Love Creeps

Four

In the car ride to the inn, Saturday morning, Lynn sat on the right edge of the passenger seat, as far from Roland as she could. She pressed herself against the door and looked out the window, disgusted and silent.

“You’re not acting like a stalker,” he said.

“I’m gathering my strength,” she replied, not taking her eyes off the scenery while trying to want him.

“Boy, if you’re so un-perky with me, I wonder what you’ll be like during your weekend with your own stalker.”

She became a shade paler. “Please let’s not talk about him.”

She tried to distract herself by meditating. She closed her eyes and in her mind focused on a large black dot — a giant period. And she tried to want. She opened herself up to desire, to desiring Roland, specifically. She tried to like the sound of his voice as he spoke to her. She waited for him to do something appealing. It seemed hopeless. Tears ran down her cheeks. Not wanting to draw attention to them, she didn’t wipe them away. But soon Roland said, “Oh shit, what have I gotten myself into? A crying stalker.” He sighed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing at all. Please don’t mind me.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t cry and say ‘please don’t mind me.’ It’s rude.”

“I was just meditating, and sometimes when I meditate my eyes tear.”

Suddenly, she opened her bag and said, “I got you a present.” She took out the cologne she had bought for him.

“Oh no,” he groaned. “You’re not going to shower me with gifts during the whole weekend, are you?”

“This is the only one I got.” She opened the bottle and sprayed some on him.

A wave of nausea swept over her. “Pull over!” she screamed.

He did. She stumbled out of the car but was not able to throw up. She took deep breaths of fresh air and tried to calm herself.

Finally, she got back in the car. Roland had rolled down all the windows, for her sake. “I don’t think it smells so bad,” he said.

He started dialing a number on his cell phone, telling Lynn, “I have to call the hotel manager and let him know we’re running late. He wanted the exact time we’d be arriving; otherwise, he said he might not be there to let us in.”

Roland got the manager on the phone and told him they’d be there in an hour.

Lynn pondered the fact that Patricia thought Roland could turn out to be the man of Lynn’s life. She smiled to herself when she recalled having told Patricia about her secret name.

Lynn, herself, didn’t really believe the story, but she did find it romantic.

When Lynn was about six years old, she was at the birthday party of a friend of hers, on Long Island, whose wealthy family had the luxury of hiring a fairy, Miss Tuttle, to entertain.

“Are you real?” Lynn asked the fairy.

“No. I’m a fairy. Fairies are not as real as people.”

“I mean are you a real fairy?” Lynn said, impatiently. “Can you prove to me that you’re a real fairy?”

“How?”

“I don’t know. You’re the fairy. You should know how to prove it.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you something a real person would never tell you. Think of a secret name for yourself. This will be your real name. And one day, your Prince Charming will come along, and you will recognize him, because you’ll hear him say your secret, real name.”

“What’s my secret real name?” Lynn asked.

“You have to decide for yourself. And it must be a name you’ve never heard before, a name you make up. And you must never say it to anyone.”

“Can it be beautiful?”

“Yes.”

Lynn thought about it for a while, and said, “Can it be Slittonia?”

“No,” Miss Tuttle the fairy said, thinking it sounded vaguely pornographic. She didn’t want to be accused of having a bad influence.

“Why not?”

“Because you just said it to me. I told you that you could not say it to anyone. Including me. In fact, never say it out loud, even to yourself, not even in a whisper. Only in your mind.”

So Lynn chose “Airiella,” in her mind.

It was only when Lynn got older that she realized Miss Tuttle the fairy must have been down on men, down on love, and that she had given Lynn a secret message, which was: there is no Prince Charming; Prince Charmings are as unreal as fairies.

For where, when, and how would Lynn come across a man who would, within her earshot, utter her secret name — a name she had made up when she was six?

Lynn later learned that Miss Tuttle, the grim fairy, also worked in the neighboring town of Cross as a hairdresser.

When Lynn and Roland entered the tiny lobby of the inn, no one was there. On the front desk were two keys, with a note that said, “For Roland Dupont and guest: In case I’m not back, you can go straight to your rooms. — Max the manager.”

They went up. Lynn took the key to room six, and Roland the key to room seven. The door to room six did not have a number on it the way the other doors did, but since it was the only door between rooms five and seven, Lynn assumed it to be the right one.

