Thoughts While Having Sex

by Stephanie Lehmann

  "But these things can go overtime."

  "Don't worry. They hate overtime because they have to pay everyone up the wazoo."

  "But today it will go overtime! Today her one line will be in the last scene they shoot and something will go wrong so they have to stay late because God knows my play is opening tonight!"

  "Forget about it! She'll be here with plenty of time to spare."

  "I think I'm getting a headache."

  "You know what? You should go home and sleep off the day. You're just going to be a wreck till the first line is spoken."

  "As if I could sleep."

  "Take two Tylenol, you'll sleep."

  I groaned. I didn't like the idea of being with myself all day. Maybe getting comatose was the answer. I handed Carol my folded programs.

  "Relax," she said, "even if it is a total disaster, in the end, it won't matter to anyone but you."

  I walked back home intending on taking both my homeopathic sleep-aid and two Tylenol. When I got inside, I saw a message blinking on my machine.

  "Jennifer. Darling." It was Kelly. "It's around noon and I happen to be in midtown so I was wondering if you'd like to get together for lunch. I felt so badly about yesterday, and was hoping we could clear things up before the performance tonight. Because I'm really not jealous, and the situation is not what you think. Call me on my cell, okay?"

  Clear everything up? She wasn't jealous? What did she

  mean? I told myself not to call her, not to give in to the temptation. It wasn't worth the risk of making things worse. I should just take my nap, and see her later at the theater. I shouldn't even speak to her again until after the performance.

  But then it occurred to me: maybe her behavior was because of the fact that I didn't respond that night she tried to seduce me. After all, wasn't there a real attraction between the two of us? Even though she knew I was struggling with my inhibitions, she still might’ve taken it personally. But I had never acknowledged that possibility to her, or to me, because I was more comfortable centering our problems around Peter.

  Or maybe that's not what she meant at all.

  I listened to the message again. "Because I'm really not jealous, and the situation is not what you think."

  Maybe she wasn't feeling jealous, she was feeling rejected, and not by Peter, but by me. All her big talk about being attracted to Peter had been a cover for her attraction to me. After all, I was the one she'd gotten into her bed.

  Now I was dying of curiosity to know if this was the truth. Except I didn't trust her—or myself. It would be smarter to leave things alone until after they had a performance under their belt.

  Though she did want to speak to me. And if she was feeling rejected, it would hurt her feelings not to call.

  I looked at the container of Tylenol. I looked at the phone. I couldn't resist. I picked up and dialed.

  We met at an odd, kind of cool and trendy restaurant tucked away in the west 50s between Tenth

  and Eleventh Avenue near a recycling center for aluminum cans that employed a lot of homeless people. The old walk-ups on the street were so run-down, they might’ve been abandoned. Yet there, in the middle of the block, in the only renovated brownstone, was the pretty little yellow-trimmed facade of Amelia's Restaurant. On the weekends there was always a line of people waiting for a table. But since this was a Wednesday, we had no problem getting seated right away.

  We were shown to a table in the backyard. That was what was so great about this place. It was right in the middle of Hell's Kitchen New York City and you go to the backyard and you think you're in the country. Well, not exactly, but you can pretend. Sort of. Let's just say that there were some trees there. And tables under the trees. Not that I care that much about trees, but it was nice to sit among them occasionally. The sun shone down. Trails of ants marched on the ground. You don't get trails of ants very often in New York City, so there was something kind of neat about it in a countryesque way. You don't see many individual ants walking around in New York City either, come to think of it. Maybe I'm imagining the ants.

  In any case, it was nice.

  All you had to do was block out the fact that in the buildings on all sides of you were people living off welfare who would die to have your eggs benedict.

  But they were behind a tall wood fence through which you couldn't see. So it was sort of like they didn't exist. Sort of.

