Nude Men

want you to keep seeing my friend Laura. She doesn’t have many friends, and I think you two could like each other a lot.”
    “I don’t think she liked me much. She barely spoke to me,” I say.
    “She liked you a whole lot. She told me so herself.”
    “I’m not fond of... what she does.”
    “What about you? Do you do something so fascinating that it allows you to be so judgmental and picky?”
    “I’m a fact checker. At least that’s something people do. I don’t know what you intend. Do you want me to get involved romantically with her?”
    “That would be nice. If you like her, that is.”
    “I like you.”
    “I know, but you can’t. I like Laura’s brother, Damon.”
    Damn. I knew it.
    “You must understand,” she continues, “I’m encouraging you as a favor to her. Sort of tit for tat. I help her find a guy, and she puts in a good word for me to her brother. I actually don’t know her that well. I met her recently, through her brother. I’m not incredibly fond of her. I find her quite ordinary, to be honest, which I know may surprise you, now that you’ve seen her show. Though she has qualities that would please most people. She’s sane, well-balanced, stable, wholesome, calm, easygoing, even-tempered, relaxed, serene. Her brother, on the other hand, is splendid.”
     
    W hen I get home, my cat, Minou, is almost smiling, looking at me through half-closed eyes. Her fur is all fluffed up and disheveled.
    Oh, Jeremy, darling! You look very good today, she says. I’ve been waiting endlessly for you to come home.
    Why?
    First tell me, am I pretty?
    Yes, as usual.
    You’re not even looking at me.
    I look at her, and she stretches luxuriously on the floor.
    How about now? she asks. Do I look pretty now? She purrs violently, but I can tell she’s making a tremendous effort not to purr while talking, because she knows it annoys me.
    Yes, you’re pretty, I reply. So why have you been waiting for me to come home?
    Because I think I have my heety-weety.
    What’s a heety-weety?
    Oh, Jeremy, you are sooo slow.
    Okay, I’m slow. So what’s a heety-weety?
    A heety-weety is my heat. Why aren’t the males coming?
    Well, how do you expect them to come? All the windows and doors are closed, and we live on the third floor.
    That doesn’t matter. They’re supposed to come anyway.
    You mean by walking through walls?
    I don’t know. They find ways.
    She meows a lot and looks as if she’s in pain. I feel sorry for her, so I say, Don’t worry, you’ll never have to go through this again. We’ll get you an operation, and you’ll feel fine and normal for the rest of your life.
    Are you insane? I want to make love. And I want to have children.
    But you’re going to start peeing everywhere.
    I promise I won’t.
    She goes on and on, horrified and indignant, and I begin to feel like a monster. She makes me swear never to have her operated on, but I cross my fingers to keep the option open.
    She calms down and says, Pet me, Jeremy, pet me. More. Don’t stop. Oh Jeremy.
     

chapter five
     
     
     
    T hree days later, for the first time, I visit Henrietta for no reason other than friendship.
    In fact, she is the one who suggested it. I thought it must be because Laura would be there. But no. Instead there is a good-looking nude man, being painted by Henrietta. He is lying in the most comfortable position he could find, unless that rule applies only to the imperfect models, like me. Henrietta says hello but is so absorbed by her painting and marzipan cats that she does not pay much attention to me. Her daughter, Sara, takes my hand and pulls me to her bedroom to show me her Humpty Dumpty collection.
    There are many different Humpty Dumpties sitting on her shelves. Many of them are real eggs with painted faces and string arms and legs pasted to them.
    “I made them,” says Sara.
    “They’re very well painted,” I tell her.
    She points to one of the eggs. I look at it and I am shocked. She says, “This one is my latest. I finished it this morning. It took me nine hours to make, during three days.”
    The face painted on the egg is my face.
    “Do you like it?” she asks.
    “Is it me?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s very realistic. You’re so talented.”
    “Thank you. Whenever I meet someone I like, I make an egg out of them.”
    “I’m very flattered.”
    “That’s not all. There’s a show that goes with it.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yes. Are you ready?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Okay.” She stands tall