The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  He’s kidding, right? I am not laughing. Tears. All down my face. Tears. Why am I crying over a joke?

  “Babe, c’mon, I was kidding. I love you.”

  I cannot think of an explanation suitable for the situation. Instead of even attempting to rationalize my behavior, I bury my splotchy face in his arms. Insecurities echo through my mind as I reflect on my growing fear of losing Ben. Sure, I am safe from the Olsen twins luring Ben away, but what about the masses of sexy women in Manhattan? They all seem to salivate at the thought of relaying an important message to Ben— that he can do better. It doesn’t help that Ben’s general demeanor is funny and charming. I want him to turn off the charm and stop flaunting himself all over town. His friendliness is an invitation for women to engage with him.

  A few days later, Ben and I partake in some quick precaffeine sex before hitting our local Spring Street Starbucks. A woman with a pixie haircut and green doelike eyes approaches, focusing harder on Ben with each passing step. She presents a coy smile, which Ben happily reciprocates. Bitch. And I mean that about both of them. By the time we reach Starbucks, I am literally relieved to get him off the street.

  “I’m going to wash my hands. Get me a triple-shot venti latte with skim milk.”

  “You got it, babe.”

  Five minutes is barely enough time for me to wash and dry my hands, let alone make a new friend. But not for Ben. I return to find him chatting with Coffee Slut #1 behind the counter. She appears to be around twenty-two, with porcelain skin, a size-four body, and golden locks to her shoulders. Even with a green apron and visor, she looks good. Her smile says, “I’m fun. Screw me.” As I approach, I hear her say, “Thanks, I will definitely e-mail you.” My heart pounds. I am on the verge of total organ failure. How can I live a normal life when the man of my dreams isn’t safe in Starbucks? Two feet from Ben, I breathe heavily to garner his attention. Ben winks at me, then continues talking to Coffee Slut #1. My boyfriend is leaving me for the girl with coffee grinds under her nails. My breathing intensifies. I must end their conversation. Now. I will feign fainting. It is a cheap move, but I am desperate. I close my eyes and collapse onto the floor without breaking any vital bones.

  “Anna! Anna!”

  I “awake” to Ben hovering over me saying my name with such concern that I feel guilty.

  “Anna? Anna, are you okay?”

  I am speechless with guilt.

  Coffee Slut #1 approaches with a cup of water; as she hands it to me, she says the words that send the last rational thought out of my head.

  “Is your sister okay?”

  Of course. She assumes I am his sister. Ben was openly flirting with her in front of me. The rage of my youth returns with a thud, fully condensed and focused on Coffee Slut #1.

  “I am not his sister. I am his girlfriend. And if you had been doing your job, maybe I wouldn’t have slipped on this . . . slippery floor.”

  Suddenly, falling due to her incompetence is far superior to fainting.

  “Anna, honey, I don’t think you fell. I think you fainted.”

  “Ben, you are a lawyer, not a doctor!”

  “I know, but your eyes were shut.”

  “Yes, that’s how I fall. Do you or the barista have a problem with the way I fall?”

  It takes every ounce of willpower to say barista instead of Coffee Slut #1, as she deserves to be known.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  “Fine.”

  I give my version of the evil eye to Coffee Slut #1 and vow to learn voodoo to undetectably inflict primitive pain on this young thorn in my side. We definitely need a new coffee shop, preferably an all-male one.

  As we walk home in silence, I admit to myself that I am a complete lunatic. The most unfortunate part is that Ben knows it. I can see it in his eyes. He’s questioning who I am as a person. He is conjuring up images of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. I could not have handled the situation worse if I tried. In blaming Coffee Slut #1, I showed mental instability. I reach my hand out like a frightened child, unsure whether my parent will accept me. Ben takes my hand and continues to walk in silence.

  “I’m sorry. Seeing you flirt with the barista, giving her your e-mail, and falling so abruptly got me a bit out of sorts.”

  “Come on. Don’t be that girl. She’s only a law student looking for a summer internship.”

  Yeah, right. The only internship she wants is the one under his desk. My face must betray my thought, because he shakes his head with irritation.