As she pressed her key against the keyhole, the door gently swung open on its own.

Inside the room were two people having sex and talking about the weather. They did not notice Lynn right off, which was how she got to hear some of their talk.

The woman was lying on her back, on a desk, and the man was standing between her legs, thrusting. The man saw Lynn first and stopped. He turned red quickly, batted his eyes, but apart from that, was frozen. Lynn backed out, stammering.

The man pulled out of the woman and gushed with apologies. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Are you my new guests?”

Roland had joined Lynn in the doorway, and they were both speechless as the man grabbed his shirt off the floor and wrapped it around his waist. The naked woman had gotten off the desk and was crouching behind it, hiding.

“I’m really sorry,” the man said to Lynn and Roland, “this is so excruciatingly, exquisitely embarrassing. But the fact is, you made a mistake. The number on your key is six. This is room eight.”

“Room eight? But it’s between five and seven! Where’s room six?” Lynn said.

“Farther down the hall. The rooms aren’t in order. This is only an inn,” the man said.

“Who are you?” Roland asked.

“I’m Max, the manager. Why don’t you go to your rooms and make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll be with you after I wash up.”

He found them in their rooms a few minutes later. “I’m glad you’re here. Finally, some interesting people to rescue me! I have not been blessed by the guests here recently. They’re so bourgeois.”

Their eyes were focused on his codpiece. He took Lynn’s hand, kissed it, said, “Charmed,” and bowed low, his shirt ruffles sweeping the floor.

Lynn scrutinized him. He seemed to be in his late twenties. He was taller than Roland. He had better posture, was better-looking, and had long hair — a thing Lynn liked on men. And yet, somehow, through dress, mannerisms, and conversation, he was not as appealing as Roland, who was not that appealing himself.

“By the way, a Mr. Simon Peach called for you. He asked that you call him back,” Max said to Roland. He then turned around and walked out, saying, “If you need anything, just think my name. I have ESP.”

Simon Peach was Alan’s code name. He had told Roland that the reason he’d be using a code name was that he wanted to reserve the right to call Roland at the inn as often as he liked without embarrassing himself in Lynn’s eyes or having her suspect he was obsessive, or at least more obsessive than had already been revealed by his daily stalking.

Roland had promised Alan he’d call him as soon as they arrived at the hotel, but seeing Max naked had reminded Roland of Alan’s naked photo, and now he no longer felt like calling him. After settling into their rooms, he and Lynn agreed to go for a walk. He would call Alan later.

Just as they were walking out their doors, a little man appeared saying he wanted to speak with them. They all three went into Roland’s room.

“I’m Charles, the assistant manager, and I just wanted to apologize for what happened earlier when you unfortunately walked in on the manager having sex.”

“Yeah, that was unfortunate,” Roland said.

“It was no accident. It turns Max on tremendously to have people walk in on him. He absolutely relishes feeling embarrassed. He’s sort of an exhibitionist. When he gets caught, he turns very red, really enjoying the sensation. The whole thing is painstakingly orchestrated. He doesn’t allow himself to indulge in this favorite pleasure of his very often. It could be bad for business.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Lynn asked.

“Because that’s part of his pleasure, having it revealed to his guests, in case they hadn’t figured it out on their own.”

“But isn’t he going to feel awkward dealing with us now?”

“No, he would love it if he did feel awkward, but embarrassment fades very quickly in him. That’s why he treasures it so much. He experiences it so fleetingly.”

“He’s jaded?” Lynn asked.

“And calloused. And blasé,” the little man said. “He has often described to me the pleasure he gets from embarrassment. It’s a physical sensation, almost like being on drugs. As his face becomes red, he feels the blood shooting up, prickling the roots of his hair. He feels his pores opening. A warmth invades him. It’s a rush. His aches and pains go away momentarily. And he perceives himself as more attractive, both physically and personality-wise. He finds embarrassed people very, very charming. He envies them. He thinks that their embarrassment reveals a kind of purity and innocence and often even goodness.”

“What if we feel dirty now?” Roland said. “And used? And sexually molested, sexually harassed? What if we sue him?”

