Regifted John responded to Maya’s email, and we now have a plan to get dinner at his favorite Thai restaurant. “Two thumbs up,” Maya said approvingly. “And hopefully that won’t be all that’s up.” Maya can talk about sex without saying, “Is this okay to say?” and questions like, “Elise, when was the last time you masturbated?” seem as natural to her as, “Elise, where did you get that shirt?”
When Maya and Stu have a fight, they have make-up sex. When they can’t make a decision, they have make-a-decision sex. They have quickies and long experimental sessions. They are the married couple that messes up all the sexless marriage statistics.
Bobby once said to me that Maya feels comfortable in her own body. I told him that I think it’s because she feels comfortable in her own brain. For her, the two seem to be connected. During her freshman year of college, she had a year-long relationship with her brilliant roommate who hadn’t been kissed before Maya seduced her. She had what she called “the secret first marriage” to an insatiable and visionary Argentinian filmmaker that Stu doesn’t need to know about. And then, there was the affair with the Harvard philosophy professor that Stu can never find out about.
I never could have had an affair while I was married to Elliot. The guilt I felt over for having a vicarious affair with Maya and the philosophy professor was more than I could handle. Every lustful moment she told me about was a thrill. I was enjoying sneaking around in her indiscretions so much that I couldn’t focus on writing—or really anything—while waiting for her next salacious update. I tried to take time off from her affair. I even tried to break up with it. After all, what does it say about a person who is excited that her best friend is cheating on her husband? But I got pulled back in. I wanted to hear the details of every temptation and tryst. Every sexy shower and new position. I was devastated when the professor and Maya abruptly ended things. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know what to do with myself and, like a fool, I confessed to Elliot.
ME: I have something important to tell you and I’m not sure you’re going to understand.
ELLIOT: Why don’t you try me?
ME: Elliot, I’m having an affair.
ELLIOT: You’re what?
ME: I’m not having sex with anyone. It’s not like that. I’m having a vicarious affair, but it’s over now, and I’m having a hard time dealing with it.
ELLIOT: Elise, what the fuck are you talking about?
ME: I can’t tell you who it’s with, but I have a friend who has been having an affair for a little over a year, but now it’s ending. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it sooner.
ELLIOT: Elise, I wouldn’t have wanted to know then and I don’t want to know now. I’m glad you kept it from me. Maybe you should continue keeping it from me.
ME: I can’t function. I’m a wreck.
ELLIOT: I’m sure you’ll get over it.
I wish I could pinpoint the moment when Elliot became disengaged and dismissive. Even though I know there wasn’t an exact moment—that he didn’t have a personality shift in a day—I am constantly trying to remember what the moment was. I spend my nights digging through the emotional wreckage to find a moment that I know doesn’t exist.
It was the cumulation of moments in motion. His career was taking off and mine was tanking. I’m sure he could feel my envy. Elliot was trying to help people. Why couldn’t I see that? Yes, I was proud of him, but dismissive of what he was doing, which meant I was envious of something I had contempt for. No, not contempt—that’s too strong a word. I should have been more effusive and complimentary about the apps he was developing. I once said, “I guess I don’t have an appetite for apps.” And he said, “Well maybe you should find someone who feeds you what you want to eat.” I apologized, but he didn’t. He got in his car and took a drive. He didn’t come back until late that night. “Where’d you go?” “I drove up to the North Shore.” I didn’t ask why. Sometimes I wonder if I drove him away. But the truth is, I feel like Elliot had been driving away for a long time. It just took me a while to realize he was driving off without me and I was going to be stranded on the side of the road.
I honestly don’t think my writer’s block has anything to do with Elliot. And getting laid won’t suddenly get the creative juices flowing. If I were an athlete, Maya would be telling me to abstain. It’s only because I’m a writer that she thinks I should be having sex. There are other obvious factors that are driving my inability to finish. The pressure to write a play that doesn’t put people to sleep—not just a good play, but an important play. Mom’s calls are a distraction. On the other hand, Dad never calls. My father’s constant non-calls are as much of a distraction as Mom’s incessant ones. And then there is Marsden. Always Marsden.