It went on like that for three months. I'd call her early in the week, and she'd tell me whether she was free and on which weekend night. Three weekends she was booked up, or said she was. I knew she dated other men; she'd been open about that. One of them was Bert, the big blond guy she'd been with at the reception. Was she sleeping with him, with any of the other men she saw? The one thing she didn't talk about was her love life, but it seemed certain she had one. She wasn't the virginal type. It made me jealous, but all I could do was bide my time and hope to be favored someday. Her game, her rules.
Usually we went out to dinner, then a nightclub or a movie or a show of some kind. Once we drove down to Half Moon Bay; the rest of the time we stayed in the city. After each date I kissed her goodnight, a couple of times lingeringly, but that was all. She didn't invite me into her apartment. I wanted desperately to make love to her, but I was afraid to suggest it or to make any aggressive moves that might lead to rejection. Twice, in the car afterward, the memory of her body pressed close and the taste of her mouth gave me a hard-on. I'd only masturbated three times in my life before then, in my teens, but on both those nights I gave in to the frustration and the need for release as soon as I got home. My attitude and my behavior seems ridiculous now, looking back. But that was the kind of man I was then. The kind of half-man I was then.
Things changed on the last in our string of dates. Annalise drank a fair amount of wine, and when I took her home, she returned my kiss with more passion than ever before and invited me in. We sat on the couch, began making out. Her hunger was as great as mine at first; her tongue worked into my mouth, she ran her fingers through my hair and moaned a little when I slid a fumbling hand over one breast. I was certain we would end up in her bedroom.
But it didn't happen. Without warning she put a stop to it. Pulled away, breathing hard, and said, "No, we can't do this, it's all wrong."
I said, "Why?" in a choked voice.
"It just is. Wrong for me, wrong for you."
"Annalise—"
"No. You'd better go, Jordan. Right now."
I went. What else could I do? I went with my heart racing and my pants bulging and my head full of confusion. Drove home, jerked off, lay in bed trying to understand. She wasn't a tease and she hadn't been faking her passion; she'd wanted me as much as I wanted her. Then why the sudden turn from hot to cold? Why was having sex wrong for us?
I found out the following week. I called her on Tuesday, as usual, and at first she said she was busy that weekend. Then she said, "No, that's not fair to you," and said she'd see me Friday night. Not for dinner; for a drink, at Perry's on Union Street, where we'd gone a couple of times before. After work, say six o'clock. No, she didn't want me to pick her up, she'd meet me there. I tried to get her to tell me what was wrong, but all she'd say was "We'll talk about it on Friday."
Bad week. I sensed what was coming. I tried to tell myself I was overreacting, but by the time I met her at Perry's I'd given up the pretense. She was already there, sitting in one of the booths with a glass of wine. As soon as I saw her, I knew what she was going to say—I knew it was over.
She waited until I'd ordered a drink for myself. Then she sighed and said, "There's no point in prolonging this. You've probably already guessed anyway. Jordan, I'm sorry, but I don't think we should see each other anymore."
"Why not?" I had myself under tight control, but the words still came out sounding weak and plaintive. "Somebody else? Bert?"
"No. I haven't seen him in more than a month. It's not that."
"Then why?"
"I'm a bitch, that's why."
"That isn't an answer."
"All right. Can you stand brutally honest?"
"Yes."
"I'm fond of you, I really am. More so than any other guy I've been out with in a long time. I can talk to you, you're gentle, you don't make demands. But that's not enough for me."
"Why isn't it enough?"
"You want an intimate, long-term relationship. So do I. But I don't see any way we can have one together. That's why I didn't go to bed with you last week. I wanted to, I wanted to give you that much, but I couldn't go through with it and then hurt you like I'm doing right now. I'm not that much of a bitch."
"I don't understand," I said. "Why can't we keep on seeing each other?"
She said, "We're a bad mix, that's why. You can't give me what I need out of life. And I can't give you what you need."
"That isn't true . . ."
"Oh yes it is. In the long run you're looking for a wife, kids maybe, a nice little house in the suburbs. Stability, security. Respectability. None of that suits me. I grew up in a household like that and I'd go crazy, do God knows what, if I tried to live that kind of life again. Even without the Bible-thumping. No, don't say it wouldn't have to be that way with you. It would. It's already heading in that direction and that's why I have to end it now. We go out, we do the same kinds of things, all our time together is nice and orderly and predictable. Sex would spice it up for a while, but then that would become nice and orderly and predictable too. It almost always does in a long-running relationship."
The words stung, even though she was speaking in a low, matter-of-fact voice. I could feel myself wincing under the lash of them.
"What do you want, Annalise?"
"I told you I was ambitious, didn't I? I want to be a fashion designer, live in New York or Paris. If I can't have that, I'll settle for enough money to live well and dress well and travel, and I don't much care what I have to do to get it."
"You don't mean that—"
"I do mean it. I've already done things that would shock you if I told you about them. You see? I know you, but you don't know me at all."
"You've never let me know you, never even hinted at any of this before."
"I should have. I came close more than once."
"Why didn't you?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter. The point is, now you know what a greedy bitch I am. And you might as well know what else I want that you can't give me: thrills, excitement. You may not believe this, Jordan, but a lot of the time I don't really feel alive. I feel like I'm on hold, or caged, or worst of all, as if I'm running in a wheel like a goddamn hamster. I ache to go places, do things that are exciting and dangerous—live on the edge so I can feel alive all the time. Can you understand that?"
"Yes."
"I mean really understand. I don't see how you can."
"I may be dull, but I'm not insensitive."
"No, you're not," Annalise said. "And you're not stupid or self-deluded, either. You're as aware as I am of what you are—a nice, quiet, unexciting accountant who'll never be anything else. That's your future, and I don't want any part of it. Now, is that enough for you or should I say more?"
I hated her in that moment. The hate flared hot, a white stabbing brilliance like a matchhead struck in a dark room. It burned bright for three or four seconds, flickered, went out and crumbled away into ashes. Left me feeling numb.
She finished her glass of wine. I heard her say, "We'd better leave now." I got up when she did and followed her outside, two paces behind like a dog at heel.
On the cold, windy sidewalk she said, "My car's just down the block. We might as well say good-bye right here."
I said, "Annalise, I love you."
"Oh, God. I don't want to hear that. You're only making it more difficult."
"I can't help how I feel. Please, won't you just—"