Abby Frucht

TWO STRAIGHT WOMEN TALKING
1.Now that he’s dead snd she can smoke again she finds the thought untenable, the struck match, the gray taste of him sliding in and out of her but no push or pull, no yes, no ahh, no body.
No, She couldn’t.
“Not possible,” she tells her friend gazing at the thing unlit between her fingers, so slender, so eager to vanish, the flavor sa memory, the effect turned to vapor every time she wants it most
“I can’t stand it,” is what he said, “the thought of you putting that thing, the idea of it, the smell of it I can’t sleep with it I won’t fuck you if you smoke it you bitch you idiot you stinking you killing yourself not smart not you not the person I married.”
So he slept in the room below hers, in the narrow bed reserved for visitors. That was her first night without him.

2. She used to do it in the woods near the bridge across the creek but not on the bridge, no, on a log that she straddled then lit up then leaned hack then watched the trees staying the same minute after minute not shrinking not burning up not turning to ash on the water. She knew he would hate it. The thought gave her pleasure as did the fact he didn’t know it he hadn’t figured it out he couldn’t smell it when she got home she brushed her teeth slid the pack into a pocket of one of her coats in one of the closets, a secret, a dark hole so private she couldn’t see herself in it.
No. She saw somebody else, come other woman, not his wife, not anyone he knew, not someone her own mother would recognize draped in dark leathers, her sunglasses so big you could watch the woods in them the squirrels chirping the snapped twigs the white cat in dead leaves the surprise of each moment the sulfur the flame that was in her. No, this was not her this woman with these yearnings this thing between her lips this half-formed smile.

3. Once, when she was sitting there smoking she saw a man across the way, watching her. She recognized his clothing. He waa the man who jogged past her car every morning never nodding never saying hello except now he gazed at her so perplexedly she thought, How does he know me? How does he know I don’t smoke? She stubbed the cigarette out on damp splinters of log then shoved the butt into the rot and buried it in sawdust she would small on her fingertips days later, When she glanced up he was gone. There was only the opposite edge of thc creek you’d have to walk across air to get to and off in the trees a glimpse now
and then of crimson Lycra and the high flashing whites of his shoes. She wondered, Who am I if I am not the woman he sees every morning in her car on her way to work the children buckled in behind her the husband gesticulating into the sunlight?

4. How do I know, she said to her friend, whether I am the one who doesn't smoke or the one who does?

5. “How do l know,” asked her hushand,”that you’re telling the truth?”
“The truth,” she insisted, “the truth is two weeks. I’ve been smoking two weeks,” although it felt like a whole new life, her limbs pulsing with mischief and nicotine, her mouth stinking of toothpaste, Macintosh apples, tall sharp glasses of grapefruit juice, whatever erased the evidence. That night it was a mint leaf snatched from among the weeds in the garden, hastily chewed, spat out, the cold mud of it gritty all over her teeth. He needed the car. Out to dinner they’d gone, to someplace in the city. When they got home she drove the babysitter back to Hollywood Street then switched on the radio loud then cruised around searching for someplace to park. She’d been waiting all night for this moment, the matches stolen from behind her husband’s back while he ordered the beers. Over shrimp and lemon grass, coconut and cilantro all she could taste was one long inhalation. Now Bonnie Raitt was singing, the night wet, the roads slick, black, and empty. So impatient was she that she blocked someone’e driveway while parking then stayed where she was, not caring, not wanting to call attention to the way her hand shook as she opened the windsw, the lit end of the cigarette quaking with anticipation (This is stupid, she was thinking, to do it in the car he’ll smell it he’ll find the afterglow the scattered flecks on the upholstery the butt with her kiss on it wedged in the tire tread)but still the pleasure of it the taste of it the endless drag of meditation. She smoked three one after the other wondering slyly whose driveway she was blocking and if they thought they knew her. She wondered, Am I the kind who throws her stubs in the road or the kind who keeps them safe for incineration? She left the stubs in the ashtray kept the aahtray open so she could dump it in the trash outside her front door. But he was standing on the lawn when she drove up, computer disc under his coat in the rain.
“I need the car,” he said and in a moment, “Who was smoking? Who was smoking?” He pulled the ashtray from the dash, held it arm’s length two-fingered the way men hold their condoms after removal. “So this is what you’ve been running around for this is what you’ve been sneaking around with this is what you’ve been keeping from me I knew it was something.”
Later, she supposed she might have blamed it on the babysitter though who would have believed it that young thing in pink knee socks even her eyeglasses brighteyed from their studies af Uncertainty.

