Part 18 (1/2)

”Why? Don't you ever ask yourself that?”

”Sure.”

”And the answer is?”

”Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't.”

”No. All or nothing. Now you have to pick.”

I can't pick. I'm too drunk. ”Can't we just talk about the weather?” I ask.

”Sure,” he says, smiling. ”That's physics, too.”

PATRICK TAKES ME BACK to my trailer. I am sitting close to the door in his car, a Volkswagen something, and I am staring out the window, wondering how I ended up here. I feel as if I've been abducted by an alien and taken to a place in another dimension. Tomorrow, when I tell people about this, they won't believe it. And Patrick will deny it.

Like Clive and Franklin, he has no real reaction to the fact that I live here. He walks me to the door. I fumble with my keys and open it. I wait for him to follow me in, but he doesn't.

I suppose I am feeling brave, because not long ago I had s.e.x with a twenty-eight-year-old. Or maybe I am just feeling drunk, which I am. But I realize, standing there with Patrick, that it is going to be easy to have s.e.x with him, because once you start, what's to stop you? Once you prove that s.e.x has no real meaning, can't you just take it from anywhere? Isn't it all the same-a level playing field?

”Come in for a drink,” I say.

He smiles. ”I don't want a drink. Thanks.”

”But can't you just . . . come in?”

”No,” he says. ”I don't want to do that.”

”Why?” I ask defiantly. I can feel an anger bubbling up inside me, and it gives me comfort, as if I'm being reminded of who I am.

Patrick leans against the doorframe, looking quite harmless with his ponytail and his long, girly eyelashes. He says, ”You're asking me to sleep with you.”

”I'm not asking. I'm just saying, why don't you come in?”

He laughs because he knows there's no difference.

He is going to deny me, and because of this, I suddenly find him ridiculously attractive. I never noticed how straight his posture is, or how square his jaw, or how clean and flawless his skin. I never noticed that he has muscles and big hands.

Maybe that's why he's annoyed with me. Because I never noticed.

He doesn't move. He's waiting for me to say something.

I say, ”Look, here we are, both alone on Christmas Eve. What difference does it make? Where's the harm in it?”

Staring at me with his clear blue eyes, not a hint of anything in them, like rancor or suspicion or interest, he says, ”I'm not sure I like you.”

This shocks me. I cannot speak for a second, and yet he waits. It would have been a perfect exit line, and yet he waits.

I say, ”What do you mean, you don't like me? We just spent the evening together. We work together.” When he has no reaction to this, I become a little desperate. I say, ”Who are you kidding? I see the way you look at me.”

”When?” he asks.

”At the shop,” I answer.

”Oh, well. That's just admiration.”

”Admiration?”

”Or maybe attraction?”

”You're attracted to me, you admire me, but you don't like me?”

”That happens,” he says.

And I know it's true, so I want to say, in my defense, or in the defense of something abstract, some truism or philosophy, Since when does a man have to like a woman to sleep with her?

But I don't say that because I am far too hung up on this notion of not being liked by him.

So I say, ”You're telling me that . . . what? I'm not likable?”

”Maybe,” he admits.

”What does it take?” I ask, hearing my voice rising an octave. ”How does a person become likable?”

Now he straightens up, backing down my steps in the dark.

He thinks about it for what feels like a full minute.

”A person extends herself,” he says.

”What? I'm not extended?”

”Good night, Pearl,” he says, and walks toward his car.

”I extend myself all the time,” I say weakly after him.

He gets into his car and slams the door. I watch the car backing out of the trailer park. I yell out, ”At least I know what instrument I play!”

I watch his red taillights, still yelling after him: ”Pick an instrument already, Patrick! Pick one and play it!”

There is nothing left but the dull sound of his car retreating, and the dust settling in front of my trailer, like tainted snow.

13.

I TURNED ON HALLIE.

It hurts to admit it.