We’re out on a steamy Thursday night, blotting our clammy faces with cocktail napkins and craning our necks to catch the breeze surging across the rooftop bar. As Boyfriend heads off to procure a drink, I turn and find myself facing an acquaintaince, E. Her puzzled expression shows that she recalls meeting me but can’t remember the details.
I throw on a smile. “Hi, how are you? E, right?”
“Yes. We’ve met before, I think you’re a friend of R?” she asks, tossing her collarbone-length hair behind her shoulder. The pieces around her face are carefully styled, while the rest looks frizzled and ready to ignite in the heat. I’d put her in her early forties, though in this city age is an amorphous void filled with premature cynicism and store-bought youth. Her face is still beautiful, but her eyes and mouth have begun to retreat behind tight creases, and she moves with a nervous energy that puts me at ill ease.
“Honey, can I get my phone?” Boyfriend appears at my side and I make speedy introductions.
“You said you needed your phone? It’s in here.” I hand him my purse and he pulls open the zipper, rooting around until he finds the device. I reach out an arm to retrieve the bag and halt: E is now staring at me as if I’ve just lifted my skirt, pulled off a leather and chain mail thong and handed it to him in the middle of the crowded bar.
“You let him go in your purse??” she nearly squeaks. Her eyes are wide to the point of dilation, framed by curled lashes.
“Uh, sure, if he needs something.”
She shakes her head violently and shudders. “I never let my husband look inside my purse, not in seven years of marriage. Who knows what he might see in there.”
“Uh, what exactly do you keep in your purse that you wouldn’t want him seeing?” I ask, laughing to show that I’m not trying to pry. The entire contents of my purse include a wallet, a cell phone and a lip gloss, all of which Boyfriend is welcome to inspect.
“It’s the principle, dear. I can’t have him going in my private spaces. I keep my personal things in my purse, and he may not look inside, ever. It’s the rule. Same with walking around naked: if he needs to walk from the bedroom to the kitchen, he must put on shorts and a robe. It’s the rule.”
“So you won’t let him walk around naked in his own apartment?” I ask, trying not to sound too incredulous.
“Not if I’m there. Ugh! It’s so disrespectful! If he’s in my presence, I expect him to follow the rule and put on some clothes.” She switches her drink to her left hand and makes a slashing gesture, palm down, with her right. “It’s all about mystique. If you don’t have it, the marriage will fail. You have to keep some mystery or else the relationship is doomed. How about you? Do you keep the mystery?”
I shift my weight onto my right heel, then shift back, playing with the base of my wine glass. “Uh, sure. I mean, I guess I object if Boyfriend tries to pee in front of me, or if he pees while I’m in the shower.” Saying the words, I clench my jaw and press my lips together to keep from cracking up. I can see from the corner of my eye that Boyfriend is doing the same.
She curls her lip in disgust. “Ugh! How vile! Never let him do that. Men are repulsive. They’ll turn your apartment into a barn. All bathroom activity must take place either at the office or when you’re on the other side of the house.”
I’m about to ask her how exactly I’m supposed to tell my significant other not to urinate in his own apartment when Boyfriend jumps in. “And where’s your husband now?” he asks, his tone the mixture of impish curiosity and razor impatience that he uses with slightly confrontational questions.
She shrugs noncommittally. “He left me. Seven great years of marriage, and suddenly he says he wants a divorce,” she says, without a trace of irony. Boyfriend and I exchange a look. On some level I admire her honesty; we’re complete strangers, she had every reason to lie.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Boyfriend jumps in. “I need another drink. Would either of you like one?”
“Absolutely.” She hands him her empty glass and watches him walk away, then leans in towards me. “Nice one you’ve got there,” she rasps in my ear. “Lovely man. Just make sure you stick to the rules; it’s the key to making it all work.”