“You’re telling me you’ve done nothing with her outside of work?” Justin asked, his eyes widening in amazement. “How can…?”
“That’s what I said,” Stuart cut in, “and don’t ask me to explain how I can be so close to her and so faraway at the same time. I’m telling you she has a way of keeping me at a distance while being extraordinarily kind. I’m telling you she says goodbye every night in a way that keeps me from suggesting we go for a drink, but without it being demeaning. I’m telling you she hasn’t, by so much as an off-guard blush or involuntarily trembling hand, given me a reason to hope I’ll ever be more than a friend, nor has she hinted I ought to forget about it. I didn’t know anyone could be so impenetrable, keep another person perpetually in suspense. Either Penelope’s the most careful, guarded, fearful, uncertain, shy woman on record when it comes to sex or it simply hasn’t occurred to her to think of me in that light. Maybe I’m too close to her—maybe our friendship’s in the way. Makes me think of something a guy in college used to say: “He who befriends a girl will never bed her.” Of course that’s stupid and he was a dolt who was mean to girls and is now stuck in a bad marriage and getting his just deserts, but I’m starting to wonder if there might be a grain of truth in it, shows you what a nut I’m becoming. And it’s not as if Penelope’s married. And I’m ninety-nine percent sure there’s no boyfriend: there’s never been the slightest suggestion of a relationship, not one stray hint. I don’t see how it would be possible for her to hide such a thing for so long, especially since we’re talking all the time. And why would she trouble to hide it? Since she hasn’t expressed any desire to go out with me she has no reason to be secretive about a boyfriend. But still I debate the issue constantly, while knowing I’m an idiot for doing so. My head’s becoming a scrambled place of pointless hair-splitting, over-analysis, and self-contradiction.”
“But I don’t get it,” Justin said, frowning. “Why all the fuss about the absence of blushes? Why are you worrying about whether Penelope drops hints, watching for trembling hands, paying attention to that stuff? Who cares if she has a boyfriend or not? So what if she’s inscrutable—big deal! Do you want to sleep with her or do you want to drive yourself nuts trying to solve puzzles that might not exist? Why not brush her after-work goodbyes aside and ask her out, be forthright about what you want? Why flail in vagueness, analyze everything to death, scramble your head? I don’t believe you’re bottling everything up instead of coming out with it! Debating the issue of a boyfriend constantly? How stupid is that? I’m so amazed you admitted it I’m not sure I heard correctly. That’s not the Stuart I know. The Stuart I know hates wasting time and never mopes. The Stuart I know is confident and direct and doesn’t fret if a female lives in a world of her own, because he’s always ready to bring her into his world and show her a good time. The Stuart I know doesn’t allow uncertainty to exist, and especially doesn’t allow pointless sentimentality to muddle things. Has it occurred to you Penelope’s waiting for you to ask her out and wondering why you don’t? Keep it up for much longer and she’ll start to think you don’t sleep with women.”
“OK, I’ll ignore the rubbish about not sleeping with women,” Stuart responded, smiling for an instant, “but you have a point about not coming out with it. Believe me, I’ve told myself the situation’s insane and that I ought to end it and kill the confusion. But I can’t do so, because there’s suddenly so much at stake. I’ve never suffered from fear of rejection before—if one woman isn’t interested, I pass to the next—there are plenty of women in town, I’ve never troubled to prefer one above the others as long as the basic requirements of cuteness and spirit are met—but Penelope’s slipped under my skin, is itching in my nerves, the one focal point of my thoughts. It’s like the world’s hanging in the balance and don’t ask me to explain why. I’m being extra careful, dare not ask her outright—lay it all on the line at once. I’d say I’m chasing her from the inside out—seeking to emotionally align with her, tug on the submerged strings of her desire, set the stage for nature to hopefully take its course. I’m not being this subtle because I want to, but because I don’t see another option. Truth be told, I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. It’s like I’m on auto-pilot and the auto-pilot’s forcing me to tread water and wait with baited breath. Think I enjoy treading water? Think I enjoy wallowing in analysis, dwelling on what a given look in Penelope’s eyes may or may not have meant, whether the tone of her voice at a point in a conversation indicated she’s weakening on my account? Think I enjoy allowing conflicting interpretations of every minute detail to paralyze me? Hell no! It’s as inane and stupid as it’s robbing me of sleep! But at the same time—and here’s some fodder for mocking yours truly, I lob it over the middle of the plate—I’ve never felt more like every moment I’m breathing is truly a gift and a miracle, never felt more electrifyingly alive! Each new day’s an incredible waking dream that only seems half real, saturated with hope and aspiration that grips me through and through and drives me half insane! Bloody hell! If only Penelope would drop her cloak of inscrutability—give me something substantial to seize upon and sustain myself with—for one measly second, before I completely lose my mind! I swear to God, sometimes I feel as if I’m already living in a nasty alternate reality that I’ll be trapped in for the rest of my life!”