6. “1 knew it was something,” he said, “I knew it was something you were doing behind my back getting away with I can’t believe it was this I can’t believe it I can’t stand it the tobacco companies those criminals those gut stinking money sucking liars your business your money your lungs black already the thing already starting to happen the children the example the injustice of it the stupidity of it how could you who are you who do you think you are?”

7. Now the fact of it the part that’s indisputable the thing that can’t be argued the slender reality of it the delicate compact heft of it the way it seemed to resist gravity so that even if she dropped it, it fell slowly like a thing seen falling from a distance although of course she couldn’t catch it there was no sound when it hit, just the sight of it the cylindrical void of it among the damp leaves the dark earth the scattered crushed berries. And then the shock of it once more between her fingers the satin of it the beautiful white invitation.

8. Another fact, an absolute, she could never get the match
to flare with just one stroke.
“No?” said her friend.
“No,” she said, amused, two or three were required the aroma of sulfur the red tip hot to the touch before the flame was provoked and even then it might sputter prematurely leaving her unsatisfied her mouth empty her tongue frustrated her neck craned foolishly forward. And, she never knew quite what to do with each spent, ineffectual match, slide it horisontally into the matchbook drop it in the cigarette pack slip it into her pocket toss it into the creek watch it travel away before permitting hereelf the luxury of the second, less tenuous flame the way it burned her cupped fingers the way it singed her eyebrows if she had to bend close the way she never drew back even from the pain of it if she waa getting what she wanted.

9. Black jeans leather jacket the color of velvet brown as the underside of a log black socks ankle boots with the glue gone bad in the soles green T-shirt dark wing-tipped glasses pushed to the crown of her head these were other facts in which she felt in equal doses camouflaged and entirely exposed like something the weather might enter then exit, the chilly suck of wet air the several fingers of sunlight the probing the caressing the licking and tickling and her body calm end stark naked in the middle of all of that clothing the way its darkness contained her the way the smoke drifted into and out of the folds. So touched, so possessed, she was out of his reach.

10. And the fact that every cigarette displayed its own personality its own style its own set of idiosyncrasies such that lighting up was like the initiation of a dialogue either dry or loquatious, fast, slow, intense, distracted, shy, dull, wily or unpredictable. Some burned better on one aide than on the other, some clung to the ash and some dropped it, some ash made a night like a tiny lit circular city, other ash coned up or faded to papery silvery ghosts. Some blushed as she smoked them, stained themselves sepia-colored, others stayed pure even down to the filter nothing more than a pale hint of what had passed through them. Some were bitter, some savory, none sweet or too innocent but some more patient than others, Some were pretty to look at, some lost their shape. Some were soothing some scintillating
some made her frankly physically nervous. All stank by the time she was finished with them. At once regretful and ashamed, she was nostalgic for every single last one and when her husband made his ultimatum she dreamed of them nightly and woke with angry fierce desperate grievous yearning.