“But I could be crazy. Everything I just said could be a lie. Don’t you think we’ve already arranged some evidence to attest to my insanity?” Charles said, and left.

Roland and Lynn debated whether they should stay on at this inn, but they felt too lazy to find another one. They went to the garden and looked at the pool, then they went on their walk.

They walked in silence down a sweet little dirt road. Roland dropped a penny.

Since they had nothing to say to each other, Lynn decided to ask him questions about her stalker, Alan. She asked him what type of guy he was. In the process of describing him, Roland revealed that Alan was from Long Island.

“So am I. Do you know what town?” Lynn asked.

“Of course not.”

Tired of the topic, Roland asked, “What is it that you like about me?”

This was a hard question for Lynn, who did not like anything about Roland.

She was saved from having to make up too many lies by a hare, running across the road. She took a few steps after it, exclaiming in a high voice, “Ooh, a rabbit!”

Roland was disgusted that she would display her stalking tendencies, even here in nature, and asked her to restrain herself. “Do you absolutely have to follow things?” he added.

She detected the revulsion in his tone, and this awakened an interesting feeling in her. She wasn’t sure what the feeling was. Perhaps a twinge of excitement. She pounced on it.

“Aren’t you a little bit flattered that I’m interested in you?” she asked.

“No. Not the least bit.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t find you appealing.”

“Really?” she said. She had been so preoccupied by her own lack of attraction to him that she had forgotten that he was supposedly not attracted to her, either, and was forcing himself to be here this weekend as a favor to his friend Alan. He seemed more interesting now. She stared at his profile as they walked. “Are you sure, or are you just saying that?”

He looked at her, perplexed. “I’m sure. I could never, in a million years, be interested in you romantically. This weekend is a complete waste of time, I guarantee you.”

She was scrutinizing him, as well as her feelings for him, and was on the lookout for any further shift.

“Can you be more specific?” she asked. “List the ways. And tell me how much.”

“What?”

“The ways in which I don’t do it for you. And just how much that’s the case.”

“Why? Are you a masochist?”

Good question. She would have to think about that. In the meantime, she said, “I don’t think so. Just curious. Come on, tell me.”

“Well, first of all, you stalk me.”

“That doesn’t count. I assume there are real reasons why you could never, ever be interested in me, even if I never stalked you.”

He looked at her. “Yeah, sure.”

“And what are they?”

“I can’t explain it. You repulse me, that’s it, in brief.”

“Is there anything about me that doesn’t repulse you?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

He laughed, which for him was something between a sneeze and convulsion, and said, as if only just realizing it himself, “No, actually.” After a moment, he added, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re not, actually, bad-looking.”

“I assume you wouldn’t be stalking me if you found me bad-looking.”

Lynn fell into a long silence while they walked, and Roland did not break it. Lynn thought she detected twinges of her own desire. And yet she barely dared hope this could be true. It was just that it was so solid, his disgust. So refreshing and exhilarating. He began saying banalities about the scenery. It didn’t matter how banal he was — he didn’t want her and that mattered a lot. And what was more, he made it sound like there was nothing she could do about it.

“You look smug,” he said.

She smiled broadly. How would she react if he made a pass at her, she wondered? But of course, there was no way he’d do that as long as he thought she was his stalker. She’d have to set him straight on that one, at some point. Or maybe not. Suddenly, inexplicably, she no longer felt the twinge of excitement. She looked at him. He had lost the slight appeal he had momentarily gained.

Back in the city, the thought of Roland and Lynn spending this time together was making Alan sick. Alan was grateful that Roland had agreed to talk to Lynn on his behalf and arranged this weekend exchange, but why wasn’t Roland calling him as he had promised?

He tried to keep busy, went down the seventeen flights of his building verifying that all the stairwell doors were shut and went to a health food store to get some antistress herbs that might help him endure the weekend.

Lynn and Roland had lunch in the inn dining room. They were curious about the other guests. As they waited for menus, they glanced around and saw a man and a woman sitting together at a table, but could not detect any signs of unusually pronounced bourgeoisie or anything else out of the ordinary about them. Nevertheless, they could not help feeling flattered that Max had thought they were better than that couple, even if he was a madman, even if he was lying. It was always hard not to feel flattered by compliments, and doubly so if they involved being raised above other people, and triply so if the reason for the elevation was not at all apparent.

