I couldn’t say. “It might,” I said. “It also might not.”
“Which is it?”
“I don’t like his manner,” I said. I hadn’t thought of that before, but it seemed appropriate.
“What don’t you like about his manner?”
What doesn’t one like about someone’s manner? “He’s pushy,” I said.
“I see. That’s not likeable. What is he pushy about?”
I had no idea, but I wasn’t going to be humiliated by Klotzman again. “He goes to places where he’s not wanted.”
“Give me an example, if you will.”
“He goes after Eva when she doesn’t want to see him.”
“You weren’t sure whether she wanted to see him or not.”
“He came to my door and insisted on coming in to look around to see if Eva was there.”
“Did you let him in?”
“I didn’t. No. Besides she wasn’t inside. I had a tough time getting rid of him.”
“It sounds like you handled the situation well.”
“Thank you,” I said. “At the time I wasn’t sure.” Outrage welled up in me. “Who did he think he was?”
“I can see why you think he’s pushy,” he said. “How long ago was that?”
It was a while back. “Three months ago,” I said. It was actually closer to four.
“Was there anything more recent?”
I couldn’t remember if there was. “There might have been,” I said, thinking of his unwanted appearance in various dreams. “He also reminds of me of my half-brother, whom I never liked.”
“You had mentioned that before. I accept that you have reasons for not liking Ron.”
And that was that. A rare example of Klotzman accepting something I said at face value.
I realize I haven’t described Eva before. She was tall, about five foot eight, I would say, small-breasted, with an open face, which looked pretty from certain angles and not from others. She had mousy brown hair, not her best feature, which she tended to wear in an elaborate bun. When she let her hair down, it extended to her waist. At times, she talked about having it cut. “Short hair,” she liked to say, “is so much easier to deal with.”
I told her I didn’t want her to cut it. She wasn’t a great prize in the looks category, but I liked her face. I don’t think it was my telling her not to cut her hair that influenced her. Eva did what she wanted to do insofar as I understood her.
In some ways, she was like my mother, worrying me to take care of myself and to eat regular meals. Sometimes she cooked for me or brought over something she had cooked. I wasn’t crazy about her cuisine, which had an overall health food theme, but it was edible and I both appreciated and deplored her looking after me. I tended to go to a local coffee shop, a greasy spoon kind of place, for dinner. That was before Eva insisted that whatever I ate there was likely to be bad for me. After that, I felt guilty whenever I sneaked into my favorite coffee shop. And then I was spending more time with Eva, which included dinners together. Sometimes I got indigestion from the health food regimen, my body had made peace with my usual unhealthy fare.
After a week of healthy food, I positively longed for a greasy hamburger or a plate of bacon slices, both of which Eva had put off limits.
I asked Klotzman about the nature of his diet; he was overweight, which seemed a positive sign. He admitted that his wife had been after him recently to cut down on fatty foods. “Eating is one of my pleasures,” he said. “I insist on eating what I like, though I understand and sympathize with my wife’s position.”
I told him about Eva’s recent health food kick and my secret resistance to it.
“Why secret?”
“I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She likes to make dinners for me.”
“She feels protective of you,” he said. “She’s taking care of you. How does that make you feel?”
“I have mixed feelings,” I said. “It’s like my slouching. I appreciate that friends tell me to stand up straight and I do at times. However slouching is my natural condition and I’m more comfortable when I slouch.”
“You’re saying that you’re more comfortable eating junk food than healthful food. I understand that.”
“I don’t think Eva does,” I said. “She’s determined to improve me.”
Klotzman laughed. “Certain women want to improve the men they love. It’s not uncommon and mostly well-meaning.”
“What do you mean by mostly?” I asked.
“Only that motives are not without some complication. In Eva’s case, I would say that she wants the best for you.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t have mixed feelings about it,” I said.
“You can feel whatever you want to feel about it, which doesn’t change anything.”
“You think I should tell her to ease up? Is that what you’re saying.”
“If that’s what you want. You might find a way to tell her that’s not hurtful.”
I didn’t find a way to tell her, though I knew Klotzman was right, and it created some distance between us. I continued to eat the kind of food I liked on the sly, which felt like a form of being unfaithful. I was having a secret affair with greasy hamburgers, which aggravated my normal feelings of guilt.
I was polite about Eva’s sometimes unappetizing cuisine, even complimented it at times. She said she loved to cook for me because I ate with robust appetite. It was all performance on my part, but when I got into it I even believed it myself. At this point in our relationship, I was walking with Eva four or even five times a week and spending the night four times, the nights spaced out. This didn’t leave Ron much time to elbow in. Sometimes I knocked on her door on one of the nights I wasn’t staying over to check things out. That I had not run into Ron’s presence, hadn’t wholly convinced me that he was out of the picture.
Sometimes when I dropped over to borrow whatever, sugar or a stick of butter, Eva would give me a tray of food to take with me. We might as well as have been married. When we went to a restaurant together we acted like newlyweds, calling each other “Sweetie” or “Honey.” I liked that, but I still cherished my few nights alone. I was still, though part time, my own person.
And, after all, what was the absolute benefit of being your own person.
“No matter what you do, you’re your own person,” Klotzman told me. “Because you’re close to someone, it doesn’t mean your losing something of yourself.
I didn’t argue with him. What was the point? I knew what I felt. Even if he was right, he was wrong. And if you were me, what was so all-fired hot about being my own person. I couldn’t understand why Eva, though a little crazy herself, liked me so much. What did she see about me that I couldn’t see in myself? I wish I had the nerve to ask her. Perhaps some time while we were in bed together, I would ask. When you get down to it, everything is mysterious.
I mentioned to Eva that there were couples these days who lived together, shared a residence, without being legally married.
We were walking and she just raised an eyebrow when I made my ill-advised remark.
A moment later she asked what I had in mind when I made my remark. “It seemed to come out of the blue,” she said.
It was my turn to shrug. “Well, we’re spending a lot of time together,” I said.
“We’re not living together,” she said. “We each have our own place.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that so we continued on in silence.
“Have you thought of us living together?” she asked.
I backed off. “I like our arrangement,” I said. “What do you think?”
She put her arms around me and we hugged in the middle of the street.
I searched my mind for an endearment. “You’re my girl,” I said lamely.
“I’m your girl,” she said, giving my endearment added resonance.