11. Did she hate him then. No. Of course she didn't.
Well, did she love him? Love? Her husband? Love is confusing love has too many postures too many objects too many permutations, is what she answered to her friend then sat for a moment in vague contemplation.
"We were married 19 years."
"Yes," said her friend.
"Two children."
"Yes."
"The house all those years, the dishes to be done."
"Yes. Dishes."
"He didn't like dancing, he didn't like snow, he was frightened of sledding he wouldn't admit it he wasn't playful he didn't like music he wouldn't tolerate my cd's in the house in the kitchen when we were washing the dishes. We wasn't the dishes together, side by side in one sink."
"Yes."
"He never analysed dreams he had no patience for speculation he never undressed me the way I always wanted but the sex was good he knew my body inside out as you'd expect after 19 years."
"Well, not necessarily..."
"He knew exactly what I wanted what I needed his tongue his hand his cock in all the places I wanted."
"Yes," said her friend.
"You know, he had a beautiful body."
"I know," said her friend.
"You know? And a beautiful penis."
"ThatI don't know."
"A particularly beautiful penis. Not misshapen not out of proportion not even tilted to one side not bulbous not that scary deep purple not small not gigantic not with the vein too apparent but silk, luminescent -"
"How do you know so much about penises?"
"And with a freckle on the head, just off to one side, the sole part out of balance but who wants symmetry?"
"Not me," said her friend.
"Not me either," she said, and sat remembering the waterbed bucking underneath them the rhythm the sloshing the broad rectangular storm of it and then herself, her body, her mind, the calm in the eye of the storm of it.
"Calm?" said her friend. "That doesn't sound right."
"Peaceful," she answered. "Serene and untroubled."
"You're talking about during or after?"
""At rest. During."
"At rest?"
"Secure in the fact..."
"The fact?"
"That it would feel good. That he would bring me to climax. He always did. He was attentive patient watchful he never wanted to get there without me he never forgot me he never forgot who I was he always loved me he never imagined I was anyone else I was never embarrassed nver worried never on edge never without proper birth control never not spent never not satisfied."
"Never what?" asked her friend.
"Not satisfied."
"Never not satisfied? Or never satisfied?"
"No tricks nothing ever unexpected no pain no biting no clawing no screaming no spit no teeth no bruising no scratching no begging no popped buttons jammed zippers lost panties."
"Oh," said her friend.
"He never lifted my leg by the ankle, never wedged it behind his neck so he could get in deeper."
"No?" said her friend.
"He always made me come twice. One for me, one for him, sometimes hand, sometimes mouth then the rest of him gentle and patient never half-broke my neck on the headboard never flipped me too far over in any direction never dropped me off the bed never grunted never grinded never..."
"Never grunted?"
"Never did those gyrations, you know, that circular corkscrew grinding when the penis is like a hand the way it grabs hold and pulls the way it..."
"How do you know?" asks her friend.
"Excuse me?"
"If he never did it, then how do you know about it?"
"No backseats no secrets no lies no wrong numbers no stoen five minutes no sneaking no crouching no hats and sunglasses no grubby motels no friend's spare house key no dark hallways no tumbling upstairs to the friend's spare bedroom no smoothing the bedspread no towel in the friend's upstairs bathroom no delight in the secret code of it the spying neighbors ignorant anyway of it the mailman delivering Christmas cards smack in the middle of it the telephone ringing the answering machine clicking on the friend's mother chatting from Florida oblivious to it."
"Wait," said her friend. "Slow down. No towels in the bathroom? My bathroom?"
""No bathroom, sometimes, no bed, no soft place for him to put his knees on no sand dune no dry leaves no unmown grass just a tree to prop ourselves up against our heads in the moonlight and not fifty yards away, the road and my husband driving home on it the headlights sweeping the pavement but not the woods, not the trees, not us."
"Oh," said her friend. "So this is real. This happened. Why didn't you tell me?"
Silence.
"You're not making this up," said her friend. "I have only one question. My mother? No towel in my bathroom?"
Silence.
"And who?" said her friend. "Who was it?"
"That doesn't matter. Because, it wasn't me."
"You've lost me."
"Because it wasn't me, really, it was somebody else. Some other woman. Some beautiful woman. Because, fucking, he always said, this other man, he always said, So beautiful so beautiful so beautiful, over and over."
"Oh," said her friend.
"And, So delicious so delicious so delicious."
"Oh."
"And then, if we had time, afterwards, talking, this other man, his hand in my vagina."
"Oh."
"Just there, inside, the way you'd rest a hand on somebody's shoulder."
"Oh."
"The way you'd rest your hand on the head of a child, to keep it still, to keep it calm, to keep it - "
"Stop," said her friend.
"A cup of wine in his free hand, the candle flickering, his face so unfamiliar so full of flickering shadows."
"Stop. Tell me. Is this true or isn't it? Is this real or invented? Because I know you invent, I know you like to imagine, to fantasize ..."
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"That's the thing about the telephone," she said. "The way it seems to know everything the way it holds it in silence the way it watches the way it waits the way it sees, like a dog, that way, the way it holds my transgressions tight in its own stupidity."
"Dogs aren't stupid," argued her friend.
"Telephones are. When there's noone to talk to. When he's gone when he's dead when I can't call him at the office when I can't say Come home there's enchiladas for dinner, it's stupid, yes, the damn telephone it's just a box just an object no miracle."
"I'm sorry."
"I know. So that's where I sit, at night these nights when I try to smoke cigarettes. Next to the telephone. I don't open the window to let out the smoke I don't sit in the dark I don't worry he'll drive up and find me I don't think about him I don't light the match for maybe ten, twenty minutes I just hold it in my hand and then I can't stand the sight of the flame. The other night I tried something new. I went into the bedroom lit a candle poured wine stuck my hand in my own vagina and cried. No, I didn't, that was a joke, very funny, I don't know which I miss the most, I miss them both they blend together the way they didn't before. My addictions. My vices. My husband gave me an ultimatum. Smoke another cigarette and this marriage is dead. I think he used the word dead, I think he said it, then he did it. Very funny. Not really. To him, the smoking was an infidelity it hurt him that much so I stopped for two years but I never stopped wanting. When I was angry with him I used to fantasize his death I used to fantasize sitting on his grave with a cigarette and now here I am and I can't light up. It's not possible. It's not. Tell me it's not possible."

