“I’m not an object,” I tell him.
The pig chuckles to himself, like he finds my rebellious spirit endearing. Like I’m doing it to flirt or something.
I keep moving along but he doesn’t back off. He asks me which of the paintings I’d buy if money weren’t a constraint. I tell him I can already afford them but wouldn’t waste a penny on this junk. That doesn’t shut him up. He keeps hovering, getting closer.
“There you are,” a voice says. It’s different from the one I was expecting. Softer, like a metal that accidentally melted and now can’t go back.
I look up and there’s this other guy standing there, in between the stalker and me. My first thought is that I’ve met this guy before, but then I realize that’s just because he has that formulaic look, like he was created in some human genome lab with a perfectly controlled environment. He’s trim but not skinny, not short but not tall. His clean-shaven face is an unnervingly symmetrical oval, anchored by solid brown eyes and a right-triangle nose with a bridge as thin as a pencil. His olive skin is clear of acne scars and sunspots and any other evidence of interesting stories.
I suppose he’s objectively attractive, but subjectively he’s not my taste at all. Far too bland. His neck seems choked by his collar and tie, and that’s a turnoff if I’ve ever seen one. He’s probably about my age but has an older air about him. Maybe it’s the deep groove of his part line, like his hair has been raked by the comb so many mornings in a row that it’s lost the spirit to dissent, or maybe it never had any free will in the first place.
I’m not that intrigued by Mr. Suit—or Mr. Suitor, more accurately, since he’s clearly interested in me—but I am a little intrigued. There’s a stirring of the unexpected that such a follow-the-rules kind of person would have gone out of his way to develop a scheme to get this pig off my tail. I want to see if the plot might take another twist, so I go along with it.
“Darling, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” I say, all drama and delight, like I’m back in my audition days. I shove the rum drink into my faux partner’s hand and loop my free arm through his.
The old guy frowns. He asks if we’re together, and Mr. Suitor says that together is an understatement; we’re getting married next month. His voice is way too even-keeled, but it’s perfect for this ruse since it rings of reliability.
“I don’t wear my ring in public,” I explain, “because there’s too big of a risk of it getting stolen, what with the size of that rock and all.”
The pig snorts disapprovingly, then recovers enough to wish us his sincerest congratulations and skirts away, scouting his next prey.
Mr. Suitor shakes his head. “Why do men think they can act like that?” he asks.
It’s my turn to round on him. “Why do you thinkyoucan act like that?” I yank my arm free of his.
He looks perplexed, like he can’t possibly imagine why I’m not kissing his shiny loafers right now, thanking him for rescuing me, the damsel in distress.
I’m already furious with myself for going along with such a story, but I couldn’t resist how different it was from my Redstocking life. There’s no greater bait than the allure of the opposite and the way its hook snags my skin, leaving scars I’ll brag about later.
“I didn’t need saving,” I tell him. “And just for the record, I don’t believe in marriage.”
“What do you mean you don’t believe in it?” he asks.
I explain how I’m part of a feminist pact to never get married. “So if you were hoping that little engagement story back there would come true, so sorry, you’re out of luck.”
He puts on this injured expression. Guys like him love playing the victim card. He says he was just trying to help, he really wasn’t hitting on me. I sort of believe him, which pisses me off evenmore, so I slice him with my fiercest glare and march off into the crowd.
He follows me nearly as closely as the pig did, but I’m not half as bothered by it. Beneath his banal face, an inquisitive energy flickers. It’s like he’s gotten bored of himself and wants something else but just doesn’t realize it yet.
“Why don’t you believe in marriage?” he wants to know.
I think about freezing him out, but I’m hit by a spontaneous burst of generosity and indulge him with the quick facts.
“Marriage is a cage,” I say. “The best possible outcome is contentment, and that’s really just a synonym for complacency.”
“And what’s the worst outcome?” he asks. “Divorce?”
“No, of course not. At least divorce provides the opportunity for new beginnings. The worst outcome is total invisibility or maybe total indifference. Take your pick.”
He considers it for a moment. Impatience presses on me from all sides, seeking out the friction, creating some itself. “That’s a dismal view,” he finally says. “My parents are still crazy about each other.”
It’s so typical that this golden boy grew up in a picture-perfect family. I could choke on the cliché of it. “Chances are they’ve had affairs,” I say, hoping the phrase will soften the prick, throw a blanket over the barbed-wire fence I’m scaling.
“No, they haven’t,” he says, sounding very defensive about it, like I’ve crossed a line. It makes me want to cross the next one too.
“You can’t be sure of that.” I try to sound like I have the evidence to prove their infidelity. Life is all about projecting confidence. Fake it till you make it, Hal is always reminding me. I’ve just about mastered the trick.
He asks if my parents are still together, and I say no, I’m actually an orphan who was never adopted. I deliver the lie convincingly, but he doesn’t seem to buy it.