There were no menus. Max had no staff. He cooked mushroom omelettes for the diners.

He unexpectedly joined Lynn and Roland at their table. Stretching out in a chair, an elbow on the table, he asked, “So, who are you people, anyway?”

“Oh, just relaxing for the weekend,” Roland answered.

Max leaned over and put his hands on both their shoulders. He said, “Children, are you lovebirds?”

“No,” Roland said.

“I can rectify that. If you would like me to.”

“Uh, we’ll think about it,” Lynn said.

“I have methods and instruments that can induce the shift, in case you change your minds. So, what’s your connection?” Max asked, wiggling his finger between the two of them. “Are you relatives? Blind date?”

“No,” Roland said. Lynn noticed him looking down modestly.

“Is she your secretary, your nurse?” Max asked.

Annoyed by his sexism, Lynn replied, “I’m his stalker. He kindly agreed to give me a chance.”

“Really?” Max said. “I’m a scion. I think it’s good to be blunt that way.”

They just stared at him.

He went on. “My parents were friends of the Kennedys and Truman Capote. I grew up in splendor, but now work in this hellhole.”

“Why?” Lynn asked.

“Oh, because my parents and I aren’t getting along. It’s one of those rich-family fights. You know, the kind that happens in dynasties.”

Just then, Max was called away from the table by the other couple.

“This is the weekend from hell,” Roland said, concentrating on his food.

“What do you mean?”

Roland chose his words carefully. “I am in the company of people I can barely tolerate.”

“You mean him and me?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Do I really turn you off that much?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. She felt herself melting a little, and was suddenly reminded of the assistant manager’s description of the pleasure Max got from feeling embarrassed. She felt the same way, her pores opening, a warmth invading her, her aches and pains leaving her momentarily. What else could this be but serious masochism? She knew she’d have to ask herself why she was finding rejection appealing and try to remember the last time she’d been rejected.

She said softly, “I have to confess something.”

“What?”

“I’m not a stalker. I was forcing myself to stalk you.”

“Good,” he said, clearly not believing her. “Then, we can end this weekend right now and go home.”

“No, it’s not that simple. I no longer feel desire for anything or anyone, and so I picked you to practice on. I want to want you.”

He sighed and put his napkin next to his plate. He said he was going to his room to rest.

Alan was in a state of awful anxiety. Roland still hadn’t called. He tried not to think about it by busying himself with the preparations for his own weekend with Lynn. He looked for his lost driver’s license, because he didn’t want to seem unmanly in Lynn’s eyes by asking her to drive. After searching for it for twenty minutes, he figured he had more important worries. He planned the weekend in great detail. He made a list of topics of conversation. He went shopping for attractive clothes. He researched hairdressers. He went to the gym.

But it all wasn’t enough. He would not deserve her if he didn’t do more to make up for his deficiencies. Go to more trouble, he told himself, but he wasn’t sure there was any more trouble available.

Later, Roland suggested to Lynn that they go for another walk. She brought along some bread to feed the squirrels. The air was pleasantly cool at five-thirty. Their voices seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet of the country.

Lynn wore a cream shirt and brown suede skirt. She was a becoming woman, Roland thought. It didn’t make sense that she would be stalking him, not that he was not becoming himself, or that becoming women didn’t stalk, but there was just something that didn’t fit.

He said, “You were putting me on, right, when you said you were forcing yourself to stalk me?”

“I so wish I was,” Lynn said. “But no. Stalking you is an ordeal. I don’t know how Alan manages to stalk me with so much energy.”

“Listen, I have no idea if what you’re saying is true, but it’s certainly quirky. You know, I could have liked you if we had met some other way.”

“I wish I could say the same to you, but I’m sorry, there’s no manner in which we could have met that would have made me like you.” After a pause, she added, “You, or anyone, of course. I don’t always add that, because it gets wordy.”

Softly, he said, “I think you should add it, even if it gets wordy.”

“Oh, okay.”

They came upon a bench and sat down. Lynn was on the lookout for squirrels.

Out of the bushes appeared a little pointy face. A raccoon. She threw bread at the raccoon, not quite far enough, in order to lure the animal closer. It worked.