“The only alternate reality I see is your crazy exaggeration of what boils down to the symptoms of healthy lust that’s being strangled,” Justin said, looking quite serious. “Since your desire’s unsatisfied, you might as well talk about being electrified and hopeful and suppose you’re living in magic-land, right? And I’m not mocking you for it—I’m only amazed that you, of all people, are erecting a fantasy world to compensate for failing to bed one female, instead of acting sensibly and replacing her with someone who’s less reserved. As for Penelope’s so-called inscrutability, maybe the reason for it is staring you in the face. Maybe the only mystery is that there isn’t any mystery aside from the one you’re projecting onto her. Has it occurred to you Penelope’s frigid to the bone and you’re looking for responsiveness that will never be there? Maybe that’s the source of your confusion: it would explain why you can’t read her, why she isn’t behaving like a regular woman, why there’s no hint of a yes or no. Think of the drab stuff she wears—those cumbersome dresses, her mania for bundling up her hair. She doesn’t even want to come off as good-looking and maybe that’s because she can’t think of a reason why she should.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by Penelope not wanting to come off as good-looking,” Stuart countered, incredulity leaping into his eyes. “Does it make any difference if she does or not, since nothing can change the fact she’s just about the most ravishing dish in town? Think she’s oblivious of being gorgeous or thinks she can change that or would want to? I defy you to state Penelope doesn’t scream the sort of beauty the vast majority of women can’t come close to equaling, regardless of what she wears—even if it’s a gunny sack!”
“Hey, I only said she doesn’t seem to want to be a dish, not that she isn’t one—no one in their right mind would say she isn’t one,” Justin protested, mirth creeping into the lines about his mouth despite himself. “I know you’re dying to have a knight-in-shining-armor moment and rush to your lady’s defense, but don’t willfully misinterpret me and make things up so you can. There’s no…”
“As for the truly preposterous thing you said,” Stuart interrupted, still gazing at Justin with disbelief, “I can assure you Penelope isn’t frigid and am amazed you can suggest it. If I didn’t know you as well as I do I’d think you were slandering a woman because you don’t understand her, but I know you wouldn’t do that and are only trying to be helpful. But now I’m worried about you: Penelope’s so much the opposite of frigid it doesn’t speak well of your judgment and, since you’re not hiding that you’re looking for a mate and want to start a family, you should be careful who you wind up with. I’d suggest reevaluating your powers of observation
before getting hitched, lest you find yourself in divorce court before the first child’s born. Saying Penelope’s frigid is like saying Puerto Rico’s bound in permafrost! There’s such an aura of electric sensuality hovering about her—so much magnetic restlessness inside her! If only she’d allow herself to trust it!” Stuart nearly shouted, slamming his fist onto the table; then, after taking a deep breath, “But it’s as if Penelope’s willfully denying her inherent disposition, emotionally asphyxiating herself! I don’t understand how such a healthy, voluptuous, energetic, and intelligent woman can be thoroughly repressing herself, aping the reserve of a nun! I don’t see how it’s possible—it defies all natural laws! I’m telling you Penelope’s not only warm- and generous-hearted, there’s a playful and lighthearted side to her too! We laugh and joke all day long—there’s a mischievous side to her! But, always, there’s that distance between us, with Penelope not once abandoning her reserve as far as intimacy’s concerned-—not giving me a single reason to entertain, or not entertain, hopes of hooking up! Somehow she’s radiating sex-energy and denying sex-energy at the same time! And I’m not saying I’m going to be the one she favors, but she has to favor someone! But, again, there’s zero evidence of a boyfriend and it’s as if the laws of nature are being turned upside down! And it’s not like I can give up on her, start fresh with someone else! There’s no one else to start with—no other woman’s come close to affecting me the way Penelope’s doing every moment of every day! She’s invaded my bloodstream, pure and simple—is outright haunting me—and I have to see this thing through! Nothing’s going to convince me I’ve already reached the end with Penelope, that there’s no revelation in the works—that she won’t drop the act at some point, either accidentally or by intent, and reveal herself to be the sensual firestorm of a woman I know she is!”
“Now you’ve contradicted yourself,” Justin smiled. “First you say you might not be the one Penelope favors, then you say she’s going to turn into a sensual firestorm for you. So which way is it going to go? Are you confident you’re going to be her chosen one or not? Are you going to finally savor sweet victory or are the spoils going to someone else? Is all the crazy drama going to pay off or be a dead-end? Will you be kissing Penelope or watching someone else do it?”
“Right, good fun,” Stuart answered, lightly shoving his plate across the table, allowing himself to smile in turn. “I’m sure I deserve that, I realize my predicament lends itself to comedy, I sometimes laugh about it myself believe it or not—I wouldn’t believe it possible to be this nuts because of a woman if it wasn’t twisting in my guts, affirming its reality every day. But I’ll clarify anyway: what I meant by Penelope revealing herself is I’m positive she’s going to eventually make her true nature obvious, give herself away. There will come a time when she owns up to being a woman with flesh and blood needs and the implication is that when she does I’ll finally have a tangible reason to hope we’ll be getting together. I’ve got to get her to cast the nun’s habit aside, drop the act—solving her puzzle’s the only path to peace of mind. But enough—I’m done with talking, it doesn’t do any good, change a thing. There are so many other women out there—gorgeous women, uninhibited women, sweet and giving women, all of them amazing—and it makes no difference, because I can’t run to them for relief and consolation, a good old fashioned good time! That’s how insane I am! I’ve turned into a monk, because one woman won’t stop pretending to be a nun!”
