disaster.
You go into the congressman’s office and you describe this for him and you add some facts about what the continued costs of restoration will be.
“Tragic,” he says.
“Tragic,” you agree.
“Close the door,” he says.
You close the door. “I can’t stop thinking about you, but I’m married and I have children and I’m an elected government official, and so this cannot be,” he says.
“I understand,” you say.
“But I’d still like us to be friends,” he says.
“Yes,” you say, though you don’t have any friends his age, except for your mom.
He offers you his hand to shake.
If you shake his hand and then you try kissing him again.
If you shake his hand and then leave the office.
If you don’t shake his hand and offer your resignation.
You shake his hand.
You shake it, and you don’t let go. You pull him toward you, and then you kiss him again.
If you think you’re having fun.
If you think you’re in love.
You have never been in love before and so you don’t know for certain if you are.
He is not like anyone you’ve ever known.
He’s not like the boys your age, like Charlie Greene.
He’s smart and he’s powerful and he’s sexy as fuck.
It’s easy for you to find reasons to stay late.
No, you’re remembering that wrong.
It’s easy for him to find reasons to have you stay late. “I need Aviva,” he’ll say. “Put Aviva on it.”
Sometimes, that means he wants actual work from you. Sometimes, that means he wants you.
You never know what he’ll want until he says, “Close the door.” There’s an excitement to this arrangement. It’s like you’re a contestant on a game show. What can possibly be behind door number one?
You wonder if anyone suspects.
You progress to saying, “I love you.”
And he says, “I love you, too.”
No, you’re remembering that wrong. He never says those words. He says, “Me, too.”
You say, “I love you.”
He says, “Me, too.”
But maybe he isn’t demonstrative.
You look for evidence of love.
Exhibit 1: If he didn’t love you, why would he be spending all this time with you? Why would he be risking so many things—his marriage, his family, his work? You conclude that he must love you.
Exhibit 2: Once, without any prompting from you, he says, “As soon as I’m reelected, I’m going to leave Embeth. We haven’t been happy for some time.”
Upon further consideration, maybe that isn’t actual evidence. All he said was he was unhappy with his wife. Maybe that has nothing to do with you? How can you know if you caused the unhappiness or if you are a symptom of it?