“Sweetie you look terrible. Bad night?”

Elsa stares at her husband in disbelief. The shock of him this morning is great. She observes him as he smoothes a strand of chestnut hair from his face, revealing the monstrous forehead that causes her to pause mid-step, momentarily awestruck. Here stands a logical being--the marvel of her friends and family--the kind that prompts people to remind her of how lucky she is to have found him. Pete is that sort of man.

Today he seems big and out of place. A strange mood seizes her as she staggers towards the coffee pot. She clenches her fists. Watch the caffeine consumption! He doesn’t have to say a word. The thin lips begin their descent. She selects the smaller mug, fills it halfway, gulps the bitter liquid. Pete is talking…something about a noon meeting…so you’re having lunch with Lydia today…class in the afternoon…Right? She nods agreeably to whatever he is saying.

“Home by Six…”

She waves…Bye, Bye…

Once outside the doctor’s foreboding speech bellows in her mind: The uterine lining is quite thin…you mustn’t push yourself in any way--She banishes the words from her mind, and calculates that if she runs the shortest loop it will allow her 48 minutes to shower, dress and organize herself out of the apartment. She will have time to make the bed if she operates at top speed; in any event, leaving the bed unmade isn’t an option. She experiences a sense of disorder at the mere speculation, although the thought of arriving late for class plummets her into a state of further unease. The noted art historian Ms. Penelope Chandler clearly dislikes her. Last week unable to disguise her disdain: What now Elsa? You look puzzled…This observation delivered in an irksome tone, interrupting her thoughts about Pete's laundry…Did I tell them he needs the shirts by this evening? Her silent retort: Well what about Picasso. He was a misogynist. Do I need to know anything else? She rubbed her belly, groped in her Sac for the Pepto Bismal, greedily swilled the pink remedy; Ms. Chandler’s black eyes narrowing.

The air is crisp--a perfect autumn day. She feels the contemptuous glare chasing her; quickens her pace, swallows the vomit as it rises in her throat. She inhales extravagantly, reminding her of Cecilia--her neighbor; a goddess of sorts, but in her opinion one of those touchy yoga bitches; a vision all the same…shades of gleaming brown. You shouldn’t be so judgmental, Pete says. Pete also says it is important to challenge oneself in life – Mustn’t succumb to complacency…the gentle coax that led to her enrollment in the class. He has no idea she’s running again, and as she rounds the first bend she finds herself euphoric. She runs past the Church of the Heavenly Rest, observes the Gothic Revival foundation of her youth, the progressive playground her mother continues to hold responsible for her moral collapse. I guess those were the times dear. Buffalo sandals; Bonny Bell bubblegum lipstick; long hair and beads…the world pleading for love. She remembers when she ran away and found a bat in Central Park. A dying bat hidden in a tree.

It was five Christmas’ ago she waltzed into her Kentucky home, charming investment analyst on arm; the family gaped in stunned amazement, as though she’d pulled from a bag of tricks…a brilliant sleight of hand. Her mother congratulated her with a wink and a nudge--it’s as easy to love a rich man as a poor man…when poverty comes in the window, love goes out the door…She crouched beside the small refrigerator as her mother basted the turkey and prattled on…Lydia sent roses for our anniversary...Her dance career is really taking off…Look at how lovely you are…Honey will you start the cranberry muffins? In between gulps of wine…yes, mom…she managed to polish off the bottle. Fuzzy and better, she mused as her mother continued to carry on, now plotting decorating schemes for their newly purchased apartment on Central Park West. I want a lavender bedroom. Pale. Nothing garish. She knew her mother didn’t hear her. Charlene Munro was busy inspecting herself in the mirror, perfecting the enormous mouth--Lancome Mauvette--pursing slightly to appreciate it to full effect. The hum of men discussing money strategies in the next room were like a song of surrender; Elsa felt herself lulled to safety. Five Springer Spaniels ran in and out of the kitchen. The cranberry muffins – Perfection! I am Elsa Chandler now. Elsa Munro married a money man. Elsa Munro turned her back on the junky; the European; the struggling artist; the one who broke her heart.
That night she offered a wanton display in holiday pink--the same dress she’d worn fifteen years earlier - once upon a time in love; her first sex kitten spectacle. Pete was embarrassed, but he was able to go through with it. She pushed his face away, hissing, don’t kiss me!. He fucked her like a whore, and though she spent the rest of the night slumped over the toilet bowl, retching black bile, in that moment she thought I finally made a good decision. It was a marvelous realization. She brushed her teeth and made her way back to the bed where she found Pete sprawled in a heap. She had a pressing urge to confess her life to him, the whole sordid tale, especially the part about Jeffrey. She wanted him to know what she was prepared to do for love; he slept and groaned softly, turning his face away from her as she whispered to him.