“You should not feed this animal. It’s vermin,” Roland said.

“I strongly disagree.” Lynn kept feeding it, bringing it closer.

“You’re not even trying to like me. Why did you bother coming this weekend?”

“I am trying,” she said.

Roland used another tactic. “I’m hungry. I want to eat your bread. Please give it to me.”

“I don’t have much left.”

“Will you choose to give your bread to an animal rather than to a hungry man?”

“Yes.”

Lynn continued feeding the raccoon. How much more she enjoyed taming than stalking. Perhaps the world was divided into two kinds of people: the tamers and the stalkers. She was clearly a tamer. Taming was a more evolved activity. Stalking was a more animalistic activity. Like eating. Like fucking.

“It might have rabies,” Roland said, looking at the raccoon, who was a foot from Lynn’s leg. “You better be careful.”

By then the raccoon was eating out of Lynn’s hand. It gave her a strange feeling of sadness that this was the level at which things could feel right and good. Roland better not move a hair and ruin this one sweet moment for her, or she would kill him.

He did not.

And the raccoon bit her.

She yanked her hand away, looking at the animal with shock as it ran into the bushes. He had bitten her out of the blue, the brute.

“Is it bleeding?” Roland asked.

“Yes.”

As they walked back to the hotel to find the manager, Roland furtively dropped a button and said, “I told you that you should have fed me the bread. I wouldn’t have bitten you.”

“There has been one instance,” Max said, “in these parts, of someone catching rabies from a raccoon. The only way you can tell if someone has it is to do an autopsy. If you’re not sure, you have to get six shots over the course of a month. Was the raccoon aggressive? Or strangely forward? Did it approach you without fear? Sort of like … oh, I don’t know … a stalker?”

“No, not without fear. It took a while for it to eat out of my hand.”

“That’s a good sign. But I still think you should see a doctor on Monday. Symptoms don’t often appear before two weeks, but if you wait until they do appear, there’s no treatment, you die.”

“What are the symptoms?” Roland asked.

“Irritability, headaches, fever, spasms of the throat muscles, and, eventually, convulsions and delirium. The girl who died of rabies had everything going for her. It’s a very painful death. And, obviously, it’s contagious.” Max looked at Lynn. “If you start acting strangely, I will have to put you down.”

“You mean kill me?” Lynn said.

“If I see no alternative.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Just don’t act strangely.”

All three stared at each other for a few seconds. Abruptly, Max said to Roland, “Simon Peach called for you again. He wondered if you had gotten his first message.”

Lynn had an introspective, preoccupied look on her face during dinner. She was trying to detect rabid feelings in herself, feelings of aggressiveness. She worried that she might be salivating more than usual. And she felt strangely drawn to her knife.

She complained of these things to Roland, who tried to get her mind off them. To get one’s mind off a worry, there’s nothing like replacing it by another worry. So Roland talked to her about her desire for nothing and how unpleasant it must have been and must still be, and soon she was no longer complaining about strange attractions to knives.

Max had prepared them vegetable lasagna. He joined them for a few minutes, addressing Roland while looking at Lynn. “Earlier she mentioned being your stalker. I know it’s probably wrong of me, but in my mind I tend to equate stalker with whore.”

Lynn and Roland looked at Max, thinking he was completely insane.

Roland came to Lynn’s defense. “Lynn stalks me not because she desires me, but because she doesn’t.”

“Whatever,” Max said, nodding, and looked at Lynn. “I guess the reason I equate female stalkers with whores is that I assume they’re desperate to have sex. So at some point if I happen to say to you, ‘Do you want to sit on my cock?” please don’t take it personally. I would say that to any female stalker who’s not one of my own stalkers. Oh, and as you may have noticed, I wear a codpiece, which shouldn’t frighten you. It’s true I have a larger penis than most men, particularly in these parts, but it’s not quite as big as the codpiece might lead you to believe.”

“Is this some sort of show you put on to entertain your guests?” Roland asked.

“Now I’m offended.”

“You’re offended!”

Max nodded. No one spoke, so Max got up, and said, “It’s okay, I’ll get over it.” He walked away.

Lynn wondered if her annoyance at Max was a sign of rabies or if a normal, healthy, nonrabid woman could have become equally annoyed.