  We sat down at a small round table. The stressed-out waitresses rushed back and forth. There were too many people trying to enjoy this bucolic setting and not enough people to serve them. Our waitress, an angry looking woman with black hair cut in a page boy style, black lipstick, black sleeveless tunic and black leggings (for some reason I have a vivid memory of her) brought a crock of butter and mini loaf of fresh baked white bread to the table. We ordered the poached eggs with hollandaise sauce and started in on the bread and butter right away.

  “Peter told me he talked with you about the play last night,” I said.

  "Oh, yes. Everything is fine."

  "Good."

  I considered telling her about Rocco Shorenstein, but sometimes it's best not to tell an actor that someone important is going to be in the audience. It adds that extra tension they just don't need. Instead, I offered up the other big news. "Annie got a day's work on Law and Order."

  "A speaking part?"

  "One line. It’s happening today. Everyone assures me they'll be done by five."

  "How'd she get it?"

  "I think she knows the gaffer."

  "Oh, right, she mentioned that. Good for her."

  The waitress brought the food. I decided it would be nice not to talk about anything having to do with theater, television or movies. We savored those eggs. I savor them now in my memory—each precious little bite, with just the right ratio of yolk and white, dipped in that evil, tasty buttery lemony sauce. Not to mention those crisp yet tender hash brown potatoes. All washed down with good strong coffee with half-and-half.

  Yes, it was a beautiful, sunny day. Nothing could be more perfect. The world was a wonderful place.

  "So I'm sorry," I found myself apologizing, "if I was out of line yesterday."

  "Don't be ridiculous, you're nervous about your play."

  "It's silly when all this other stuff starts interfering."

  "Don't worry about it."

  "I hate to think I might’ve upset you."

  "Not at all."

  "Because you said something in your message about the situation not being what I thought."

  "I decided I should be straightforward with you. Because I care about you, Jennifer."

  I nodded and tried to emanate equanimity.

  “I know I can be difficult,” she said, taking a sip of coffee.

  “That’s okay,” I said, taking a sip of mine. “But I'm unclear on what you're being straightforward about."

  "I don’t want you to think I’m being a bitch."

  "Does it have something to do with that night?"

  "Which night?"

  "When I stayed over at your apartment. And you..."

  I couldn't say it.

  "And I what?"

  "You know."

  "Made you spaghetti?"

  "Tried to have sex with me. And I turned you down."

  "What are you saying exactly?"

  "You haven't exactly been the same to me since."

  She laughed. "Sex doesn't have to be some big emotional event, honey. It can just be two people having a good time together."

  "And I couldn't have a good time with you."

  "You can't have a good time with anyone. That's your problem. And it's about time you realized that the world isn't going to wait around forever for you to realize you're as horny as the rest of us."

  Horny. I hated that word. Made me think of a rhinoceros horn protruding out of a man's crotch. "Fine, so what is it you wanted to tell me?"

  "Peter and I made love last night."

  I hate food that has sun on i
t. Sweating food. Food that sweats grease. That's why I hate picnics. I always lose my appetite at picnics, especially barbecues. How do people eat in the heat? I also hate touching people in the heat. I don't know how people have sex without air conditioning when it's hot. In fact, I don't know how people from warm climates have managed to reproduce. Those populations should be extinct.

  "Really," I said. "How was it?"

  "Delicious."

  "That's nice."

  I looked down at the remains on my plate. A puddle of egg yolk glistened, mocking me for thinking that I was the center of the world. Hah! Forget it. As usual I was the onlooker, the side of hash browns, with no one to blame but myself. Peter had wanted me, and I'd practically pushed him out of my bed and into hers, so I had no right to feel jealous or possessive.

  "You don't mind, do you?" she asked. "You were never really into him, right?"

  "No, I’m happy for you."

  "Well," she said, "I certainly enjoyed it. God knows I was overdue for a good fuck."

  My interest in the food had vanished by this point, but I had to eat, for show, so I finished off my potatoes. Tragic when you think of the calories involved.

