“The master manipulator?” Somehow, I found that hysterically funny, and I started to laugh. I don’t know why, but I was feeling rather giddy. I guess it gave me a high to get that Robert so worked up—kind of a power trip.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Master Manipulator. I guess I just have this image of you flying around in a mask and cape propelling unsuspecting rugby players into the Kingfish mating pool. ‘Here he comes, boy and girls, the master manipulator: No dating couple is safe as long as he is patrolling the bars and pubs.’”
“Well, no man is safe if you are in the room.”
That floored me. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“So… you don’t feel safe?”
“I do not.”
“You feel that you are in danger?”
“Imminent danger.”
Imminent? For a split second, I thought about making a crack but decided to refrain. “What do you think might happen?”
“Anything can happen.”
“Anything?”
We locked eyes. I just couldn’t believe how sexually attracted I was to this creature sitting next to me. But, dammit, I was. I mean, he was cute. He was built. He hadn’t belched or farted or performed any other obnoxious acts in the last five minutes. I was definitely craving some action, and he seemed to be craving some action, and Kathy and Maggie were nowhere to be seen.
A million thoughts raced through my head. Should we go call Maggie and Kathy? Should we go? Should we talk? But we didn’t say a word. We just sat there with our eyes locked with just the sound of our breathing—and it was not light breathing—in the room. The electrical current running between us threatened to blow a fuse.
And then suddenly we were kissing. It was passionate bordering on the animalistic. In short, it was great. The fact that Maggie or Kathy could walk in on us at any moment—although it was pretty obvious at that point that they weren’t coming—made it all the more passionate and illicit and dangerous. Oh so dangerous.
Mike was a great kisser. A great kisser. I put my arms around his neck and pulled closer. He had a strong body, and I could feel it tingle as I pressed against it. Then I noticed his arms had goosebump. How cute is that? He was nervous. I pulled back and looked into his eyes and saw a flicker of a little boy afraid of being hurt. That shocked me. His image was so crude, so insensitive—always spouting all that shit about being a real man—but in his eyes I saw something else. He was a big ole marshmallow. Suddenly, I saw the Mike he hid from the world, and it made him so much more attractive.
My kisses took on a more urgent quality. I wanted to assure him it was okay and envelop him with my body. We fell onto the couch, still fully clothed, and after some heavy petting, he seemed to be attempting speech.
“Oh god.”
“I know, feels great.”
“Fuck great. It feels fanfuckingtastic.”
“That’s the word: fanfuckingtastic.”
“I love this. I mean, you know, this connection.”
“It’s great.”
“Fuck great,” we both said at the same time and then laughed, continued kissing, and started peeling each other’s clothes off (not an easy task when you are lying on a couch).
“Okay, okay, I’ve got this…”
“No, don’t put that there, my arm will get stuck…”
“Oh, okay. Ow!”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. It’s just… the zipper.”
“Yeow.”
We both laughed wildly and ended up rolling onto the floor, leaving the clothes behind. Luckily, the carpet was a soft ply the university had just put in. In this instance, I decided that the university really knew where to put their money.
“This is great.” I must admit I was genuinely shocked at how great it was.
“Great?”
“Great.”
“Fantastic?”
“Fantastic. Really fantastic. You’re fantastic.”
“No, you’re fantastic.”
“Ha—do we sound like lovesick cows or what?”
We both laughed.
“I know. Luckily, we both know this is just physical,” Mike said, and I was so relieved he saw what we were doing for what it was.
“Totally. It’s fantastic—no, phenomenal—and yet, just physical. Who could ask for more?”
“Not me. And, of course, we can keep doing this if we want.”
“Sure we can, because we know we won’t get involved.”
“Right, and we don’t have to worry about the future.”
“Exactly, because we know it’s just physical. Phenomenally physical.”
“Yeah.” Mike began kissing me more urgently. “Oh so phenomenally physical.”
And then he—how should I say this delicately—climaxed, and in a bit of a unique twist, yelled out “Go Cal” with an intensity that had me both laughing hysterically and worried that the campus security might come bursting through the door to find us lying naked on the brand new university carpet.
Mike looked at me, still smiling, and took me into his arms. “What?” he asked.
“Us.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Did you ever in a million…?”
“Never.”
“Me, either.”
“But it was good.”
“That it was.”
I smiled at him. That it was.
“You know, if we keep this up, we’ll probably burn out,” he said.
“Definitely. It’s just physical. We’ll definitely burn out.”
“As great as it is… and it is great.”
“It is great.” He got this devilish look in his eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just thinking about doing some exploring…”
“Exploring?”
“Yup.” He grinned and began kissing me again and, well, let’s just say that although I didn’t yell out “Go Cal,” I certainly understood the sentiment.
Chapter Fifteen
NICK
Music. Its importance in a relationship cannot be underestimated. Let me rephrase that. It’s importance in creating a mood for a relationship cannot be underestimated—at least for me—and tonight, especially, the mood had to be just right. Just right. Maggie was coming any minute, and I needed the mood to be just right.