Later, she mused to Roland, “Does the madness take hold of you suddenly or gradually? I mean, do you have time to realize what’s happening?”

After dinner, they said good night and retired to their separate rooms. Roland dialed Alan, who picked up instantly.

“You didn’t call me!” Alan wailed, his voice tinged with hysteria.

“I’m sorry, I was thinking about it all day,” Roland said.

“Have you been unattractive?” Alan asked.

“I think so.”

“Did you wear that hideous shirt you showed me?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh, please wear it. Have you been offensive?”

“Uh, I think so.”

“Like what? What did you say?”

“Um, well, when we took a walk, I criticized her for running after a hare. I told her to repress her stalking instincts.”

“Ah! That’s good. She ran after a hare? That’s cute!”

“Yeah.”

“What do you mean, ‘Yeah’?”

“I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You are?”

“Yes. What are you getting at?”

“You’re agreeing with me that Lynn is cute to run after a hare.”

“I guess I was, but I misspoke. I don’t really think it’s cute. It was just an automatic response.”

“You don’t really think it’s cute. That’s still more positive than how you felt about her before. You found her repulsive, before.”

“You’re being nitpicky.”

“Are you falling for her?”

“No!” Roland said, emphatically and indignantly, which made Alan feel better.

“I wish I was in your shoes, man. I wish I was with her right now,” Alan said.

They hung up, and Roland went to bed.

All through breakfast, Roland seemed sullen. Lynn didn’t inquire about it. She had her own preoccupations. At the end of the meal Roland suddenly broke the silence with, “I’ll help you to like me. We can both work toward that goal. Tell me what to do, I’ll do it. What do you like in guys?”

Lynn turned her gaze out the dining room window. After a few seconds, she said, “I think we should hang out with the hotel manager.”

“Max? Why?”

“Because you seem more appealing to me when he’s nearby.”

Roland frowned. “You mean by comparison?”

“Yes. You’re enhanced by him.” She said this because it was partly true, but also because she didn’t want Roland to know the main quality that made him more appealing was his distaste for her.

They found Max and invited him to have tea and a snack with them in the sitting room. He made the tea, brought it to them with cookies, and seemed glad for their company. They were about to ask him questions in order to bring out his repulsiveness, but when they heard the words that came out of his mouth, they knew it would not be necessary.

Turning to Lynn, he said, “I don’t think you’ll ever see a woman who’s properly fucked going around stalking anyone. Which leads me to my next thought, which might be advantageous to the both of us. You could service the men who stay at this hotel, and they would pay a moderate fee, which we would split. It’s not a bad deal for you, since you wouldn’t be getting just money, but sex, for free. The men wouldn’t have to know that they were servicing you. Well, think about it.” He turned to Roland and said, “I’m sure that with a little urging she’ll accommodate any man in the hotel. Just a gentle prodding and poking.”

Lynn glanced at Roland. He did seem improved by comparison. They smiled at each other with complicity. His smile looked like a squint.

The tea came to an end, and Roland believed he and Lynn had obtained what they had sought: Roland’s increased attractiveness in Lynn’s eyes. They quietly climbed the stairs to Lynn’s room with this treasure. They were about to settle down and examine it, when Lynn broke the news to him that it was not there. It had, she said, vanished as soon as the manager had left their presence.

Roland was distressed. There had to be another solution. “What if we had a photograph of the manager, which you could glance at repeatedly while you and I talked?”

She remained silent.

“Or you could have photos of a lot of despicable people, and line them up beside me while we have a conversation,” he said.

She liked him more, at that moment, than she ever had so far. It didn’t quite make sense, though, for he was not exactly expressing his disgust in her. Nevertheless, she decided to follow her instinct. “Could you make more comments along those lines?” she said.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But if you think of something similar, say it. It was endearing and generous and pathetic.”

“Okay. I have to remember that. Endearing, generous, and pathetic.”

“You’re doing it again,” Lynn said, puzzled.

“Doing what?”

“Being attractive. That’s very likable, what you just did.”

“You mean trying to remember the words?”

“And that, too!”

“What?”

“What you just said. When you said, ‘You mean trying to remember the words?’”