  “Seriously. I was not flirting with her. She’s a child. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “She’s not a child. She’s actually older than a lot of your Full House crushes. Can you understand how I could interpret the situation as upsetting?”

  I embrace honesty. Not full disclosure, but partial honesty.

  “What’s upsetting is your being so easily threatened by me talking to another woman. Are you going to stop me from talking to women at work?”

  “Let’s just drop it.”

  “Fine.”

  I call Ben an asshole in my mind. He cannot hear it, but it makes me feel better. I want to rip my hand from his, but that will trigger a bigger fight. A cute brown-haired girl approaches us. Ben smiles at her. Screw him; I take my hand back.

  “What is with you?” Ben asks with a heavy helping of bitchiness.

  “Why do you smile at every woman who walks past you?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Am I kidding you? No, Ben, I’m not! Why do you do that? We have been out of the house ten minutes and you have ogled two women, and that doesn’t even include the Coffee Slut!”

  “Ogled? What are you talking about? I can’t smile at people? And Coffee Slut? Anna, this is such an ugly side of you. You know, I don’t mind if people smile at you.”

  “Ben, when have you ever seen anyone smile at me?”

  “Ever think that’s because you look unfriendly? I know you don’t have a lot of relationship experience, Anna, but trust me, men are allowed to smile at other people, including women. Ask your friends. I’m sure Janice or Donny and Marie let their guys smile at women.”

  I seriously regret making up Donny and Marie as friends.

  “Don’t patronize me, Ben.”

  We walk home, lattes in hand, in total, angry silence.

  Men have an innate lack of understanding when it comes to jealousy.

  Don’t be that girl. What Ben doesn’t realize is that we are all that girl. Every woman who has ever uttered the words “I like you,” “I love you,” “I give a shit about you” is that girl. In essence, that girl is a girl who cares enough to protect her emotional investment. The smart ones hide that part of their feelings and deal with it in a passive-aggressive manner. Men think they know women better than other women do. Women understand each other’s behavior on a level that men don’t even know exists; it’s the emotional equivalent of canine hearing.

  Upon entering the apartment, I walk directly to the bathroom. Having a one bedroom sucks when we fight. The only place I can be alone is the bathroom. I turn on the shower, letting it run. I sit on the toilet, drinking my latte. My love for Ben and his love for attention appear to have crashed into one another, frustrating me to tears in the process. Everything is about to evaporate; Ben could simply disappear from my life.

  I pull off my clothes and lug my body into the steamy shower. As I lather my hair, the bathroom door creaks open. My eyes are covered in Suave suds, so I mumble “Ben?” Nothing. I move my hair under the hot stream of water. Ben is behind me. I can’t see him or hear him, but I know he’s there. He kisses my neck softly.

  Engaging in foreplay while temporarily blind is outrageously erotic. He holds me from behind as I rinse away the veil of suds. I turn to kiss him and notice that his eyes are closed. Why are his eyes shut? Is he Photoshopping in Coffee Slut #1? Gela? One of the thousands of gorgeous women he’s bedded?

  “Oh Ben,” I moan in hopes of eliciting an “Oh Anna
.”

  “Babe.”

  I am not satisfied; Ben calls total strangers “babe.” I moan even louder and throw in an orgasmic gurgle with his name.

  “Ahhhhhh B-b-b-e-e-e-e-e-n-n-n.”

  “Oh,” he moans loudly.

  I’m going to have to step it up, an a cappella rendition of the name Ben with a chorus of heavy breathing. Not surprisingly, he adores the attention. This is personalized porn for him. Sexually, I should be beyond euphoria, but instead my mind races with one word, Anna. Say my damn name. But alas, he doesn’t. The climax comes without mention of my name. We rinse off and retire to the bedroom without speaking a word to each other. We slept with strangers; the tension of the fight remains with us.

  “I’m sorry we fought.”

  This is Ben’s passive-aggressive way of avoiding responsibility for the fight while trying to end it.

  “I am sorry that we fought, too, but Ben, do you understand what I’m saying about the other women?”

