Him Her Him Again The End of Him by Patricia Marx

Author:Patricia Marx
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

Part 3

HIM AGAIN

EIGHT

That’s mine!” a naked lady said to me as she clutched a ruffled plaid miniskirt to her chest. “I found it first! It’s the last one!” The lady wasn’t completely naked. She wore underwear and, hanging off one bra strap, a Velcro shoulder pad. She and I were among a crush of naked women in the dressing room at a sample sale.

I should not have been there. I should have been at work, where I was one of three writers on a children’s show called Tattle TV. In this show, real children took their grievances to a jury of fake children (child actors) who delivered a verdict as to whether the real children or their parents or their siblings or their teachers were the guilty party, as the case may be, as the case might have been. The show was produced by Frick Rips, which meant it wasn’t like other children’s shows. For instance, there was a segment called “What Mommy and Daddy Do After You Go to Sleep.” The writers did not have a lot to do, but still, a trial concerning an alleged unfair bedtime was pending and I was out of the office, trying on a black lace crop top.

I pulled the top over my head and tried to wriggle into it. “If you’re not going to take that, can I try it on?” the naked lady, still holding the ruffled plaid miniskirt, said.

“Sorry,” I said, “but I think I am going to buy it.” I didn’t want the top—it was, I’d say, two sizes too small for me—but I wanted her to have it less. And that is how I came to be wearing the black lace crop top that didn’t fit when I saw Eugene for the first time in seven years.

* * *

Eugene never did go to Princeton. Long after he was supposed to have started teaching there, my parents forwarded a postcard to me from him. “My dear,” he wrote. “Said nay to Princeton. Decided at last minute that the Philosophy of Two (& perhaps Three)—my proposed area of study—overly elitist. Was looking ahead to seeing much of you. Drat! Will be in constant touch. All love, Eugene.”

I believed him. I kept the postcard in my pocketbook for months and waited for him to call even after that.

Don’t think I didn’t go out with other guys during those years. But that isn’t this story. And besides, none of the guys is worth telling you about. None had read Zeno in the ancient Greek. None had even read Zeno. None usually had a copy of the Magna Carta in his pocket. None spoke about the joys of reciting poetry while looking out o’er the prow of a boat. None had “learn to play didgeridoo” on his To Do list. None could sing the rules of cricket. None had brown eyes with kind of yellow-specky things. None kissed the way Eugene did, which wasn’t that special, I have come to see, but this was before I came to see that.

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