Inside, drenched, Elsa races to the shower. The scalding water pierces her flesh, but she does not alter the temperature. She applies the shampoo, furiously attacks her scalp, then noting the absence of conditioner, races out of the shower, down the hall leaving a trail of suds and water. It seems an endless journey to the foyer. She passes their bedroom, the wall’s floral pattern accosting her senses. She turns away from the fuchsia snakes, the canopied bed in which she experiences unprecedented insomnia. Now through the library she holds her breath, pausing to take in the blood red horror of it all. The nausea has returned.

Flying into the foyer she collides with Pete, screams because it takes her a minute to process that this is her husband. What is he doing here? Pete with briefcase. Pete in pinstripe suit and tie. Pete: Unto Death do us part. Characteristically unruffled, but now appearing quite baffled, he says, “I forgot something.”

It occurs to her he has never seen her this naked before. They make love in the dark. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps he’ll be rendered impotent by the truth of me. The idea occurs as she frantically searches the suitcases contents, cursing shit fuck shit fuck. Somewhere exists the dull notion he shouldn’t be here, he should be in a meeting. That is what he said, the words quite precise: “I’m unreachable between noon and two.” Well here he stands, clearly aghast by the sight of her. She can’t make sense of it, turns and runs from him; by the time she reaches the shower he is forgotten.

In the movie he spanks her, bruises her, insults her intelligence, comes on her back, then fires her apologetically. Elsa is aroused as she sits in the sushi restaurant selected for its uplifting atmosphere. She attempts to dismiss the twinge of guilt that threatens to spoil her mood. She doesn’t have to tell Pete she’s dropped the class, but this scenario resurrects the junkie, the one who thought a career in graphic design might suit her. She recalls those weeks spent in utter bewilderment--each class waving the hand in panic, summoning the teacher’s assistant for a personal demonstration--her final flight from the classroom, the next few weeks spent loitering around the city, which forced her to take to drink; still he dumped her before realizing her failure--one night strung out on coke he says, Ciao. Nothing lasts forever babe. He’s off to a flaming red head. She remembers how she stood naked before the mirror, contemplating her eggplant hair and matching pubic arrangement.

Nausea abated, Elsa awaits the selection of spicy rolls with savage interest. She’s not going to spend another instant in this rumination. She distracts herself with the neon daisies; the black clad waiters zooming about remind her of humming birds. All of it inspires her. It would be so nice to have a little bottle of saki…to sit and wonder a bit…

It is one week ago today he popped back into her life. Walking down Columbus, just a mindless stroll, and she sees the fiendish figure make a mad dash for her. He races diagonally across the street, is nearly run over by a taxi before her eyes. GET OUT OF THE WAY MOTHER FUCKER! For a moment she thinks this is it, he’s going to be slaughtered before me. It is an enthralling vision that fills her with unexpected horror. FUCKIN’ ASSHOLE! NEXT TIME I RUN YOU OVER.

“The one who got away…” He stands before her, so close she feels his breath caress her face; a hundred little kisses at once. It occurs to her she might slap him, denounce him for the cad he is, but instead she giggles, blushes crimson, averts her eyes, which now stare at his shoes – tattered leather. He is still poor.

“You’re quite…polished.”

“I am with child!” The boast is inexplicable. Again she flushes uncontrollably.

Is he disturbed? She thinks she notices him flinch. He stares at her and after a minute cups her face in his hands, whispers…You are so beautiful. Perfectly preserved. I have a theory that rich women don’t age. It takes her a moment to push him away – a few seconds hesitation. She must close her eyes, summon the strength before she is able to lift her head, throw her shoulders back, proceed with her jaunt, attempting to recollect her destination.