12.It was true about the telephone although she'd never thought of it before. The way it sat in her house knowing everything about her including what she needed that it couldn't provide. Lover. Husband. Cigarettes. Courage. The phone was not patient,contented, or smug the way she sometimes pretended. No, it was a box of all the things that it couldn't deliver. After his death, it didn't ring very often and when it did it was never him on the other end of it even though she picked it up fast so he couldn't get away. Dead, he was hopelessly fickle, wanting her but inaccessible. She couldn't hold that against him so instead she blamed the telephone or whoever it dished up to her and the way they asked How are you? as if she might say she was fine.
"Here," she always answered. "Just here."
Meaning, sitting near the telephone.
Meaning, not dead not smoking not weeping.
Meaning, not listening to the radio, either.(Songs sounded like chants, too pressing, too awful with need, too gradual and then too much fire.) "I have some wine," she might offer, sometimes an invitation, sometimes not. "I'm making coffee I'm writing postcards I'm doing laundry I'm thinking of mopping the floor." To her friend she exclaimed, again and again, "How could he not have known?" Meaning, that the thing most denied is the thing most desired. One night she struck a match, held it up to her lips all set to inhale except the cigarette was missing she hadn't pulled it from the pack there was only the invisible presence of it "a philosophical moment," she said to her friend, "and you know what I did? I laughed. Out loud. And then I did something new."
"Yes?"
"I went down to the basement to the furnace to the blue pilot light and lit the cigarette that way, hand in the furnace, head in a cobweb, bare feet on the wet cement. One minute of that and then you wouldn't believe what happened. I go upstairs the house reeks of tobacco the furnace is breathing it into the stairwell my older son's in the kitchen in his pyjamas saying Who's here? Who's smoking? Who's smoking cigarettes?"
"You're joking."
"Yes. But the other part's true, I swear it every bit of it except the part about the kids. They're not mine. They're some other woman's."

