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On Saturday afternoon, Louise went to a friend’s for the night and Carol suddenly had too much time on her hands. Used to be she would fend off Jeffrey’s criticisms while cleaning the apartment for an hour, then fall into bed to make him happy, to shut off the stream of little hurtful things he said. Of course he started up again as soon as sex was over—for that matter, he kept the criticisms going all through it. You’re too fat here, too thin there. Good riddance. Terrifying that she’d chosen to be with that guy, and for as long as she had. A man who drove her bonkers. As usual.
She went to a photography exhibit at the Cartier-Bresson Foundation in the Fourteenth. The people the street photographer had captured off guard had distressingly ugly expressions on their faces, no matter which city he captured them in. She left quickly, took the Metro to Bois de Boulogne, and sat in a café that Daphné had raved about, on an island in a lake. That was a mistake. She felt terribly alone among the families and couples.
Drifting along the paths, she thought that she really ought to be working on her personal film’s screenplay but that she’d rather be walking with a nice, uncomplicated, attractive man. After yet another jolly couple passed her, smooching, fingers twisted together, all smiles, she turned back toward the Metro.
In the train, a middle-aged couple boarded and stood rather than taking seats. They were perfectly matched, the way an aristocrat in an eighteenth century novel would have matched his horses. Both were
blonde and blue-eyed, tall and slim, elegantly dressed in tans and whites. The woman pressed against the man and looked up at him with adoration, then stretched way up to kiss him seductively on the cheek. When they got off, the man grabbed the woman’s hand and looked up and down the platform, as if to say, “Look what I’ve got.”
They have a long, mostly happy history together, that’s what I really envy, Carol thought. They’ve worked things out, unlike stupid Jeffrey and his stupid criticisms, unlike every other man I’ve dated. Do I start with bad basic material? Or do I influence them to be that way? Do I sabotage myself?
Another couple entered, sat, and locked lips on the bobbing train.
These two are going home to screw, then have dinner together, then screw again, and I’m going home to eat dinner alone, maybe watch a cookery show, maybe a film with popcorn, maybe work on my screenplay. In what way is my creative effort tonight going to beat what they’ll be doing?
She thought about it for a minute.
There was no way. Even if she buttered the popcorn, it couldn’t remotely compete with a good fuck.
Celibacy was rough, but being on one’s own did have one advantage: freedom. She decided, without having to consult anybody, to watch the film while eating dinner, skip the popcorn, and work on her screenplay. The writing, the attempt to get another human being to feel along with her, would keep her company.
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