Still he taunts, “You were talking to me today…I heard you El…Look at me and tell me I’m wrong.”

“Are you stalking me?” she says, her voice like a purr.

“Should I be?”

How ridiculous he is? As though they exist in a time warp. Nearly ten years now, but for a moment it does feel the same…the touch of his hand, enveloping her tiny fingers. Let me hold your little hand…Isn’t that what he used to say...And then she does dare to meet his gaze, her eyes defiant: You’re not getting anything from me. Two can play this game. Now you see me, now you don’t…Fatefully, her telephone rings; she mouths the word proudly: HUSBAND; a whisper, her hand shielding the mouthpiece. He brushes his fingers through her hair. She is so startled she disconnects Pete. Again the phone rings…I just bumped into an old acquaintance…yes, I’ll meet you there at six…
“Let me guess. Cocktails at the Met…”

Now she’s had enough of him. It’s just the kind of thing he’d do…come around all these years later for no reason at all--appearing like some Jack in the Box--just to make trouble…as though he loved her.

“Jeffrey, I have nothing to say to you.” Just saying his name aloud, it’s as if he’s inside her. She wrests her hand from his grip. The words don’t escape her lips; instead, they circle like a pool of sharks – He found me…He found me…He found me.

Have they been walking, fingers entwined, for three blocks?

She decides to order the saki. She hasn’t had a drink in thirteen months. Pete prefers her on the straight and narrow path, but in the passing of an instant she finds she doesn’t give a damn. The thought of them persists. I’ll mail him a postcard sometime. Dear Pete and Cecilia…The saki burns her throat, but she drains the bottle in haste, motions the waiter for another.

“You look like a happy lady…”

“Oh, yes, I am a Very Happy Lady.” She begins plotting; consults her compact; makes the necessary repairs.

“Taxi!” The cab lurches to a halt. She wonders how much it costs to get to Brooklyn now.

“The thing that kills me is that you knew I was coming…I won’t linger you know.” She is in the habit of telling him everything at once, but finds herself in a sudden muddle.

He attempts a guileless expression – unsuccessful – her brow furrows suspiciously.

“You took longer than I expected…” He presses his forehead against hers.

She thinks of when they left Cambridge, the midnight drive in his white pick-up truck all those years ago; she’s drinking red wine and singing, Cecilia you’re breaking my heart, you’re shaking my confidence lately… She says, I made out with Carol last week. Maybe I’m a lesbian. He says, You’re drunk. The truth is she can’t get enough of him.

That first day in the city they celebrate by making love three times before noon. This isn’t a good habit to get into. His words jolt her, but she forgets to ask him whether he means sex or booze, or both. They decide to walk to Washington Square Park. It’s her idea to sit in the dog run. She throws peanuts to a group of pigeons huddled just outside the fence. A Cocker Spaniel puppy spots a horse and begins a revolution; soon all the dogs are in an uproar, and the policeman rides away. That’s the kind of dog I want, she says. He wears a dazed expression. She asks what’s wrong? Isn’t everything perfect? She is in love, sitting on a bench, watching a cocker spaniel puppy. He says, Everything is too much…the sky is too blue…the clouds are too puffy…She doesn’t notice his ramble.

Now they’re in the bedroom. How did I get here? I can’t remember moving from the doorway. Did he carry me? When he carries me I forget. Questions roam: Why did you do it? Whose kimono is hanging on the door? What happened to our dog? Did you ever finish Peter the Great? Whose fucking kimono is hanging on the door????

A different kind of mess, this one…The lavender paint is peeling, but otherwise it’s all the same. He kept the blue settee and the hands of George Sand.

“Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?”

He hesitates. This is one of her tests. Party in Maine. Led Zeppelin. Beautiful girl with black hair singing by herself in the corner, Baby, you know I’m gonna leave you…wondering if he walks over there, will she become part of his dream? He enjoys watching her. It’s probably all he needs, but on a whim he walks over, pins her against the wall.

“Let’s pretend we’re in love,” he says.