Seven Women: An Erotic Private Investigation

Chapter 27…

“Seeing you tonight,” she says, “made me think of those things. I haven’t been able to sleep. I feel strange. Sad. I know this is probably the wrong thing to say, Leonard, but I miss you — sometimes.”

I say, “I do, too.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No,” she says, “you don’t.”

“Are we arguing?” I ask.

“No,” she says, “I don’t think so.”

“We used to have some good arguments.”

“Yes,” she says. “Constructive ones, no violence or anger, just a good butting of the heads.”

“Those were good buttings.”

“That’s something I miss,” she says, “but I also miss our friendship. We were lovers, we were married, but we were also friends. Weren’t we? I seem to remember it that way.”

“Yes,” I say, “we were.”

“Why did things have to change? Why did that have to happen with Veronica?”

“It just happened,” I say.

“I don’t feel as distant from it as I’d like to,” Tasha says. “I can still feel…all those mixed feelings, and they scare me. But I miss her, too. I miss Veronica because she was a friend, a good friend, and she was always there, she cared for us and we cared for her and—”

“And maybe that’s why it happened,” I say.

“Sometimes I think I overreacted,” she says, “but also, I don’t think I did. I was being me. I should’ve stopped it — stopped us — as it happened, I should’ve done something, but I let it go on and I felt so dirty afterwards, and I couldn’t look at you the same, I couldn’t feel for you the same, I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“And you slept with Slater,” I say.

“Once.”

“Once,” I say.

“Like you slept with Veronica again.”

“And then she went away,” I say, “like they all go away.”

“I miss her,” she says.

“I know.”

“And I,” Tasha says, “miss you, too.”

I listen to her breath.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “Right now?”

“I’m looking in my fridge. Do you know what I have? I have some vodka Jell-o.”

“You still make that?” I remember the taste of it.

“I still make it. I have a lot of it here.”

“Well,” I say, “sounds like a good time to snack.”

She says, “But how much vodka Jell-O can a girl eat?”

I laugh.

“You bastard,” she says. “Why did you have to be with us there tonight? Do you think I need this?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry! You always say that! There’s nothing to be sorry about! But you’re still a bastard!”

“Yes,” I say. “I am.”

“You don’t need to agree with me.”

“I’d like to hold you right now,” I tell her. “You’re crying and I’d like to hold you so you could cry on me.”

“That sounds nice,” she says.

“It would feel right.”

Breathing.

“What would you do,” I ask, “if I came over there right now? If I knocked on your door? Would you answer it?”

“Of course.”

“Would you let me in?”

“I might.”

“Yes or no.”

“I wouldn’t let you stand outside in the cold,” she says. “I’m not a cruel person.”

“I might just come over right now,” I say. “I just might.”

“Don’t.”

“I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

“Leonard.”

“Yes.”

“Let me come over there,” she says. “I’ll come over there. I’ll come to you. That’d be better.”

“Will you?”

“I called,” she says.

“Will you let me hold you?”

“I want to be held,” she says. “But if I knock on your door, will you answer?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let me in?”

“Yes.”

“Can I cry on you?”

“You can cry with me.”

She says my name and hangs up; and I look at the door to my apartment knowing she won’t come over, she won’t knock, and I won’t let her in.