The Man on the Third Floor by Anne Bernays

Author:Anne Bernays
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1579623395
Publisher: The Permanent Press
Published: 2012-10-17T04:00:00+00:00

IT WAS past eleven when Phyllis got home. No visit with my prince tonight. I was in bed reading one of Bruce Catton’s books about the Civil War, rumored to be a top contender for this year’s Pulitzer in non-fiction. It was a pretty good read and I kicked myself for not having made a larger offer when it was originally auctioned.

“Oh, you’re still awake?” she said.

“Did you eat?”

“Those nasty little hors d’oeuvres?” she said. “No, I made myself a sandwich just now.” There was a trace of something shiny on her chin. Why did I notice these things?

“Well,” I said, “you certainly seemed to have enjoyed yourself. What a crowd! My father would have called half of it ‘the enemy.’ ”

“You mean because most of them are Republicans? Sometimes—and you’re probably not going to believe this— I can overlook that. Especially, you know, if it has something to do with me.” She was peeling her clothes off as she talked. I pretended to look at her, but I threw a veil over my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see the rolls and bumps and lumps; is there anything crueler than what time does to a female?

“I’m going to take a shower. My hair stinks of cigarette smoke.”

Phyllis was a long showerer. I decided to take a chance that tonight’s shower would be especially long. As soon as Phyllis was safely in the bathroom with the door closed, I sprinted upstairs for a goodnight hug and kiss. It turned out to be something more extended than a simple hug and kiss. When I came back downstairs, Phyllis was in bed with the bedside lamp turned off. Light from cars traveling our street striped the ceiling and were gone. In the dark, she asked me where I had been. Guilt made me irritated and rough. I told her that she knew I had some of my best ideas at night, why did she keep asking me the same question over and over again. I was writing a memo about the Civil War if she really wanted to know; did she want to take a look at it.

“You don’t have to jump down my throat,” she said.

I muttered an apology as I slipped into bed beside her. I could feel her heat although none of our body parts were touching.

“That man at the reception I was talking to? He works at the station. He told me he was pretty sure I had the job.”

“Congratulations,” I said, wondering if she expected me to kiss her goodnight. She smelled like lavender, for me a very seductive odor. The guilt was draining away and a rush of benevolence came over me. Two people loved me. Most of us have only one, at best. I knew with perfect clarity that some might view my little arrangement as sick; but far from feeling sick I was energized by the variety of sexual experience open to me. It made me think hard about a lot of things I would not have had I lived as an ordinary husband and father.

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