Strad speaks. “I have a surprise for you the day after tomorrow, in the evening. It’s something I’ve planned since I booked this trip. It’s one of the most extraordinary things you could ever imagine.”
Lily smiles. “Sounds exciting.”
A few minutes pass.
Looking out at the ocean, Strad gently says, “So, do you think you might be getting closer to making a decision about my proposal?”
“There’s something about me you might not like if you knew it,” she says, inspired by Peter’s words to me.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure I feel comfortable talking about it.”
“Well, then, don’t tell me. Just accept my proposal.”
“It’s something you’d want to know.”
“The only thing I want to know is if you’ll marry me.”
“You wouldn’t feel that way if you knew what it was.”
“I can’t imagine anything you could possibly reveal that would change my mind or lessen my enthusiasm.”
“And yet, that’s exactly what I’m afraid will happen—your enthusiasm will be lessened. To put it mildly.”
“And you know what I’m afraid of? That that’s just an excuse. That you’re the one who’s not very excited about marrying me.”
“What I’m not excited about is the prospect of accepting a proposal that might not exist if you knew the truth.”
“Then why don’t you tell it to me so I can prove you wrong?”
Lily doesn’t know what to do. There are so many good reasons to tell Strad the truth, such as: How can she fool him forever? Does she really want to live that way? And is it fair to him? Isn’t it better that they deal with the truth now? And isn’t it better that she be the one to tell him rather than risk having him find out some other way?
Sometimes she’s on the brink of telling him, such as when they’re lying tensely on towels on the beach.
She succeeds in talking herself out of it.
As a way of discouraging herself further from entertaining such a self-destructive notion, she considers asking him what he thinks of Lily, physically. His answer—if it doesn’t outright kill her—is bound to ensure her silence. But she doesn’t ask him for lack of courage.
She tries to be more upbeat about her circumstances. She reminds herself that it’s not really so bad having always to wear a mask or to play the music. Plenty of people are still able to enjoy life despite having to live with a cumbersome piece of equipment like a wheelchair, an oxygen tank, or how about a pouch attached to a hole in the abdomen through which they defecate? Lily saw a documentary on that, once. Even though the show convinced her that colostomy pouches are not as terrible as most people think, wearing a mask is better, Lily reasons. Many people with colostomy pouches find true love, she is certain of it—and no, not necessarily only with another person who has a colostomy pouch.
So she does nothing.
MY FRIENDS COME over for our scheduled Night of Creation. In the middle of the evening, when everyone is working and I go to the kitchen to get some coffee, Peter joins me there as usual and whispers, “Now that I’ve given you a full session of my pleasure vibes, I believe it’s your turn.”
He doesn’t cease to surprise me.
“Can I come and collect tomorrow after lunch?” he asks.
“Uh, okay.”
“Will you arrange to have pleasures you can indulge in while I bathe in your vibes?”
“Sure.”
LILY AND STRAD make love that night, but it’s a quiet affair, tinged with sadness.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Give me the bad news, if that’s what it is. I can’t take it anymore. I need an answer. If you don’t want to marry me, please just say so. Put me out of my misery.”
“I can’t just say yes,” she says, pulling away. “I lied to you.”
“About loving me?”
“No.”
His face lights up. “Well then nothing else matters.” He embraces her again. “I’m very forgiving of liars, being a great one myself. I’ve lied to countless girlfriends. Never to you, of course. But I know that lying doesn’t always come from bad motives. I don’t hold it against you. What did you lie to me about?”
“My mask.”
“Is that all? I don’t care. What was the lie?”
“Everything I told you about it. The reasons why I wear it.”
“You mean you weren’t sexually molested as a child?”
“No.”
“So why do you wear it?”
“That’s the thing. That’s what I’m having trouble telling you.”
“Then don’t tell me. I don’t care why you wear it, and I don’t care that you wear it. And plus, I’m sure the truth is not that bad.”
“No, it’s not that bad. But to you it may be worse than to most.”
“I don’t know what sort of misconception you have about me, but I’m very average.”
THE NEXT DAY, Peter comes over to my place at three. I was hoping to get a lot of work done before that so that I wouldn’t feel guilty about taking the rest of the afternoon off, but I was unable to focus on my work. I was in a trance, completely stoned on the love hormones coursing through my body. I got almost nothing done.
“Did you stock up on some pleasures?” he asks.
“Yes, I have a couple that could do the trick. And I skipped lunch so that I’d experience maximum pleasure during the session.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
I don’t mention that skipping lunch did not succeed in making me hungry. The stronger my feelings for Peter have become, the less appetite I’ve had. As a result, I’ve lost weight recently, which was not something I especially needed.
I arrange my pleasures on a tray. We settle ourselves in the same way as last time—me on the couch, Peter on a chair facing me.
I first take my iPod from the tray and start listening to the French pop song “Un Jour Arrive,” which I happen to be fond of at the moment. I open my bottle of Petite Chérie perfume and hold it under my nose, feeling the intoxicating scent of pear and spices dance under my nostrils to the romantic melody.
Peter is watching me carefully. I don’t take my eyes off him.
There is only food left on my tray of pleasures. Before the end of the first song, I put down the perfume and transition to goat cheese on a cracker. I don’t generally like cheese, but that particular goat cheese is one of my favorite foods. Even though I’m not hungry, I do my best to savor it, luxuriating in the delicious sharp flavor. Peter’s gaze is intense and seductive. I try not to let my attraction to him distract me from my task.
“Am I any good?” I ask.
“Remarkable,” he says.
He says nothing more. And neither do I. We are sitting motionless, looking at each other. Now is the time, the ideal time, for him to kiss me.
I wait. But nothing happens.
I start feeling sick with disappointment. He is toying with me.
Or maybe he does want to make a pass at me, but can’t bear the look of me.
I can’t take it anymore. He has almost passed my test. He is almost there. He is clearly interested in me romantically.
That’s why I get up and bend down to kiss him on the cheek—a pass so slight it can hardly be called a pass at all. It’s more of an encouragement, a nudge, to help him cross the finish line.
Looking alarmed, he pulls away before my lips touch his skin.
I’m shocked. I clearly misread him. He had no intention of making a move, ever.
Humiliated, I decide to put an end to his little game right now. I will take off my disguise and present him with his own shallowness as I have done countless times to men at bars.
I start unbuttoning the top buttons of my large man’s shirt that covers my gelatinous jacket.
When Peter sees me about to undress, he leaps out of his chair and grabs my wrists—not out of passion, as I imagine it might be for a second—but, to my horror, out of panic, to restrain me from proceeding. He is that disgusted. Well, I’m glad I found out now instead of letting it drag on.