I was flipping through my digital library. Piaf was playing, but I could sense it wasn’t right for what I was going for. Besides, I was beginning to feel that Piaf had betrayed me. She was singing “je ne regrette rien”—I regret nothing—and here I was regretting just about everything.
I regretted being so cavalier about how I had treated Maggie. I regretted telling her about Paris. I regretted that I was relying on others so much in our relationship. I regretted that I regretted so much and that these stupid obsessive voices were spinning in my head. Most of all, I regretted having to sit here in my apartment listening to Edith Piaf’s self-righteousness pouring out of the speakers. Shut up, Edith.
I flipped over to Milton Nascimiento. Light Brazilian jazz. Maybe the mood from the night at the Rio Dio would spill into the room. No, that wasn’t right either. I had a flash of her eyes burning brightly as we danced, then another flash of them being extinguished by my words. The hurt. I remembered the hurt reflected in her eyes. This music brought up memories of that vision. Shut up, Milton.
I went back to perusing my collection. I have a pretty substantial collection of music. Each of my studies had brought my attention to a different genre of music, and I loved and downloaded them all.
I realized I hadn’t looked at anything in the classical library from my music history days at Indiana University. Classica
l music can be incredibly romantic—and soothing. That’s what I needed. A little romance to show Maggie I cared, and a little soothing to quench her fears.
But what classical? Hmmmm. I felt like Ravel and Rachmaninov were a bit overdone in the romance department. Too obvious. I didn’t want obvious. I wanted lyrical. I wanted… Chopin. I put on a collection of his piano works. Yes. Lightness. Grace. This would be perfect.
Okay, what else? I don’t know. What do you mean what else? What else should I do to prepare for Maggie’s arrival is what else! Maggie’s arrival. She wasn’t even here yet, and the obsessive questions swirled about in my brain like vultures circling their unsuspecting prey. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like to feel that I was prey or that I was unsuspecting. I am not. I am a man, dammit. I am in control of my life and my feelings.
I mean, who is this woman that she makes me feel like this? Okay, so she’s beautiful and intelligent. She’s got wacky ideas about love—that’s what she’s got. And she’s rather possessive, don’t you think? So what if I’m going to Paris next year? Why can’t we enjoy what we have now? If she is too sensitive to let go and enjoy what we have, then maybe we shouldn’t get involved. Before I gave into the impulse to flip back over to Edith and exclaim to the world “je ne regrette rien,” there was a knock at the door.
She was here. Maggie was here. I looked around to see if everything looked all right. I suppose it looked all right. What if it didn’t look all right? What would she do? Would she leave without another glance and think that I am a slob or a grown man who can’t keep a decent apartment? What are you thinking? You really think a woman is going to leave because of the way your apartment—a temporary university apartment, I might add—looks? Stop obsessing and answer the door, you nimnal. Oh, please God, let this evening go well.
“Hello.”
She looked radiant. She reeked of beer and grease from the Kingfish and yet still looked radiant.
“Hi.”
We stood there on the doorstep for a moment while I lost myself in her gaze. Soon, I snapped out of it. “Come in. How are you?”
“I’m okay. You?”
“Okay.”
Now we stood in the hallway. Awkward! “Shall we sit down?”
“Oh.” I snapped out of it again. “Of course. Come in. Sit down.”
We sat down on the infamous couch from the night before. The dangerous scary couch that she had fled from in terror. Would the couch have the same effect tonight? Did she notice it was the same couch? SNAP OUT OF IT, BOY.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. What?”
“Whatever.”
“Okay.”
Whatever. What the hell did that mean? I had a bottle of pinot noir that I’d opened. Pinot’s romantic, don’t you think?
“How about a glass of pinot?”
She smiled at me. Yes. Good choice, man. She took the glass and sipped from it. I sat down beside her, and a horrible wrenching moment of silence pervaded the room.
“Pretty music. It’s very… soothing.”
Yes! She smiled at me. Good choice, man. “It’s Chopin.”
“Oh.”
The horrible wrenching silence again fell upon us. I was so afraid I’d say something stupid or something that would send her fleeing again that I said nothing. Nothing was about as awful as something stupid, but truthfully I couldn’t think of anything to say, period.
“Listen, Nick…”
“Yes?”
“I want to apologize for last night.”
“No need to apologize.”
“I shouldn’t have left without telling you why,” she said. “I’m just so scared of being hurt again. I know that sounds stupid—I’m 30 years old and still afraid of being hurt. Stupid, huh?”
“Nothing you could do would be stupid.”
“See, that’s just the problem. You are so sweet to me. I’m just not used to this.”
“To what?”
“To being loved.”
Maggie looked up at me and gave a weak smile. Oh, how I adored this woman.
