Synopsis
Book by Boyko Craig
Extrait
The Problem of Pleasure
The first night they unpacked the stereo and the coffee maker. Their plan was to stay up all night and watch the sun come up, as she put it, over the slums where the little people lived.
They played tic-tac-toe on the balcony window with their saliva until she was convinced that two winning strategies inevitably resulted in a tie. They cleaned the glass with yellowing newspapers he found beneath the sink.
She took a shower and emerged with one towel draped around her body and another coiled in her hair. She had to look in the mirror to show him how it was done. He took a shower and put his dirty clothes back on.
They smoked the remainder of a rumpled joint that someone had shared with her at an audition for a chewing gum commercial. She stood on the sofa and delivered her one line with ecstatic glee, with slack-jawed forgetfulness, with shock and revulsion, with Shakespearean gusto: What’s that taste? She hadn’t gotten the part.
He turned off the lights, crouched next to her on the sofa, and traced his index fingers down the ridge of her spine.
How many? he asked.
Two, she said. No, one. I don’t know. I have a stomache, she mumbled, making it one word. Too much coffee.
My head hurts, he said, as though by way of consolation.
Your head hearts?
My head hearts, he agreed.
He brought out his camera. She pressed the backs of her hands against her forehead histrionically, like an ingénue. When she reached for him, he stepped away, raised the camera to his eye, and said: Click.
She fell asleep soon after the sky began to turn blue. He didn’t wake her. Instead he made more coffee, turned off the stereo, and unpacked his computer from a box she’d labelled fragile.
They had a rule. They were not allowed to say “I love you too.”
He’d said it once, and she’d said, Ah — no. Not allowed.
What do you mean, “not allowed”?
Empty and/or automatic reciprocation not allowed.
Okay. I love you.
Maybe. Maybe so. But how do I know you’re not just saying it because it’s what I want to hear? Wait a few minutes and try again.
A few minutes later he said, Oh, by the way. It just so happens that I love you.
Sorry. Too soon. I saw it coming. You need to surprise me.
Or you won’t know that I mean it?
Her sister liked him. Her brother liked him. Her father liked him. Her mother loved him. Jen liked him. Marco liked him. Hélène said he was cute. Roger thought he was intelligent. Elle said he seemed a little shy — but charming, definitely charming. Nan claimed he had “nerd chic.” Janice liked him. Wynne liked him. Heather liked him.
Caryn liked him, or said she liked him. She teased him, jabbed him with her knuckles, mussed his hair, called him the Hemogoblin — all playfully, of course, all in good fun. Or was it?
Caryn had liked Anthony better. Anthony had been wild.
But it didn’t matter.
Riding home in the crowded, silent, creaking subway train, he made lists.
The colour of her hair when it’s drying.
The loose, wrinkly skin that appears at her elbows when she straightens her arms.
The way she intentionally bruises her apples before eating them, tap tap tapping them on the counter or tabletop.
The way she doesn’t turn around, like most people, to glare incredulously at the crack in the sidewalk she’s just stumbled over, but walks on, seemingly unaware of having stumbled at all.
Her fuzzy earlobes.
Her face.
She taught him how to cook, cut his own hair, buy pants, and play guitar.
He taught her how to get free cable, make mix CDs, register her own domain name, and operate Unix, which she referred to as Eunuchs.
Because she always wanted to come along, and because he could not refuse, sometimes he stayed late at work so that he could take his after-dark walks alone, before going home.
On the phone to her sister he heard her say: No, I am still looking. It’s just that you have no idea how much time auditioning takes . . . Of course I don’t, you know how independent I am. But it’s not like he minds that I . . . You know, if everything you do is just the opposite of what Mom did, if everything’s just a knee-jerk reaction to the old fashioned . . . It has nothing to do with feminism, Laura . . .
And then she softly closed the bedroom door.
Would you still love me if I was fat?
Yes, he said after a pause.
Would you still love me if I was ugly?
Of course.
Would you still love me if I was a hundred years old?
No question.
Would you still love me if I was five?
Would you still love me if I was a man?
If I couldn’t speak any English?
If I didn’t have any arms or legs?
If I was just a disembodied head?
If I was made out of cheese?
Absolutely.
All of the above?
You mean, would I still love you if you were an ugly fat boy’s head, made out of cheese?
Who couldn’t speak English.
He pretended to consider it. Then: Yes, he said bravely. Yes, I think I would. All of the above.
Would you still love me if I didn’t love you?
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