People stare, of course. But Strad and Lily don’t care. In their rooms, she doesn’t wear the mask, only the music.
Strad feels protective of her. He’s attentive to her psychological and emotional needs. The more she gets to know him, the more she loves him.
BACK IN NEW York, I’ve been having an intense e-mail correspondence with Peter while he’s away visiting his dad. Our exchanges are flirtatious and titillating. I can hardly sleep. I spend most of my days smiling or snickering to myself while working, reminiscing about the last message sent or received.
I can’t wait for him to get back, can’t wait for him to indulge his sense of touch. I wonder what first move he has planned, how he will touch me, how he will kiss me, how he will undress me, how surprised he’ll be to encounter my fake fat under my clothes, how astonished — though not overly ecstatic, otherwise that would make him shallow — he’ll be to discover I’m attractive by every conventional standard, not only by his open-minded, evolved, and big-hearted one. For the first time, I will take off my disguise out of love, not out of hate, like I do in bars. And then I can keep it off, because I will no longer be searching for my soul mate. I will have found him.
My friends have remarked that since I’ve met Peter, I’ve stopped going to bars and doing my stripping ritual. It’s true, I’ve lost the urge to rub shallow men’s faces in their own superficiality.
PETER RETURNS FROM his trip, and our long-awaited reunion is that same evening, during which he will complete his demonstration by delighting his sense of touch. I’m very excited, imagining his caresses.
When he walks through my door, right on time, he gives me a big hug and smiles at me, saying, “I missed you.” He’s lightly stroking my gray curls with the tips of his fingers. I’m glad my wig is made of real hair.
We position ourselves just like we did at his apartment, with me on the couch and him on a chair facing me, close.
He opens his bag and pulls out a piece of fabric. He begins stroking the fabric — red velvet — while staring at me.
Needless to say, this is not the kind of touching I expected.
After what feels like ten minutes (but maybe it was just one), I say, “Is it still good?”
“Remarkably.”
“You’d think the pleasure of touching that thing would wear off after a few minutes.”
“Hasn’t yet. It’s really very soft.”
I nod. Maybe if I act ever so slightly bored, that will nudge him in the right direction. So I lean my head back and gaze past him, as though momentarily lost in thought.
After another minute, he says, “Well, that was great.” He puts his piece of velvet back in his bag.
I smile and nod again. And wait. He does nothing.
“So, is the demonstration complete?” I ask.
“I think so. At least for now. I mean, one can always do better, I suppose. There are always more pleasures one can come up with.”
I wait a moment, hopeful, but he still does nothing.
I laugh, worn out. I could try to nudge him a little more, but I’m tired of it, so instead, I say, “You know, you’re a bit strange.”
“I know,” he blurts. “The reason is… there’s something I need to tell you. But I don’t want to, because it’s something about me I’m not sure you’d like.”
Everyone has secrets these days — I think of KAY’s secret identity, whoever KAY is, of mine, of Lily’s.
“Really? You’d be surprised, I’m very open-minded,” I say.
“Maybe not as much as you think.”
“What is it? I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”
“If I tell you,” he says, “I don’t think you’ll want to see me again.”
“Now I’m intrigued. Why don’t you tell me?”
“The consequences could be dire.”
I don’t insist because I don’t believe him. I think it’s the classic: It’s not you, it’s me.
And I’m starting to think he’s the classic guy, like all those guys I’ve met at bars. He can’t get past my teeth, my fat, my gray, my frizz. I suspect that’s the secret thing he knows I won’t like about him — the fact that he’s not attracted to me.
He says he should be getting home because he has an early day tomorrow, and that it was lovely to see me. He leans forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek, and then he’s gone.
ON LILY AND Strad’s seventh morning in Vieques, they are sitting on her balcony, her legs resting on his. Her music is playing just inside and is very audible from where they are, so she’s not wearing her mask. But she’s holding it on her lap, just in case.
The empty breakfast dishes are on a low table in front of them. Lily is staring out at the ocean.
“You seem melancholy,” Strad remarks, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“No, I’m fine,” she says, smiling.
But that’s not quite true. What she’s thinking about is the one flaw in their happiness: her dishonesty.
Yet what can she do? Nothing, if she wants their relationship to continue.
Looking down at her beautiful mask, she thinks about how much she hates it, about how much she wishes she didn’t have to wear it. And she thinks about the guilt. And the fear. Guilt about lying to Strad. Fear of being discovered. Plus, the mask is uncomfortable to wear. And the music is annoying.
Her confidence has been soaring lately — foolishly, she knows. She’s been thinking that perhaps he’d still love her if she revealed she’s Lily. After all, their great times together seem based on so much more than just her looks. Maybe beauty matters only at the start of a relationship, when it sparks the initial interest. But each time she formulates this thought, she beats herself up about the stupidity of it. The thought, however, comes back: Strad was very nice about her childhood sexual abuse story. Very supportive and understanding. Isn’t there a chance he might be equally understanding if she revealed her true story, which in a way is no less tragic: extreme ugliness, no romantic or sexual interest from anyone, ever. And once again she can’t believe how dumb she is to think he’d be understanding. He already knows Lily. Has he seemed charmed by her plight? Did he court her? No.
They go parasailing together over the ocean, both under the same parachute. People stare at Lily in her white mask. Afterward, they lie on chairs on the beach, reading and people-watching, commenting to each other about the beachgoers’ swimsuits, flirtations, affectations, and reading material. They laugh and play in the water, touching each other naughtily, and return to the hotel.
Lily heads for her room, which is adjacent to Strad’s. She’s the one who insisted they have separate rooms so that she could sleep without her mask or the music on.
Strad stands behind Lily as she slides her electronic key in the lock. She pushes her door open and gasps when she sees what’s inside. The room is filled with flowers, bouquets resting on every surface. A little dinner table that wasn’t there before is beautifully set for two.
She looks at Strad. He admits responsibility and tells her a bath has been run for her if she feels like one before their dinner here at eight.
Strad goes back to his room. Enchanted, Lily steps into the hot bath. She’s never had rose petals floating on her bathwater before. She takes off her mask and places it on the floor, within her reach. The music is off. She closes her eyes and enjoys the silence.
After her bath, she dons a pretty yellow chiffon dress and lies on her bed, waiting for dinner. No further preparations are needed. Her music is the only makeup she wears. Applying regular makeup on top of her musical makeup mars perfection, as she discovered recently when, out of curiosity, she tried it.