THIS THING WITH PAUL 2

Brisbane 2008

Paul is there again. Most people put their own image on their Facebook page but he has a piece of art. A house, balanced on a mountainous peak, a wash of a storm brewing. I have come to associate the picture that stands in for him with pleasure. I smile when I see it and when I am anxious I close my eyes and there is his house behind them like a reassurance. I know it is silly, but I associate our chats with a feeling of contentment and his picture is enough to evoke this feeling. He chats to me about books and styles of writing.

I have started a blog, I tell him, because I am jealous of Christopher’s “Furious Horses,” writing a new story every day.

What is it called?

“Furious Vaginas.”

Hahaha, he says and then it seems he is gone. A silence which I punctuate with question marks at intervals.

I like that it isn’t about sex. He is back again.

Isn’t it?

No, he says. It seems to be about other things.

I ask him to send me some of his work. I have heard that his writing is good but I am not sure that I have read any of it. We talk about Nicholson Baker as he gathers things together to send as a file. Paul multitasks like a demon. This, more than anything, marks him as a member of the next generation. I know that I am far too old for him. I am from a different era.

Vox is about us, I say. You and me.

Ah, but I never talk about sex.

But I do.

Therefore Vox is about you, but not about us, exactly.

You will talk about sex one day, I tell him. I will have an influence on you.

When you talk about sex, Paul says, you are not actually talking about sex.

And so of course I answer, When you talk about other things you are always talking about sex but in an oblique way.

And then the file comes down. I click over to my Gmail and they are there, Paul’s stories. A little paperclip and beneath it three small files. I open them. A new message from Paul makes a little popping sound, but I ignore it. He will know I am reading. His stories are good, clever. One of them is funny and it makes me smile. It is not until I open the third one that I feel my heart engaging. This story goes on too long. There is a moment when I feel my chest expanding, my heart opening up to him, my eyes pricking with tears, and then the story moves on a little, like a train that has overshot the station, leaving the passengers stranded with no platform to step down onto. I switch to chat and tell him this and he immediately starts to fix the thing. He sends me an amendment, which seems better.

I can’t believe you went and changed it just like that.

Why wouldn’t I if it makes it better?

I don’t know, because you are a young person. Young people are precious about their work.

I like to edit, he tells me. I like to make things better.

I like you, is my reply. I like you very much. I like your stories. If you ever write a novel I might develop a crush on you.

I am not sure I will write a novel. I may be a short story writer. I like short stories.

Ah well, then you will never have my unwanted romantic attentions.

This is a risk I will have to take, Paul tells me, and I laugh. He makes me smile and he makes me laugh.

When Paul signs off for the night I go back into his Facebook page just to look at the little house perched precariously in the storm. It is a beautiful image, painted by a friend of his. I like the painting on its own merits but I also now associate it with our conversations. Looking at it, I feel a liquid rush. I become unsettled. I know that I’ll have to masturbate or I will never sleep.

Oh, so now I have become sexually attracted to an image that stands in for a person that I can only vaguely remember in real life. The physical representation of Paul is that image. I lie on the couch and watch it as I place my hand quietly between my legs, and the release is quick and violent. When it is done there is still the picture on the screen and I really can’t remember what he looks like in real life. When I close my eyes there is a little house on a hill and I must not concentrate on it too closely because I can already feel the warmth of desire rising up in me for a second time, and if I give in to this I will never get to bed.

My boy is sleeping on his side and the light on his face is a real and beautiful thing. Strange to be able to masturbate over someone else’s profile picture and not feel my love and desire for my husband at all diminished.

I know better than to wake him with my caresses at this point. He will be tired and irritable. I lie beside him and I am wide awake and he smells like hot dough, baking, and I want to take him into my mouth. My desire for it is difficult to ignore. As I wonder vaguely if I should get up and release the pent-up energy discreetly in the lounge room, I find that I am yawning. I turn over onto my side and leap desperately for a wave of sleep.