“I do love you, Maggie. I know it sounds crazy. We haven’t known each other for very long, and we don’t know what will happen, but I want you to know that. And don’t think I say those words lightly because I don’t. No matter what happens, it will not change how I feel about you. If you walk out right now, I will go on loving you. That’s what feelings are, Maggie. They stay with us. They don’t die. The love you had for Bill hasn’t died. It shouldn’t. But it also shouldn’t stop you from letting me in.”
I paused a moment to brush a tear off her cheek.
“…and if I go to Paris, maybe we can…”
“No.” Maggie put a finger to my mouth to stop me. “Let’s not worry about the future. Let’s just enjoy what we have now, here, together.”
And then she kissed me. None of the women I had been with before prepared me for how I felt about this woman who was pressing her lips to mine. We moved to the bedroom, and with Chopin as our background music, were finally able to express all those feelings.
Everything that had gone before this moment came crashing through my mind: my first glimpse of Maggie at the dinner party, the specks of gold in her green eyes, the meetings at Café Strada, Sabrina, the walks on campus, the Kingfish, dancing at the Rio Dio, holding hands on the beach, the first kiss, the couch…
Later, as she slept, I held her in my arms and stared at her face. She looked so peaceful. I was overjoyed to finally see her like that. We slept the rest of the night lying in each other’s arms and enjoying the bond that had been created—a bond that I prayed would never be severed.
Chapter Sixteen
KATHY
Needless to say, the War Council was an unqualified success. We were inundated with business after word began to spread around campus about the Kingfish incident and all that followed. As I sat at Café Strada, I mused on our success and what it said about the current state of love in our society.
It was summer. The summers at Berkeley were very special to me. Not as many students so my workload was less, and I felt I had the campus to myself. Even Café Strada was less crowded, I noticed, as I sat waiting for Maggie to join me for our weekly latte. The place was still relatively full, just not the packed throngs that crowded it during the school year. And there were still any number of mini-dramas being played out around me as I sat sipping my latte.
Poor lost souls. Just look at them. So scared of each other. Scared to feel—to love.
“Hi, Dr. Fischer.”
I was so intent on the actions of the people milling about the café that I didn’t notice Kevin Reynolds walk up to my table. He looked miserable, his blue eyes peering out from behind his blond bangs and giving him more than ever the look of a sheepdog puppy.
“Kevin, how are you?”
“Okay. Interviewing in the city.”
“Post-graduation blues?”
“Life blues.”
I laughed. “Life blues? That’s heavy.”
He didn’t see the humor. “Yeah, you graduate, and everything feels great for about two weeks. And then it hits you: You’ve finished 22 years of your life and have no idea who you are or where you’re going. All those years I had an identity: I was a student. And then suddenly I’m not. I guess I just don’t know who I am anymore.”
Ah, the drama of youth. “Whatever it is you decide to be, Kevin, I’m sure you will do just fine.”
“Yeah, some start. Unemployed, unloved, uninspired. Oh well, see ya, Dr. Fischer.”
“Okay. Come see me anytime. Just because you’ve graduated doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
He smiled a weak smile. “Thanks.” And then he shuffled off to sit in a corner of the café.
Poor sweet Kevin. He still hadn’t told C
indy how he felt.
“Doc! Doc! I’m so glad I caught you.”
Before I could ponder more, Betsy, one of our more recent clients walked over. Betsy worked as an administrative assistant for the chair of the biology department and had heard about our services through one of the students. Unlike our typical clients, Betsy was middle-aged and had been married for 30 years. She hired us to help her husband, Herb, become less of a couch potato and pay her more attention.
“Doc, I just wanted to say thanks a heap for all you did for ole Herb and me.”
“You are most welcome.”
“It’s a miracle. That’s all I can say—it’s a miracle,” she said. “Herb has been my Mr. Romeo like never before. That is one super service you kids are running over there, worth every bit the $500 I paid. Worth every bit. I just can’t tell you how grand things are, just grand. Well, gotta run. Herb and I are, well, we’re having an afternoon rendezvous—so romantic, am I right?”
With that, Betsy bustled off with the glow of a smitten teenager and joined the balding, paunchy man sitting a few tables away.
Love. The great equalizer. I realized that it’s not that we are just discovering the trauma of love. The world has always worried about love, dissected it, tried to understand it. Let’s face it: Most of the great art from the beginning of time has come from trying to figure out this wondrous, mysterious, torturous emotion that decries logic at every turn.
What we have lost is the sense of community to support us through this wondrous, mysterious, torturous emotion. In many places, the extended family has disappeared, and instead we are left with a group of people more comfortable with their smart phones than with another human being. But our smart phones don’t support us through the trauma of love; they do not give us love. There is no mechanism better than another human being to comfort us or to help us through the precarious game of love.
Really, it’s not that the world has forgotten how to love; it’s that we have been forced to tackle love on our own—a scary proposition that offers no solace if things don’t work out. That’s why people are afraid to leave relationships that aren’t working, to test relationships that are tired, or begin a relationship that isn’t, in their minds, perfect—which is impossible due to the nature of human beings. We aren’t perfect people.
The War Council Page 12