  “Anna, I love you. I live with you. I have validated you in every way other than matrimony. Why are you making yourself crazy by being so jealous?”

  “You admitted that you only started dating me because your mother made you, and you smile at every gorgeous woman who passes you. Can you really not see where I am coming from?”

  “Anna, I think you’re gorgeous. It doesn’t matter what initially drew us together because we fit,” Ben says with a kiss to my lips before getting serious. “But you need to understand, I hate jealousy. It’s a real turnoff.”

  Oh, really? I want to destroy Ben cell by cell.

  “I didn’t realize I was being jealous. I thought I was expressing my feelings.”

  “Babe, I’ve been down this road with other women I’ve dated, and it doesn’t work. If you keep acting like this, I don’t know what the future holds.”

  “Did it occur to you that maybe there is something to it since other women have expressed similar sentiments? Or is it a big coincidence?”

  Jo Allen, the PR bitch whose violet party we catered, comes to mind. I remember her smugly wishing me “good luck” when she heard I was with Ben. Now I understand.

  “Anna, this is who I am. I’m not changing. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He’s saying that I cannot be mad at him for his questionable behavior, or he will leave. This is an ultimatum. Part of me wants to scream profanities in his face and walk off, but I don’t. As much as I loathe him in this moment, I love him more. I cannot walk away from him.

  “Yeah, I think I understand.”

  I have no course of action to take in this moment other than agreeing with him. Ben presented a clear ultimatum: stop expressing my concerns or the relationship will end. I heard it. I saw it in his eyes. If this was a movie and I was a better character, I would tell him to kiss my ass. But I’m not that person. I love Ben. I’m afraid to lose him. I must find a way for his ego and my insecurities to become compatible. As I lay on his chest with his arms around me, I am further from him emotionally than ever before. Fear seeps into my brain, unlocking crazy facets of my personality.

  The fight remains with me throughout the weekend and into Monday morning. I am eager to get to work and ask Janice’s advice. She’s my only friend, but more important, she’s brutally honest. I enter the kitchen expecting Janice to guide me out of the emotional quagmire known as Ben.

  “Hi,” Janice says without even looking up from sautéing onions.

  “Do I look ridiculous with Ben?” I ask without any lead-in.

  “What a silly thing to say. No!”

  “Janice, as my friend, you must tell me the truth.”

  “You do not look ridiculous with him,” she says without raising her head.

  “How come the whole damn city looks surprised when I hold his hand?”

  “I’m not going to lie. Ben is better looking than you are. Let me explain something to you. In every relationship, there is a Ginger and a Mary Ann. Mary Ann is pretty, but Ginger is prettier. In your relationship with Ben, you are the Mary Ann and Ben is the Ginger. You’re still pretty, just not as pretty, you see? But so what? Congrats on landing him. The other ladies are just jealous.”

  “Congrats on landing him? Screw landing him. Can I keep him? How does Mary Ann keep all the Gingers away from Ben?”

  “You could lock him in the apartment.”

  “I’m serious,” I say glumly. “This is a nightmare. I hate how pretty he is.”

  “Don’t act like his looks had nothing to do with you falling for him. You’re telling me that if he looked like Juan, you would have fallen for him?”

  “Juan the dishwasher?”

  “I promoted him to waiter. Do you not pay any attention around here?”

  “Fine, it may have helped a little at the beginning, but I would love Ben no matter what he looked like.”

  “Please! Enjoy the view and accept the dangers. Women are going to look, flirt, and do what they do. But all of that is out of your hands.”

  “That’s it?” I say grouchily.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Enjoy the view? What kind of lame-ass advice is that? What if I told you that about Gary?”

  “Gary doesn’t get many opportunities. He doesn’t have the same overt lure that Ben does.”

  “So all I can do is—”

  “Enjoy the view.”

  There it is then; I know my relationship will end in tears. Some barriers are simply too hard to overcome; an average woman cannot keep an extraordinary man.