  A waitress set down two big heavy plates of waffles on the table next to us. How could people consume those gigantic things? Puddles of greasy butter melted into the glistening maple syrup. A fly flitted around the dish. Disgusting. He actually slept with her. How could he do that? After everything he'd said about not being attracted to her. I flashed onto what he told me that morning. "I said what I had to say." Maybe what he really meant was he did what he had to do.

  "Did you sleep with Peter," I asked, "before or after you promised him you weren't going to fuck up my play?"

  "Believe me. No bargain was struck. He was, like the slogan they use for those welfare people who clean the streets, READY WILLING and ABLE."

  "Aren't you into the social services."

  "Are you jealous?"

  I looked at her. Took a sip of coffee. "I told you. I'm not interested in him like that."

  "Maybe you're interested in me. Not that it makes any difference who you're interested in, because you're too scared to do anything about it."

  If I had just taken those two Tylenol along with my homeopathic sleep-aid and drifted off into some nice, soothing sleep, I could've gone through the day in blissful ignorance. Instead I had a throbbing headache, and I really did need Tylenol but didn't have any on me. "You know what? I think I should go."

  "I'll go with you. I should hit the gym and take a nice bubble bath so I'll be all fresh for tonight."

  So I let Kelly walk me back to my apartment. One thing was for sure. She was in a good mood now. All of her bad mood from the past week had vanished.

  "Oh, by the way," she said, "did you know? Rocco Shorenstein is coming to tonight's performance. Isn't that amazing?"

  “Yeah.” So much for not telling her so she wouldn't be nervous. Obviously Peter had called her that morning and told her, and they'd probably celebrated with some hot phone sex. "It's too bad," I added bitterly, "we've never gone through the whole play once without stopping."

  "Don't worry. It'll give us that much more energy because we're all going to be so psyched. It's going to be great, you'll see."

  I walked up the stairs to my apartment and took those two Tylenol. Then I lay down and congratulated myself. This was what I had wanted, right? To keep my actress happy. Well, she was happy. Happy as a clam. Added bonus—it was at my expense. Everything was in place for opening night.

  I pulled my covers up around me and tried to relax into a deep sleep. My eyes kept popping open as if there were springs on my lids. And my body, it was so tense. My back, my jaw, my shoulders, my legs. I couldn't relax. I tried focusing on every part of my body and using every zen, yoga relaxation technique I knew but nothing helped. I got up.

  I stood in the middle of the room. Looked around my room. Lamp. Books. Messy desk. Swivel chair. Computer. Bureau with clothes piled on top of it because they didn't fit in the drawers. Stuffed animals from childhood, old box of chocolates sent from my mother last Valentine's Day with a few stale uneaten cream-filled ones left in the box that I couldn't bring myself to throw out.

  I went to the mirror and looked at myself. That took about five seconds.

  I looked at the clock. Still sixty seconds times sixty minutes times seven hours left until "curtain" (there wasn't actually a curtain) and I had to spend it all with my self.

  I decided the only thing to do was take a walk. That's something Manhattan is always good for, especially if the weather is good. I plotted a route in my mind: walk uptown on Columbus Avenue, through Central Park to the East Side, come back down Fifth Avenue, go by the Plaza and Tiffany and Saks and the Main Library and then, maybe on 34th Street or 23rd Street I could just head into a movie theater and see anything, anything at all, and then head west to the theater. That's what I was going to do.

  I put on my favorite pair of black rayon pants and my lilac silk knit top (on sale at Century 21 for seventy percent off) in case I didn't make it back to my apartment before getting to the theater for the performance.

  Once I got outside, I flew up the streets in a trance. I didn't like my thoughts, but they kept intruding on my brain. He slept with her; he slept with her; he slept with her. And I'd practically engineered the whole thing, but that didn't mean he had to go along with it. Didn't he know I didn't mean to push him away? Why didn't he give me another chance? Why give up so quickly? Except, maybe I would've done the exact same thing the second time around. Or maybe he'd lost interest, or never really had any. Maybe he’d only made a move on me first because Kelly had intimidated him. Or he'd just felt sorry for me—could tell I was attracted to him, and kissed me as a favor. "I never get involved with flighty actresses," he’d said. Yeah, right. Well if he was going to hurt me, then I would hurt him back. I didn't know how, but a way would be found. Except I didn't want to hurt him. More likely I’d hurt myself, whizzing down the streets, lucky not to get hit by a car.

