It was useless, though, for him to try to hide from me: His brilliant eyes told me everything.
By that time, I had realized what sex was for him; it was like a chess gameagainst himself, an addiction, a panacea that made him feel better, and a way to keep a hold on this world and to process, in his own way, what he’d gone through as a child.
But even though I understood the way he was and his reasons, I couldn’t stand the thought of sharing him with anyone else.
“I know you can’t understand that and—” he began, but I just shook my head, deciding not to ask him any more questions.
“I’m going to try.” I smiled at him, inescapably drawn to the fragility that I could now glimpse behind the facade of the immovable and inflexible man. “How long are you here for?” I asked, deciding to show him kindness instead. After all, I was pleased to see him, and I wanted him to know it.
“A few hours. I’ll be gone before your mother comes back,” he said softly, as though already aware that she wouldn’t approve of him being there.
“Okay. So what do you want to do?” I asked naively, and he shot me such a wicked look that I immediately realized what he intended to “do.”
It was me. Obviously.
Was there any occasion when he didn’t want to tear off all my clothes?
I gulped and cleared my throat in a way that made it obvious I was embarrassed.
“Go back to your reading; I won’t bother you,” he said instead, knocking me for a loop. I’d been expecting him to lead off with one of his dirty comments or a peremptory instruction like “get naked” or “get on your knees and suck me off, Babygirl.” Instead, he seemed interested in actually spending time with me. I was surprised.
“Oh, okay,” I said hesitatingly.
I led him up to my room, and once we got inside, I sat down on the bed and watched him wander inquisitively around. He still wore his black coat, his gloomy figure contrasting sharply with the soft, bright colors of my decor. He stopped abruptly in front of my desk and reached out to stroke the glass cube with the pearl inside, which was sitting next to a photo of me with my grandma. He appeared lost in thought for a few moments, staring vacantly at the precious object, and let his mind drift far away from me.
That happened to him regularly, and I usually tried to respect those moments when he turned inward.
“You kept it…” he noted, breaking the silence.
He turned around to look at me, and I just nodded.
Why would I throw out something I cared so much about?
Despite the fact that his very presence had been blowing up my life for months, I felt alive with him. I should have been thanking him every day for sparking emotions in me that I’d thought nonexistent, like love. Before I knew him, I had never realized how powerful and all-encompassing it could be between a man and a woman.
“You are important to me,” I allowed myself to tell him, and he raised his eyebrows in shock.
I’d caught him by surprise.
I liked this disarmed version of Neil. I loved to see him without his defensive walls, though he only rarely allowed me to do so.
He cleared his throat, and I was satisfied.
Had I made Neil Miller uncomfortable? This was a one-time event.
He resumed his investigation of my desk, pausing on a book lying near the cube. It was a philosophy text by Nietzsche.
“The Birth of Tragedy…” he read in a thoughtful murmur, grazing the cover with one hand. “A subject that I also find very interesting,” he told me, still not turning in my direction.
“You like philosophy?” I asked with obvious enthusiasm. He’d already demonstrated a love for Bukowski and a familiarity with the work of René Magritte; was Neil about to dazzle me with his understanding of philosophy?
“I find Freud and Schopenhauer a lot more compelling,” he answered, picking up the book to page through it slowly.
“Is this a strategy for luring in women? Showing off how cultured you are?” I teased. I could feel a comfortable understanding between us, and it made me happy. I’d thought that he’d ignored my texts for days because he regretted telling me about the clinic and his conditions. Instead, he seemed placid and easy.
I felt gratified.
“No. Women, in general, can’t tell you whether or not I am literate,” he answered flatly, putting the book back down where it had been. He turnedtoward me, and the sadness I saw in his face made me want to put my arms around him.
