The Rules of Attraction

LAUREN Lying naked in my bed. Late. Twelve-thirty. Room next door someone is playing the new Talking Heads record. Finish the cigarette I’m smoking and light another one. Look at Sean. He looks away guiltily. Leans his head against the wall. Sara’s cat, Seymour, walks up to the bed and jumps into my lap, meowing hungrily. Stroke the cat’s head and look back at Sean. He looks back at me, then to the space on the wall he’s been staring at. He knows I want him to leave. He has that distinct understanding etched across his face; get dressed, go, I’m thinking. I yawn. In the next room the record skips, begins again. I don’t want him to see me naked so I pull the sheet around me.

“Say something,” I say, petting the cat.

“Like what?”

The cat looks at him and mews.

“Like why are we always in my room?” I ask.

“Because I have this awful French roommate, that’s why,” he says.

“Is he awful because he’s French?”

“Yes,” he nods.

“God.” Look at the cigarette I’m holding; the gold bracelet on wrist dangling. He’s looking at me. He knows I’m smoking the cigarette just to irritate him, blowing smoke his way.

“You know what he did?” he asks me.

Smell my wrist, then fingers. “What?”

“Since it’s Halloween tomorrow he carved a pumpkin he bought in town and put one of those French hats on it, a chapeau, you know, one of those berets and he put it on the fucking pumpkin, and wrote on the back of it, ‘Paris Is Forever.’”

This is the most I have ever heard him say and I’m impressed, but don’t say anything. Why is it that Victor’s seeing Jaime? I like him more than she likes him. That’s crazy. I concentrate on Seymour, who’s purring, content.

“What’s worse than a Parisian for a roommate?” he asks me.

“What?” Barely muster the interest.

“A Parisian for a roommate who has his own phone.”

“I’ll have to think about that one.”

“What’s worse than a Parisian for a roommate who has his own phone?”

“What?” Exasperated. “Sean?”

“A Parisian for a roommate who has his own phone and who wears an ascot,” he says.

In the next room someone starts replaying side one again. I get out of bed. “If I hear this song one more time I’ll scream.” Put on my robe, sit in chair by window and wish he would leave. “Let’s go to Price Chopper,” I suggest.

He sits up now. He knows for a fact that I want him to leave. He knows that I want it badly, as soon as possible. “Why?” he asks, watching as Seymour climbs into his lap and mews.

“Because I need tampons,” I lie. “And toothpaste, cat food, Tab, Evian water, Peanut Butter Cups.” I reach for my purse and oh shit, “But I don’t think I have any money.”

“Charge it,” he says.

“God,” I mutter. “I hate it when you’re sarcastic.”

He pushes the cat off the bed and starts to dress. He reaches for his underwear, tangled in the bedsheets and puts it on and I ask him, “Why did you push the cat off the bed?”

He asks back, “Because I felt like it?”

“Come here kitty, come here Seymour,” I call. I hate the cat too but pretend to be concerned just to bug him. The cat meows again and hops onto my lap. Pet it. Watch Sean get dressed. Tense silence. He puts on jeans. Then sits on the side of the bed again, away from me, shirtless. He looks like he’s getting the awful feeling that I know something and am pissed off about it. Poor baby. Puts his head in his hands, rubs his face. And now I ask him, “What’s that thing on your neck?”

Tenses up so noticeably I almost laugh. “What thing?”

“Looks like a hickey.” I’m casual.

He walks over to the mirror, makes a big deal out of touching his neck, inspecting the mark. His jaw twitches slightly. Watch as he stares at himself in the mirror; at his dull beauty.

“It’s a birthmark,” he says.

Right, lame-o. “You’re so narcissistic.”

Then it comes: “Why are you being such a bitch tonight?” He asks this while his back is to me, while he’s slipping on his T-shirt.

Stroke Seymour’s head. “I’m not being a bitch.”

He walks back to the mirror and looks at the small purple and yellow bruise. Wouldn’t even have noticed it if I hadn’t heard the news. And now he’s saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is not a hickey. It’s a birthmark.”

And now I come out and say it, getting none of the expected pleasure I thought I’d receive. “You fucked Judy. That’s all.” I say this quickly, really fast and offhand, and it throws him off balance. He’s trying hard not to flinch, or do a doubletake.

He turns away from the mirror. “What?”

“You heard me, Sean.” I’m squeezing Seymour too tightly. He’s not purring anymore.

“You’re sick,” he says.

“Oh am I?” I ask. “I heard you bit the inside of her thighs.” The cat screeches and jumps off my lap; pads across the floor to the door.

He laughs. He tries to ignore me. He sits on the bed tying his shoes. He continues to laugh, shaking his head. “Oh my my. Who told you this one? Susan? Roxanne? Come on, who?” he asks, innocent smile.

Dramatic pause. Look at Seymour, also innocent, sitting near the doorway, licking its paws. It looks up at me too, waiting for my answer.

“Judy,” I say.

Now he stops laughing. He stops shaking his head. His face falls. He puts the other shoe on. He mutters, “I have not bitten the inside of anyone’s thighs. I haven’t bitten yours, have I?”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, mystified. “Tell her to spread her legs and let me check?” What are we talking about? I don’t even care that much. It seems to be so minor that I don’t understand why I’m harassing him like this. Probably because I want this thing to be over with, and Judy’s a convenient marker.

“Oh Christ,” he’s saying and he looks disappointed. “I don’t believe this. Are you serious or like having your period?”

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m having my period. It didn’t happen.”

The moron actually looks relieved, and says, “I thought so.”

Trying to look crushed and heartbroken, I say simply, “Why did you do it, Sean?”

“I’m leaving,” he says, unlocking the door. Steps into the hallway. People are in the bathroom cutting their hair, making noise. He looks freaked. I light a cigarette.

“Are you really serious?” he asks, standing there. “Do you really believe her?”

I start laughing.

He asks, “What’s so funny?”

I look at him, think about it, stop laughing. “Nothing.”

He closes the door, still shaking his head, still muttering, “I don’t believe this.”

I push the chair away from myself, put the cigarette out, then lay on the bed. In the next room someone takes the needle off the record and starts to play side one again. There is Ben & Jerry’s ice cream in the hall freezer that I plan to steal and eat, but I can hear him standing outside the door, listening. I sit still, barely breathing. The cat meows. The record skips. His footsteps sound up the hallway, clump down the stairs; downstairs door slams. I move to the window and watch him head towards his house. Halfway across Commons he changes direction and moves toward Wooley, where Judy lives.