“I won’t.”

As soon as my friends start digging into their cheese fondues, they perform their usual gesticulations and noises of ecstasy.

Peter looks at them, startled. “Oh, my. What a beneficial group to be with.”

“What do you mean?” Georgia asks, munching happily.

“Years ago I met a tribe in Africa who believed that you can derive more benefits from being in close proximity to someone experiencing pleasure than you can from experiencing pleasure yourself.”

“How could that be?” Penelope asks.

“They claimed that people who experience physical pleasure emit vibrations—pleasure vibes—that are beneficial to people around them. Anything that pleases any of your five senses or that simply makes your body feel good will cause your body to exude these invisible pleasure vibrations that are therapeutic to others.”

“So having sex must be the most beneficial,” Jack says.

“No, actually, sex is the one pleasure that doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I can’t remember exactly the reason. It was something about pleasure vibes staying within. They claim that’s what makes orgasms so powerful: the vibes are trapped, and so the pressure builds and builds until it explodes. But it’s an internal explosion. Nothing escapes. Except fluids, of course, but no vibes.”

“So, what specific benefits does the tribe believe one gains from being exposed to someone’s pleasure vibes?” Penelope asks.

“Every benefit you can think of. They say you’ll feel better, look better, sleep better, think better, be happier and more energetic,” Peter says. “And maybe that tribe does benefit from practicing this philosophy because they were possibly the healthiest, most charming and appealing people I’ve ever met. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Well then, let’s indulge, for the sake of bettering each other!” Georgia exclaims. She dunks a potato into the melted cheese.

“You should know, though, that the tribe believes that the pleasure vibes work even better if one person is emitting them, and another person is completely passive, just receiving them. That’s because if both people are experiencing pleasure simultaneously, then their outgoing pleasure vibes will tend to get in the way of each other’s incoming ones.”

Peter changes the topic, asking us what we’re all doing for Christmas. We go around the table, answering this question.

When it’s Penelope’s turn, she says, “I don’t know. Christmas Eve is in three days and I still haven’t heard from my parents. And yet my rent has been paid. Clearly my dad hasn’t stopped supporting me.”

“You should call them,” Georgia says.

“I don’t feel like it.”

“What will you do for Christmas?”

“I don’t know.”

Jack suggests that she spend Christmas with him and his mother at the senior center where he works. “If you’re lucky, you might even get to see me break up a fight,” he adds.

Penelope has tears in her eyes—perhaps at the thought of spending Christmas at a senior center.

“Or you could spend it with me and my family!” Georgia and Lily offer, almost in unison.

“That’s very nice of you guys,” Penelope says. “Maybe I’ll spend it at the senior center. A little volunteer work might make me feel better. Thanks, Jack.”

Georgia barks at me, for the whole table to hear, “Why are you staring at Peter so intensely?”

“I’m not staring,” I lie. She caught me.

“Yes you are,” she says. “You look like you’re devouring him with your eyes. Especially when he’s not looking.”

My face feels hot.

“Plus,” she continues, “you’re as red as a tomato right now, which I think is a sign that I’m correct.”

I feel the roots of my hair prickling under my gray wig.

Peter gazes at me.

“So? Are you going to explain?” Georgia asks.

I’m too flustered to resort to anything but the truth. “I was just wondering how much pleasure Peter was deriving from his food and whether he was emitting any pleasure vibes.”

“Why only Peter?” Georgia challenges, still loudly. “Why not the rest of us?”

Not knowing what to say, I finally, lamely answer, “I guess because he was the teller of the story.”

Peter startles us by taking out his wallet, placing a few large bills on the table, and rising.

“Hey, Peter, what’s going on?” Georgia asks, chuckling uncomfortably.

Peter walks over to my side of the table and extends his hand to me.

Addressing my friends, but looking down only at me, he says, “I hope you all don’t mind if Barb and I leave. She’s in need of a demonstration, and I, being the teller of the story, want to give it to her.”

“You mean you’ll do something pleasurable to yourself while she watches?” Georgia asks.

Peter laughs. “Yes, something like that.” His hand is still waiting for mine.

I glance at my friends, hesitant to leave them in the middle of dinner. But they don’t seem to mind. They’re smiling at me.

I finally accept Peter’s hand and we leave the restaurant.

Once in his apartment, he gestures for me to sit on the huge white couch. I do, admiring the sumptuous living room with lots of glass surfaces.

He takes care of a few things in the kitchen and comes out with a small tray. He positions a chair right in front of me, very close, and sits on it. His seat is slightly higher than mine, so he is looking down at me somewhat, his legs open to accommodate mine between his. Our calves are touching.

He picks up a chocolate truffle and bites into it and chews it slowly, looking at me like I’m the next truffle he’s about to relish.

He then takes his iPod, puts the buds in his ears, and makes his musical selection. He goes back to gazing at me intently, while I hear the faint tinny noise emanating from his earbuds. It sounds like classical. Something passionate. Wagner, perhaps.

After about three minutes he selects another piece of music and another piece of chocolate and consumes both while we stare at each other for another two minutes.

“Do you feel anything?” he asks.

I chuckle and say, “Yes,” though I doubt the excitement I’m experiencing has as much to do with his emanating pleasure vibes as it does with my anticipation of what might happen next.

He switches off the iPod and pulls his earphones out of his ears.

He stares at me for a few more seconds and says, “I saw you bite into a bruschetta, once, during one of our Nights of Creation. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back, reveling in the taste. As I observed you, a feeling I’ll never forget coursed through me—a feeling so spectacular, it felt like a drug. And I thought, Our world doesn’t pay enough attention to that feeling. Almost as though it hasn’t been discovered yet. Maybe that tribe really was onto something.”

I smile. We are silent, our eyes locked. Now is the time. He will lean toward me. He will touch me. He will kiss me. He will be the only man who has ever done this since I started wearing my ugly disguise after Gabriel’s death.

He starts moving. He picks up his iPod, searches for another song, and puts his earbuds back in his ears, saying, “I bet this one will sound great to the sight of you.” He listens to it while staring at me.

He is trying to torture me. That must be it. I am so drawn to him that were I to move toward him, it would simply feel as though I’m letting gravity take me. But my policy specifies that he has to make the first move because I need to be utterly convinced—I need irrefutable proof—that he wants me in spite of how I look to him with my disguise on.

When the song ends, he places his iPod on the coffee table next to his chair and says, “That was very pleasurable, listening to music while staring at you.”

“Great. I look forward to reaping the fruits of your pleasure,” I joke.

He nods. “Now, during this session I’ve derived pleasure from each of my senses.” He pauses. “Except for one.”