13. Once, years ago, she went into an antigues store a curio shop a place of curiosities her first three-year-old gleeful and proud in his stroller his bare legs crossed like an adult's his hands thrust in his pockets on which he insisted so he could hook his thumbs in him just like a man's. There was a box in the window a narrow rectangular thing of tooled pewter just right for cigarettes if only she smoked them she had to take off her sunglasses in order to squint and see it. Inside was silk lining so tacky it could have come from somebody's discarded half-slip stained in one corner or threadbare and not worth the money they wanted but she paid for it anyway. The shopkeeper said, "My, what a beautiful child," then stared doubtfully from mother to son before adding with questionable intention, "His father must be awfully good looking."
"Thanks," she said and tore the check from the ledger and eleven years later has the canceled check still but not the box because she gave it away it was too empty looking too full of the things that she couldn't put in it not even the children's baby picture fit properly in it their too-adorable faces bulging and complaining if she tried to keep them in it not even their little balled-up toddler socks seemed comfortable in it not even their locks of hair.

14.Another fact another hard true palpable apparently immutable circumstance is that however much she wants she can't veer off the trail in the woods near the creek to make her way to the log on which she used to sit smoking. For one thing her feet won't do it. For another the log is one of many all fallen all zig zag all turning to rot and soft sawdust so pleasant to lay the flat palm of a hand on and though she used to know the shape of her tree exactly she no longer does she can't pick it out for certain she can't discern its dark hump from those on either dark side of it if she could step off the trail she wouldn't know which hump to go to which one her body would recognize which one would recognize her. In the past they had a certain cameraderie, her body and that log, her crotch to its cleft her thighs straddling precisely where they'd straddled before the two worn leather soles of her boots in their distinct proper places her fingertips stroking that rift in the bark
that grew wider imperceptibly each time she stroked it. That's where she put the spent matches, there in that rift until one day it seemed a violation an impurity so tossed them instead in the creek. The creek made no sound, no gurgle no chuckle no whisper a silence for which she felt a profound admiration. Her childre would be miles away well not exactly a quarter of a mile in the house with her husband of if he was at work, then half a mile away at school. In other words, she couldn't hear them she didn't know what they were doing they weren't pressing they weren't hers they were somebody else's while her husband gesticulating over lunch or his computer wasn't audible either wasn't pressing wasn't trying to explain to her his complex opinions on books he had read or written when all she wanted were the rich fluid vowels of her lover "so beautiful so delicious so delicious so delicious."
"He spoke with an accent," she said to her friend, "he spoke in poetry in bed he said to me 'in what position do you hold me in your heart?' that last word a medley of syllables I used to hear it while I smoked in the silence of the woods I could almost reconstruct it."
"Almost," said her friend.
"And now I can't go back I'm afraid of that spot afraid of what I'll hear or not hear afraid of what I'll miss or not miss today I walked past it twenty-six tmes that damn log I couldn't find it I almost couldn't stop for long enough to get away from it."
"Almost," said her friend. "Almost this, almost that. Like I almost believe what you're saying."

15. "Believe me," she said, "except the part about the log except the part about the rift I never put the matches in it except the part about the creek except the part - "
"Stop," said her friend. "Just stop."
"except the part about the squirrels except the part about the towel in the bathroom except the part about the telephone except the part about moving away."
"What?" said her friend.
"I'm not planning on moving I'm not leaving town believe me it's true except the part about desire except the part about the mint leaf except the part about the friend you're not my friend you're somebody else's."
"That hurts," said her friend.
"I'm sorry. I aplogize," she said, gazing at her friend's shocked yes her friend's hair a yellow tuft of electricity the hard tilt of the neck the anger bright in the mouth the bitter trembling the unquenchable this inextinquishable rebuke of it.
(to be continued)