* * * * *
Nearly six weeks have passed since Stuart began working on the case with Penelope. He’s no closer to solving her riddle—still hasn’t a clue as to where he stands, potential relationship-wise, in her eyes—and is starting to fear he’s becoming noticeably unhinged. It’s beside the point such fear is a product of his increasingly excitable, insecurity- and self-doubt-fueled, imagination and that in the minds of his coworkers he’s harmlessly infatuated, they only being surprised he hasn’t turned his attention to a more willing woman, of which—incidentally—there are several in the office: he’s beginning to believe he may soon be unable to maintain his composure in Penelope’s presence—unable to stop himself, via telltale facial expressions and ill-thought-out words, from alerting her to the amount of discord in his heart, enough that she’ll ask to work with someone else. Far from coming closer to acquiring the courage to reveal his feelings, Stuart’s grown more wary of doing so: he feels there’s too great a chance she’ll greet such a revelation with horror, as if he really is her sibling. It’s the same quandary as from the start, now multiplied on account of the greater amount of time that it’s existed: because they’re friends he’s afraid she’ll feel betrayed, accuse him of lying to her. Nor can he avoid realizing that, in a sense, he is lying to her, by way of omission. If he reveals his feelings, will she not wonder how long he’s harbored them and demand to know? And once he tells her, because he’d never lie to her directly—respond in any way but honestly—will she not wonder how much he’s confided to her is the truth, as well as question his motives? Will she not begin to suspect their friendship is tainted by self-interest, an outright sham—instance of calculated playacting? Such is Stuart’s uneasiness in this regard he feels it’s possible she’ll never speak to him again.
It’s a frigid Friday in February and, because the firm’s awaiting client comments before revisions can be applied to the case documents, Stuart and Penelope are free to leave the office before six o’clock—a rare occasion, even if they’re still on call for potential weekend work. As usual, they bid each other adieu at the office, kissing—technically, cheek-pecking—each other goodbye. Stuart, at the approach of a departure, always finds himself preparing for their goodnight kiss—endeavoring to erase evidence of self-consciousness, lest he betray his feelings, and also be as affectionate as possible without overstepping the boundaries of friendship. He realizes it’s essentially futile to hope one of these kisses will inspire more urgent feelings than friendship in Penelope, cause her to indicate she’d rather not part ways, but he still can’t stop hoping for precisely that. And he always relishes their goodnight kisses, brief and ultimately frustrating though they are: it’s, physically speaking, as close as he ever gets to Penelope and the touch of her lips upon his cheeks, thrilling in itself, enables him to extrapolate the situation—imagine grabbing her and pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her and kissing and caressing her for all he’s worth. Sometimes he feels he’s regressed to being a schoolboy, is as good as indulging in forever-to-be-unfulfilled fantasies involving a teacher, but he still can’t stop making the most of their goodnight kisses in his imagination—thirsting for his extrapolations to come true. But their goodnight kiss isn’t remotely pleasant for him on this occasion: the fact that Penelope doesn’t depart from her composure for an instant, is as kind and considerate as a sister and as sexually distant as a sister, stings him as it never has before—makes him feel abandoned and alone, cast into the cold night with nowhere to go and nothing to do.
The sensations of loneliness and desolation follow Stuart home: his Midtown West one-bedroom apartment, sizable and brightly illuminated, seems to have shrunk and become dim. The walls are pressing in on him; the corners, comparatively darker, are looming large—engulfing the open spaces in shadows, plunging all into gloom; even the view from his fifteenth floor terrace, ordinarily soothing with its sweep of distance, is rushing at his eyes and restricting his field of vision, leading him to feel there’s no place to run or hide. His habitual meal of steak and salad, ordinarily pounced upon with gusto, is no more savory than sawdust and he’s barely able to choke down a dozen bites, all the while feeling he might throw up. He’s neither able to endure being unoccupied nor find anything to preoccupy himself with: everything he turns his attention to makes him wish to cease thinking at the same time that it prods him into thinking about what to do next in order to settle down. Checking his text messages only leads him to feel more desolate, because Penelope’s not sending him love-notes; perusing the Interne
t only leads him to feel cut off from the entire world, because Penelope’s not reciprocating his desire and making him feel like a whole man; executing a series of stretches only leads him to feel cut off from his own body, because he’s too distressed to feel the stretches stimulate his muscles. And the walls continue to press in, the light continues to fade, the feeling of being backed into a corner that’s on all sides of him continues to mount. No longer able to endure being indoors, Stuart bolts from his apartment and is soon wandering the streets.
Penelope Prim Page 2