“Did you say it was attractive?”

“And that, too, kind of!”

“DO YOU MEAN I’M BEING ATTRACTIVE?”

“You are.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” She nodded.

They both felt sheepish.

“We may not need the photographs after all,” he said.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

She paused. “I hope this won’t be too much of a … blow, but I’m afraid you’ve lost it. Or I’ve lost it. I don’t see it anymore.”

He blinked a few times. “That’s okay. Maybe it’ll come back.”

“It has. I think.”

He smiled, not with excitement this time, but with something almost like sadness. He achieved that smile by wrinkling his nose.

“Yes, it has,” she said again, more firmly. “I see it.”

“I don’t dare move. I don’t dare speak. I don’t want it to go away.”

“It’s still there.” She began advancing toward him slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. She didn’t want to frighten the appeal away.

“Is it still here?” he whispered, barely moving his lips, as she got closer.

“Yes,” she whispered back, almost inaudibly.

She just wanted to touch it before it fled. Just touch it. She extended her hand toward his face, but before she touched him, she stopped. It had retreated a bit, even though Roland had not moved. She was awed by this evidence of her madness. Was it rabies, she suddenly wondered? She doubted it — it seemed like her usual brand of madness.

When she regained the view of his attractiveness, she resumed her hand’s progress. She touched it. It was there. She looked at him up close, from the side.

“You are attractive,” she said.

He moved only his pupils.

“No, don’t look,” she said. “It was better before.”

He took his eyes away.

“Yes, I see it now. I see it.” She kissed his cheek. She felt it. She saw it.

It was best he not move. It minimized the chances of the appeal vanishing. She was taming the appeal. She kissed him closer to the lips, until she reached their corner. She was afraid of actually kissing them.

“It’s there. And I don’t know if I should risk scaring it away,” she said.

He said nothing. She gathered her courage and kissed his lips lightly. She looked at his eyes. They were glazed, staring ahead. Good. And his hair was nice, too. She tilted her head, watching his face, basking in her faint but definite appreciation of him. Appreciation was almost desire. She wanted him to kiss her back, yet she did not dare ask, afraid the animal would flee.

He started returning her kisses of his own volition, and the appeal was still there; she could sense its presence even though her eyes were closed. And not only was it there, but it became clearer, unexpectedly. Their embraces became more passionate. They started taking off each other’s clothes. Suddenly, he stopped kissing her and offered to tie her up.

“What?” she asked, having attained a sufficient degree of desire without needing more inducement.

“I mean, do you really think we should go further without tying you down?” Roland asked. “I don’t want to catch rabies from you, in case you are rabid. I wonder if it’s sexually transmittable.”

“I think it’s mostly through biting,” Lynn said. “I could just not bite you.”

“So you say now. But if you get gripped by the urge, you might do it anyway. Unless I keep my face and body away from your head and you’re tied down.”

She agreed. He tied her wrists to the railing of the headboard. He used a thin leather belt for one wrist and a terry-cloth belt for the other.

There was a knock on the door.

“Yes?” Lynn replied, from the bed.

“It’s Max. I just wanted to find out if you were feeling okay and that possibility of rabies we discussed.”

“Yes, thank you,” Lynn said. “No rabies so far.”

“Oh, good, good. Also, there’s a call from that Mr. Simon Peach, for Roland, who doesn’t seem to be in his room.”

“He went out for a walk,” Lynn said, having trouble uttering her words because of Roland’s weight on her.

“Okay. I will relay the message to Mr. Peach. See you later.”

“Yup!”

They heard the manager’s footsteps fading away.

Lynn whispered, “What will you do if I start exhibiting rabid behavior while I’m tied up?”

Roland tightened her bonds a little more, and said, “I guess I’ll have to call Max and have him shoot you.”

“Just please don’t mistake other things for rabies.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know, like … ardor.”

“Yes, that’s a good point.”

They began. They looked at each other and did not kiss. They found it curiously exciting. Their lovemaking felt so good that at one point Lynn thought it must be the rabies and got scared. She discovered that it was pleasurable to be afraid of herself, to know that at any moment she might no longer be able to trust herself and might lose control.