  Making my way up Columbus Avenue, I passed a blur of shops and restaurants, crossed over on 86th Street to the park, wound my way around the bottom of the reservoir staying out of the way of joggers and dog walkers, and emerged from the park on Fifth Avenue near the Metropolitan Museum. Going inside might take my mind off myself, but art and mummies seemed beside the point. I kept going down Fifth Avenue, zigzagged over to Madison and a flurry of designer clothing stores, then headed over to Park Avenue past towering old pre-war apartment buildings with bored doormen standing guard. Then I made my way farther east to Lexington Avenue, Hunter College, Bloomingdale's, considered going in, but perfume and clothing seemed beside the point. Veered back towards Central Park and Fifth Avenue. Bergdorf’s, Rockefeller Center, Saks, down to 42nd Street. The Main Library, Lord & Taylor, 34th Street. Too many people. Finally, a movie theater. I turned in and bought a ticket to a Bruce Willis movie. Not because I wanted to see it, but because it was there.

  While sitting through the movie, I barely listened to the plot. At one point I just got up, not because it was over, not because I needed to go to the bathroom or buy popcorn. The thought just occurred to me to stand up and start walking again, so I did. (Plus the movie wasn't any good.) So I left and walked some more, and went in and out of a stationery store and a deli and a flower shop.

  Flowers.

  Traditional to bring flowers to the actresses on opening night. Well, maybe for Annie, but was she even going to bother to make it tonight? And forget Kelly. Peter could buy her fucking flowers. I continued on to the theater.

  It was just past seven o'clock. The actors had been called for seven. They would be in the dressing room getting ready. I didn't want to have to face Kelly (or Peter) but there was no way around it and I didn't know where else to go. After hesitating a moment in front of the building, I went in through the glass doors to the elevator. As soon as the doors of the elevator opened up to the lobby of the theater, I was
back in the world.

  Carol was there with Beth, an NYU acting student/intern helping out with the box office. She was showing Beth how to deal with the cash drawer and the reservation list.

  "Hi you guys," I said.

  Carol looked up. "Hi, how are ya?"

  "Fine."

  "Nervous?"

  One thing I always feel when watching my own play performed: at least I'm not an actress. No matter how badly it goes, at least I don't have to humiliate myself in front of all those people. Just sit in the last row, or the lobby, or the lighting booth, or the dressing room backstage, and let it happen. "Could be worse. At least I'm not an actress and I don't have to go up on stage."

  "Isn't it hard watching other people saying your lines?"

  "I'm grateful to them for doing it, so I don't have to."

  "It would drive me crazy," Beth said. "But don't worry," she added with a smile. "I'm sure they're going to do an awesome job and your play is going to be a total success."

  I knew that Beth, who was cute in a chipmunky way, meant well. “Thanks.” But she was really annoying me with her positive outlook.

  "Peter wants to talk with you," Carol mentioned in her dependably morose voice. "He's in the office."

  On my way there, I allowed myself an indulgence of hopefulness. Maybe he was going to confess his transgressions and beg my forgiveness. He gave in to her in a moment of weakness. She seduced him. He was feeling vulnerable. Rejected by me. Regretted it as soon as it happened. Could I forgive him? Would I? Never! Or not until later that night, at least.

  I knocked on the door of the office and Peter called me in. He was eating a sandwich with avocado and sprouts in it. I hated interrupting his eating.

  "Hi," I said. You slept with her, I thought.

  "Hi."

  I was hoping he would have a guilty look on his face, but it was more like distress. "Annie called," he said. "They haven't gotten to her scene yet."

  "You're kidding."

  "It looks like she may not make it."