III.
It happened again: Trish found
someone to replace me with.
She broke the news over the
phone. I betrayed no emotion.
Why was this happening? I
felt I had already repaid my
karmic debt of suffering to
Lisa: this was “overtime.”
This dude was a concierge at
a fancy hotel: “Byronic,” Trish
said (the first Byronic concierge
ever, I thought). Trish insisted
on telling me the story, and it
was sordid, drunken, dumb.
They met through a mutual
friend at a bar. This concierge
made a blatant play for her and
she accepted it. They stumbled
drunkenly to his apartment and
slept together. At that point they
made a pact not to sleep with any-
one else for the time being. They
were saving each other from what
they were already doing. I found
the whole thing incoherent and
lame: why did Trish need to be
“saved” from me? Why was this
guy so eager to make a pact?
Silent mode: I had Trish like a
disease, but it helped not to talk
to her. I needed to be cured of
her just like she did of me. One
day I had an appointment in
Manayunk, and I met a woman
on the R6 train. She was a tall
brunette, medium build, with
black eyes and freckles. I was
wearing my Shelley shirt (“I am
as wayward as Shelley”) and
that started the ball rolling. She
was lively, easy to talk to. We
made a date to meet soon after.
Franklin Institute steps: there she
sat, in a long sleeveless dress that
was tie-dyed, and had earth-tones
of “hippie” all over it. We are at
my apartment. Her legs fall into
my lap. We are naked. We feed
on each other in the summer
heat, as the sun goes down. That’s
it: I am cured. I can go after Mary
again because I do not need to. I
can want Mary again because I do
not want her. Flesh equals flesh.
Somehow Mary is open: we make
plans to see a movie. I do not ask
about the concierge: she offers no
information. When she arrives at
my pad (I help her out of a red cab)
she is either drunk or stoned, or
both. She is in a frilly white skirt,
hair bunned, languid, droopy eyelids.
My body reacts: now is the time I
must claim her. She must be taken.
I touch her in a hesitant way and
she pulls me on top of her (living
room floor, lights on, sun setting,
skirt hitched, shirts on, tan carpet).
For once: I worry not about pleasing
her. I need to place myself in her as
quickly as possible. I do so with a
huge sense of triumph. She is my
animal bride and we have just been
married. She tells me she is cheating
on the concierge, but there is no
remorse in her voice. It is the voice
of one possessed. Interposition will
not happen again. The only flesh that
need be equaled is mine to hers. So,
the marriage begins. Yet I live in fear: at
any moment the rug can be pulled
from beneath me. Am I replaceable?
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