Afterward, when he was sleeping beside her, she managed to slip her wrists out of their bondage. She basked in her appreciation of him. She gazed at his resting body. His graceful legs. His hollow stomach. His locket. What was in his locket, anyway?

When he woke up, she asked him.

He stroked her hair. “It’s personal.”

That’s what his father had said to his mother when they had begun dating, forty-two years ago. Except that he had added, “I need to have this one bit of privacy.” But Roland didn’t add that part. He needed a lot more than that one bit of privacy.

He retied her wrists, and they made love again. Her confidence grew stronger, her confidence that he had unblocked her, had allowed her to want again. She didn’t care or worry about anything else. And he didn’t either. He was handling her as if he didn’t care what happened, had no more fear that anything would vanish — certainly not his attractiveness; maybe his interest, but that was a whole other story.

Alan had succeeded in coming up with another trouble he could go to. He had decided that he and Lynn should go riding on their weekend together. He took a riding lesson in order to be somewhat competent at it. He had a terrible time. It was a terrific trouble to go through, which made him feel that he was earning a positive outcome for the weekend. He fell twice. But he got right back on the horse, even though he was a bit hurt.

When he got home, he was gripped once again by anxiety when he saw there was no message from Roland on his answering machine. Despite his aching, bruised right butt cheek, Alan performed his daily check of the stairwell doors in his building.

He then sat sideways on his armless white easy chair, pressing his facial cheek against its plush back.

Roland was alone in his room on Sunday evening after a whole day of lovemaking. It was almost time for dinner, and he was famished. He had just taken off his clothes to jump in the shower, when he heard the knock at his door.

“Hi, it’s Max. There’s a call for you. It’s that Mr. Simon Peach. He called earlier, I don’t know if your stalker told you.”

“Yes, she did.”

“Do you want to take the call?”

“Hmm. Okay,” Roland said, wondering why Max delivered these messages in person rather than by phone.

Roland picked up the phone and said hello.

“It’s me,” Alan said. “Did you get the message that I called, earlier?”

“Yeah, um, listen, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but there’s been an unexpected twist. I’m afraid you won’t be able to get your weekend with Lynn. You see … she and I ended up hitting it off.”

“Did you fuck?”

Roland could not bear to answer that question, so he chose to misunderstand it. “Did I fuck up? I guess so.”

“NO! DID YOU FUCK HER?”

Roland sighed and lay down on his bed to try to think of a loophole. He held the base of his mostly limp penis between his thumb and forefinger and swung it from side to side, slapping his thigh with it. The light came in through the window in a lovely manner.

Alan waited for an answer, staring fixedly at the stiff and erect riding boots he had bought for his weekend with the woman of his dreams, his queen, his goddess, his little bird. He could not accept the idea that he might have to return the boots.

Roland searched for a way merely to mislead. Lynn had been tied up. Did that make it any less fucking? No. How about the fact that she was possibly rabid and might die soon? That didn’t do it either. If only he had been the one tied up, then he could have gotten away with saying that no, he had not fucked her, and have a clear conscience knowing that she had fucked him.

“I guess I did,” Roland finally said.

He could hear Alan breathing.

“Was it nice?” Alan asked, quietly.

“I’m sorry, Alan. I didn’t mean for this to happen, but when she told me she had been stalking me insincerely, in order to try to want me, it changed things for me.”

“Whatever. I still think I should get my weekend with her.”

“No. I wouldn’t be able to take it. It’s too late. She and I are involved.”

“Traitor,” Alan whispered. “My whole life revolved around this woman. I would do anything to have a chance with her. Do you understand? Anything.”

“Is that … some kind of a … threat?”

“Think what you want. I have nothing to live for if she’s out of my life. And that also means I’ve got nothing to lose.”

Roland stopped swinging his penis and sat up a little. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m getting the impression you’re threatening me.”

Alan snorted, kicked his boots. He could still return them, even if he kicked them.

“Come on, man, be realistic,” Roland said. “It’s not that big a betrayal. I don’t even know you that well. It’s not as if we’re old friends. Or even much of friends at all. Listen, I’ve got to go, okay? But if you want, call me tomorrow when I’m back in the city.”

Alan didn’t answer, so Roland said good-bye and hung up. The room felt cold. Roland put on some clothes and sat back down on his bed.