May We Be Forgiven

way,” she says.
“When was the last time you wanted me?” he says. “In the way that a woman should want her man.”
“I’ve never liked sex, you know that,” she says, looking at him in the mirror of her dressing table.
“Exactly,” he says, talking to her reflection. “But imagine how that makes a fella feel? The thing is, I like it and it would be nice to do it once in a while with someone who didn’t think it was disgusting.”
“It is my understanding that you certainly have found places to ‘do it.’”
“It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”
“Doesn’t it?” she says. “Well, Arthur, when you talk about things that could hurt you, having relations with your boss’s secretary can’t be good for you, can it?”
“Men don’t see it the same as women,” he says.
“I’m sure,” she says.
He comes close to her, close to the dressing table where she’s sitting, putting cream on her face.
“Put some on me,” he says, almost begging for it. She’s not interested.
“You know how to take care of yourself,” she says, getting up and walking away.
He reaches out to pull her towards him, but everything goes wrong, and his hand connects with her face, like he’s taking a swing at her. It’s not the first time something like this has happened.
She has no reaction, she just takes it, and somehow it’s the lack of a reaction, the absence of anything human, that prompts him to do it again—this time with clear intention. Fingers rolled into a fist, he lays one on her, hitting her cheek.
She doesn’t fall; she stands there, barely swaying. “Are we done for the night?” she says and then spits—a single tooth lands on the carpet.
With nothing left to say, he goes down the hall, takes the blanket they used to use for summer picnics in the park out of the closet, and sets himself up on the sofa. Alone among the side tables, lamps, and wing chair, he sobs. Heavy tears like marbles running down his face as he talks out loud to himself, in a rambling incantation that stops only when he plugs his mouth with his thumb—sucking until sleep comes.

    A t noon, Wanda comes into the conference room, puncturing the reverie. “Time for lunch,” she says.
    “That’s okay,” I say, “I’ll work straight through.”
    “We break for lunch,” Wanda says. And I look at her. “There’s no one available to monitor you, so you need to come out for an hour. You may leave your materials as they are; we’ll lock the room.”
    I ride down in the elevator with Wanda. As we’re getting out, I glance at her; she looks at me, concerned. “Do you need money for lunch?” she asks.
    “Oh no,” I say. “I’ve got plenty of money, just no identification. Not to worry. Is there someplace you’d recommend?”
    “There’s a salad bar in the deli across the street, and restaurants up and down,” she says, relieved.
    I walk out of the building and into the light, realize Claire could be out there, and furtively duck into the deli, where I slip into the rotation of people walking in slow circles around the salad bar, vaguely mumbling like they’re meditating. There’s chopped lettuce, cherry tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, steamy trays of meat in mysterious sauce, brilliant orange macaroni and cheese.
    I think of Nixon’s short story about the diner and find myself putting meat loaf and mashed potatoes into my container, and then a large scoop of hot, heavy macaroni that softens the Styrofoam. I pay and go to the back of the deli, where I see a few guys sitting on empty plastic pickle barrels. “Mind if I join?” I ask, and they simply look at me and go back to eating. The food is delicious—beyond delicious, it is divine, a mélange of flavors like nothing I’ve ever had before.
    “You look busy,” the Chinese woman from the deli says to me while I’m perched on the pickle barrel.
    “I’ve had a very big day,” I say.
    “You go to work, you win, win, win.”
    I nod. She brings me a cup of tea.
    “Do you know Richard Nixon?” I ask.
    “Of course,” she says. “Without Nixon I’d be nowhere.”
    “I’m working on Nixon.”
    “Pick something,” she says. “Before you go, you pick for yourself for later.”
    “That’s okay,” I say, not sure what she wants me to do.
    She slaps a Hershey bar into my hand. “You like with almond?”
    “This is great,” I say, looking down—almond.
    “You do good work,” she says, nodding. “I know you from before, long time ago, you buy