This is the most I have ever heard him say and I’m impressed, but don’t say anything. Why is it that Victor’s seeing Jaime? I like him more than she likes him. That’s crazy. I concentrate on Seymour, who’s purring, content.
“What’s worse than a Parisian for a roommate?” he asks me.
“What?” Barely muster the interest.
“A Parisian for a roommate who has his own phone.”
“I’ll have to think about that one.”
“What’s worse than a Parisian for a roommate who has his own phone?”
“What?” Exasperated. “Sean?”
“A Parisian for a roommate who has his own phone and who wears an ascot,” he says.
In the next room someone starts replaying side one again. I get out of bed. “If I hear this song one more time I’ll scream.” Put on my robe, sit in chair by window and wish he would leave. “Let’s go to Price Chopper,” I suggest.
He sits up now. He knows for a fact that I want him to leave. He knows that I want it badly, as soon as possible. “Why?” he asks, watching as Seymour climbs into his lap and mews.
“Because I need tampons,” I lie. “And toothpaste, cat food, Tab, Evian water, Peanut Butter Cups.” I reach for my purse and oh shit, “But I don’t think I have any money.”
“Charge it,” he says.
“God,” I mutter. “I hate it when you’re sarcastic.”
He pushes the cat off the bed and starts to dress. He reaches for his underwear, tangled in the bedsheets and puts it on and I ask him, “Why did you push the cat off the bed?”
He asks back, “Because I felt like it?”
“Come here kitty, come here Seymour,” I call. I hate the cat too but pretend to be concerned just to bug him. The cat meows again and hops onto my lap. Pet it. Watch Sean get dressed. Tense silence. He puts on jeans. Then sits on the side of the bed again, away from me, shirtless. He looks like he’s getting the awful feeling that I know something and am pissed off about it. Poor baby. Puts his head in his hands, rubs his face. And now I ask him, “What’s that thing on your neck?”
Tenses up so noticeably I almost laugh. “What thing?”
“Looks like a hickey.” I’m casual.
He walks over to the mirror, makes a big deal out of touching his neck, inspecting the mark. His jaw twitches slightly. Watch as he stares at himself in the mirror; at his dull beauty.
“It’s a birthmark,” he says.
Right, lame-o. “You’re so narcissistic.”
Then it comes: “Why are you being such a bitch tonight?” He asks this while his back is to me, while he’s slipping on his T-shirt.
Stroke Seymour’s head. “I’m not being a bitch.”
He walks back to the mirror and looks at the small purple and yellow bruise. Wouldn’t even have noticed it if I hadn’t heard the news. And now he’s saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is not a hickey. It’s a birthmark.”
And now I come out and say it, getting none of the expected pleasure I thought I’d receive. “You f**ked Judy. That’s all.” I say this quickly, really fast and offhand, and it throws him off balance. He’s trying hard not to flinch, or do a doubletake.
He turns away from the mirror. “What?”
“You heard me, Sean.” I’m squeezing Seymour too tightly. He’s not purring anymore.
“You’re sick,” he says.
“Oh am I?” I ask. “I heard you bit the inside of her thighs.” The cat screeches and jumps off my lap; pads across the floor to the door.
He laughs. He tries to ignore me. He sits on the bed tying his shoes. He continues to laugh, shaking his head. “Oh my my. Who told you this one? Susan? Roxanne? Come on, who?” he asks, innocent smile.
Dramatic pause. Look at Seymour, also innocent, sitting near the doorway, licking its paws. It looks up at me too, waiting for my answer.
“Judy,” I say.
Now he stops laughing. He stops shaking his head. His face falls. He puts the other shoe on. He mutters, “I have not bitten the inside of anyone’s thighs. I haven’t bitten yours, have I?”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, mystified. “Tell her to spread her legs and let me check?” What are we talking about? I don’t even care that much. It seems to be so minor that I don’t understand why I’m harassing him like this. Probably because I want this thing to be over with, and Judy’s a convenient marker.