  Part IV

  The Makedown

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Tonight, I prepare a scrumptious dinner of risotto and pan-seared asparagus for my devastatingly handsome boyfriend. This dinner is meant to ground my insecurities. While I may not look like Ben’s past girlfriends, I have other talents. This meal will highlight what an exquisite chef I have become. Yes, I said chef. I am no longer a mere caterer; I have promoted myself to chef. Risotto is Ben’s favorite dish and in order to make it delicious, I embrace excess. I use an abundance of butter, heavy cream, and cheese. When Ben lifts his fork for the first bite, I see four cheese bridges extending from the plate.

  “Babe, this . . . is . . . phenomenal,” Ben says between bites. “The most delicious risotto I have ever had . . . even better than in Italy.”

  “Oh, go on,” I say while pretending to blush.

  “Why don’t you always cook like this?”

  “I didn’t know you liked my cooking,” I respond coyly.

  “You’re a genius in the kitchen, honestly. Janice is lucky to have you.”

  “Oh, stop it. Here, have some more,” I say, lifting a large serving spoon toward his plate.

  “No, one serving’s enough. There’s a lot of cheese in this.”

  Hello Fatty,

  Lie! Just lie! He needs to eat more! This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Dull Ben’s veneer with a few extra pounds. Nothing drastic, merely create a buffer zone between Ben and perfection.

  — Anna

  “Well, the thing is,” I stutter, “the cheese is low fat, so two servings . . . actually equals one.”

  “Who knew they made low-fat Gruyère?”

  “The innovations in ingredients these days are spectacular. I’ll make some of my other low-fat discoveries this week.”

  Self-preservation is kicking in. I have reached my best physically, and still my desirability is painfully capped at a little above average. While yes, I have lovely brown eyes with long lashes and I’m thin, that still only gives me “cute” at best. Is cute enough to keep Ben from being lured away by one of the many sirens patrolling the city? Maybe I’m okay today, but eventually I will lose him; it’s inevitable. I can’t be with him every day, shielding him from offers of greater T & A. It’s impossible. The only variable in this equation is Ben. Underneath his perfect façade is a man with some extra weight, a man with dimmed popularity. I need to find that man and bring him to the surface. It’s
the only chance I have of maintaining our union.

  I don’t have to be at the kitchen until 10:00, but I wake fully energized at 6:30. This never happens. I love to sleep. However, today the anticipation of making Ben chubby propels me right out of bed. Soon he will be a little round, a little plump, a little less perfect. However, he’ll still be much better looking than me. I have an actual spring in my step as I grate “ low-fat” Gruyère for an omelet. I use large dollops of whipped butter to brown the eggs to perfection. The short stack is excessive, but I can’t contain my fervor. This is an immensely satisfying endeavor to take on. I creep into the bedroom with a tray full of pancakes, eggs, and orange juice (I added sugar).

  “Good morning, Ben.”

  “Babe, oh my God, what is all this?” Ben asks with surprise.

  “Breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day,” I offer casually.

  “Ah, that’s really sweet, but I can’t possibly eat such heavy food for breakfast.”

  “The pancakes are whole grain. I ground up flaxseeds for them. And the eggs, well, they’re Egg Beaters with the low fat Gruyère.”

  “Babe, it looks delicious, but I can’t. You have it.”

  Why is he making this difficult? Men usually don’t need convincing to eat breakfast in bed.

  “Oh,” I sigh, “won’t you even taste a little?”

  “Babe . . .”

  “How about the pancakes?” I say with a long, drawn-out sigh and a pouty expression that feels totally unnatural.

  “Babe, really, I can’t.”

  “Not even one? I got up at 6:30 to make all this.”

  “Okay, I’ll have one pancake,” Ben relents.

  “Oh, goodie!”

  I watch Ben chew every last bite of the pancake with an intense satisfaction. For the first time in weeks, there is hope for our mismatched relationship.

  Breakfast over, Ben throws on a navy suit and yellow tie. I stare longingly at his stomach, dreaming of the day his paunch hangs over his belt.

  “What? You don’t like the suit?”

  “Oh no, not at all. You look wonderful. Do you have lunch with anyone special today?”