Nude Men

because she’s getting along splendidly with my girlfriend, who just moved in.
    Finally, I answer, “She’s just hot, that’s all.”
    “But why does she want so badly to be petted? She’s completely
    frantic.”
    I reply the first thing that pops into my mind: “She likes to be petted when she’s hot, because it aerates her fur.”
    “What do you mean, ‘aerates’?”
    “You know, it ventilates it.”
    “I wouldn’t mind getting my fur aerated,” mutters Sara.
    I pretend I didn’t hear, and we leave it at that. We drink the tea and talk about the weather. She’s the one who brings up the weather, and I’m glad; I could not have thought of a more wonderful subject to discuss with her. Deliciously impersonal. Perhaps if we get sufficiently into it, we can talk about the weather until Charlotte gets back in a few hours, and I will have survived this visit. After a while, though, the conversation is becoming one-sided. I’m the one talking about clouds, various clouds, and how I wish I knew the names of all the different types of clouds. And I tell her about rain, and the fact that one should not drink rain, because even though one might think that it’s the purest water in the world, actually it’s not, especially in the cities, because it picks up the pollution from the air as it falls from the clouds. And I tell her about snow, that I used to eat snow, and that one should probably not eat snow either, especially in the cities, for the same reason that one should not drink rain. And I tell her, “Could you please pour me a tall glass of warm summer rain.” And I laugh. Sara is starting to look at me strangely. I don’t know how I know this, since she is wearing the mask, but I do know it. Perhaps through the particular quality of her silence. A silence with her breath restrained, her breath just hanging there in the middle of her lungs, not going out very much and not going in very much.
    I don’t dare ask her why she’s wearing that mask. If I’m lucky maybe she’ll forget she’s wearing it. Or at least, maybe she’ll forget why she’s wearing it, which is what matters.
    Finally, she says, “Did you have a good week?”
    “Yes. Yes, I did,” I lie, and nod. “And you?” I see the danger of that question as soon as I have uttered it, and I wish I had kept my mouth shut, because she either did or did not have a good week, both of which possibilities are probably my fault for reasons I don’t want to hear or know.
    “I had an interesting week,” she says, “other than waiting nervously for your phone call. I had to write a story for school. The teacher gave me an A-plus on it, but then she called in my mother for a private conference because she thought the story showed that I might have problems at home. She’s a stupid teacher.”
    I suddenly get very scared and wonder if her story is about a little girl who goes to Disney World and has an affair with a grown man.
    “What was in your story that made your teacher think you might have problems at home?” I ask.
    “Beats me.”
    “Who beats you?”
    “No. Beats me, as in: I have no clue.”
    “Oh. Well, what was your story about?”
    “Thank you for asking. The title was, quote: The Unauthorized Biography of the Late Humpty Dumpty. The True Story Behind His Great Fall. His Secret Addiction, His Hidden Obsession, His Torturous Temptation, His Dilemma: To Hatch or Not to Hatch? That is the Question. End of quote. Do you like the title?”
    “Yes, but why did your teacher think you had problems at home? What was your story about?”
    “Thank you for asking again. Once upon a time Humpty Dumpty had a temptation, a great desire. He wanted to be sat on by a hen. After all, it was normal, for he was an egg, and being sat on by a downy bird butt is an egg’s natural destiny and desire. There was a big beautiful hen near where he lived. She was always sitting, and never on any eggs, and therefore she had plenty of vacant space under her for him. Humpty wanted ever so badly to go slide himself under her soft sitting bird butt, but he knew it was dangerous, it was a risk, for if he indulged in the pleasure of being sat on, he would soon hatch and would no longer be an egg, and he liked being an egg, and he wasn’t sure he’d like being a chick. Do you like it so far?”
    “Yes; go on,” I tell her.
    “Okay.” Sara puts down her tea, walks over to me, takes my teacup from my hands, puts it on the table, and sits on my