Nude Men

push-ups, sit-ups, and stretches, and I invent many other types of movements and exercises. People say that God helps those who help themselves. In my case, I suppose I should say the elephant helps those who help themselves. I will make it, I tell myself, while I’m sweating, hurting, pushing myself to the limit and beyond. I have never hurt myself so much. This is a new me, a me who can hurt himself, who can endure any pain to achieve a goal, the goal of love, the love of Lady Henrietta, the painter of nude men. I decide to exercise, diet, and tan every evening until Saturday. I’ll even have sex with Charlotte if she wants. It’ll be additional exercise.
     
    “C an you come for dinner at seven-thirty tonight, honey?” Charlotte asks me on the phone the following day at work.
    “No, actually, I can only come later. I have a lot of work to do again tonight. Is nine o’clock okay?” (My tanning session is scheduled for seven-thirty.)
    “Well, if that’s the earliest, I guess it’s okay. Please wear a tie.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you know how much I like it.”
    “And you know how much I hate it.”
    “Just this once. Tonight is special.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s a surprise.”
    “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want for dinner?” I am hoping she isn’t planning a rich meal that will ruin my diet.
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because tonight is a surprise.”
    “I can’t eat anything heavy. I’ve been having stomach trouble recently. One of your light, healthy dinners would be just fine.”
    “Oh.” She sounds disappointed. “Well, this won’t be too extravagant.”
     
    B efore leaving my apartment to go to Charlotte’s, after my exercises and tanning session, I remember that she wanted me to wear a tie. I stand at the door, hesitating. I hate the fact that she likes ties and imposes her taste on me. It just reinforces the side of her personality that I can’t bear. If she likes ties, she should get involved with a banker or a lawyer. No, I will not put on a tie. It pisses me off too much.
     
    C harlotte’s table is set for two. There are lit candles and flowers in the middle.
    “It looks nice,” I say, as always, when I enter her apartment.
    She is wearing light makeup, which makes her features stand out in a pleasant way. She sort of has a tree-trunk figure. Her waist doesn’t curve in very much, and her breasts don’t curve out very much, but it could be worse. She could be fat. I could be fat. I am not fat.
    She is wearing a proper green dress that falls exactly one inch below her knees, pearls, and sensible shoes: pumps with a one-inch heel.
    Charlotte has the peculiar habit of never looking up. She always holds her head bent down and peeks up at you from under her eyebrows. Perhaps she does this to give herself a femme fatale look, the look of a seductress, or perhaps one day something fell in her eye when she looked up. I don’t know. I just know that I tested her once to see how extreme this quirk of hers was. I asked her to look up at the clouds, and she didn’t. I asked her a second time, and she changed the subject. I never asked her why she has this habit, because honestly I don’t really care. Nothing concerning Charlotte interests me very much. Nevertheless, it’s a useful quirk to know and to keep in mind, for if I ever need to hide something from her, I will nail it to the ceiling.
    Charlotte greets me with a smile, but when she sees my absent tie, her smile fades.
    “You’re not wearing a tie,” she says.
    “No, I didn’t feel like it. Sorry. Maybe next time.”
    “But I asked you to,” she nags.
    “I really didn’t feel like it. I’ve had a tough day. Please don’t make a big deal about it.”
    “I had a tough day too, you know? But I made the effort to arrange a great evening. I made myself look nice. All I asked of you was to come eat my meal, enjoy the candlelight, and wear a tie. I didn’t even ask you to stop on your way here to buy anything to contribute to the meal. Okay, forget it, let’s pretend this didn’t happen. Let’s pretend you’re wearing a tie. Would you like something to drink?” she asks, like a perfect hostess.
    “No, thanks,” I say.
    “Oh, now you’re mad.”
    “Nope.”
    She goes to the stove and says, “How was your day at the office, honey?”
    I lie on my back on her bed, letting my legs dangle over the edge. “I spent the whole day filing. All seven hours.”
    “What a shame. Isn’t there anything you