ONE
Henry had been through lots of relationships and they all had the same pattern. He would fall in love with a woman’s confident personality. He would fall in love with her blond hair. Or her red hair. Or her black hair. (It didn’t matter what color it was, just as long as it was long.) He would fall in love with her blue eyes. Or her brown eyes. Or her green eyes. (It didn’t matter what color her eyes were, as long as they had that certain seductive gaze.). After he fell in love, he would get them to fall in love with him by making them laugh. Soon the two of them be in love. They would go out. They would go in. They would have sex on the bed, on the table, on the floor, on the roof, in the woods, in the ocean, in an airplane restroom, under a tunnel, here, there, everywhere. The women would cook for him or proofread his legal documents or redecorate his apartment or organize his closets. He would give them erotic massages. They would smile at him. He would smile back. They would promise him. He would promise them back.
For a year, maybe two years, the women would never complain. Then, little by little, they would begin to complain. Little by little, they would begin to nag. Little by little, they found faults. Then they started to look at other men. Then they stopped laughing at his jokes. Then they stopped smiling when they woke up. Then they wouldn’t smile at all. After a while they began to do things to make him jealous. After that they would yell at him. After that they would start to make demands. After that they would talk down to him. After that they would start calling him names. After that they would talk to him in rejecting and sarcastic tones. “You are such a loser,” they would say. “And you don’t have the slightest inkling that you’re a loser.”
He didn’t understand what was happening. He didn’t understand why they all turned on him. He tried and tried but he couldn’t understand it.
“Why?” Henry asked his friend, Bill after the latest rejection. “Why is she acting that way?”
“I don’t know,” Bill answered.
“She’s treating me like I’m an enemy.”
“Kind of.”
Bill would sit there looking at Henry across the table at some bar or restaurant or coffee shop. Bill was so much like Henry they could have been twins. They were both about five feet and ten inches tall. They both weighed about l60 pounds. They were both 37 years old. Henry had brown eyes and a round, Germanic nose. Bill had green eyes and a sharp, British nose. They had known each other since attending the same college together and living in the same dorm. Bill would sit there looking at Henry across a table at some point in each of his relationships, and he was sitting there after the most recent breakup.
“Maybe you should see somebody,” Bill said.
“What do you mean?” Henry asked.
“Maybe you should see a therapist.”
“I don’t need a therapist.”
“I didn’t say you needed one.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“I know you’re not.”
“Then why are you telling me to see a therapist?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it would help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“All right.”
“I can talk to you.” “Yes, you can.”
“Why would I want to go to a therapist?”
“No reason.”
“No, seriously, why would I want to go to a therapist?”
“I don’t know why.”
“I’m not interested in going to a therapist.”
“All right.”
“Therapists are just therapists.”
“That’s very true.”
“Therapists are just people.”
"That they are.”
“Some therapists are male.”
“Yes.”
“Some therapists are female.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want a therapist.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Bill said, feeling guilty. “I shouldn’t give you advice if you don’t want it.”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Should we order more drinks?”
“No. Just tell me.”
“Tell you what?
“Just tell me what did I do? She’s treating me like an enemy. What did I do to her? They all end up treating me like enemies. You’re my best friend. Tell me. Tell me what I did to her. Tell me why they treat me that way. I try to be nice. I try to do everything they want. Women are always saying they want a sensitive man. I’m a sensitive man. If she’s hungry I take her out to her favorite restaurants. If she wants a massage I give her a massage to end all massages. If she wants a diamond ring I buy her a Tiffany diamond ring. If she wants to visit Costa Rica, I take her to the best resort in Costa Rica. Why is this happening? Why is it happening again?”
“Women are hard to understand.”
“They’re impossible to understand.”
“They are impossible, period.”
“Why do they all want to hurt me? Why? I don’t understand. It’s never just, ‘Look, I’m feeling bored so let’s talk and try to get this back on track again.’ It’s never just, ‘Well, it’s not working out so I’m leaving.’ It’s never just, ‘I’m sorry but something’s gone wrong and I don’t know what it is.’ If only they would be friendly. But no, they all turn into demons that want my blood. They drink my blood and then they leave. Explain it to me, Bill. Explain it to me. I want to understand. Why do women love to torture me and dump me? Why, why, why? Am I a bad guy? Do you ever feel liketorturing me, Bill? Am I doing things to them that I don’t realize I’m doing? Why do they begin to disrespect me? Why do they begin to hate me? Tell me, Bill. Tell me. Is it me? Or do I just pick the wrong women? Tell me, you bastard! Tell me.”
One day he was alone in his office at the law firm. He was in charge of domestic litigation cases, usually involving a wife suing a husband. It was after hours and he was looking through a case file. There was nothing for him in his apartment so he was working late. He had a routine. He would go over the cases he was working on and then he would open his laptop. He would turn to his favorite porn sites and fondle himself. He didn’t really enjoy it. He did it quickly, adeptly, like he was peeling potatoes. He was ashamed that he had to do it, and did it more or less to release tension. It would last two minutes, tops. Afterward he would walk down the hall to the men’s room and wash himself. When he returned to his office he would surf the net to see what was in the news. He would look at the words that told the news but after a minute or so he would start to brood.
As he sat at his desk on that particular night, the faces of one woman after another appeared before his mind’s eye. Women he had gone out with. Women he had been in one-night stands with. Women he had talked to for a moment over a pharmacy counter. Women at parties. Women at bars. His mind’s eye stopped at a memory of Ellen, an ex-girlfriend. Ellen was always asking him if he wanted to live together. She was asking almost every hour on the half-hour if they could live together and he kept saying he wasn’t ready. So, one day Ellen had had enough and she hung up her cell phone, exclaiming, “Screw you!” He didn’t hear from her for many days and many weeks and many months. He called her but she wouldn’t answer. His emails were blocked. His messages were punted back. Then one day she knocked on his door. She was very happy and it was like nothing had happened. She pranced around his apartment in her high blouse and tight jeans and he felt very sorry he had refused to live with her. All at once she said, “Do you still feel the same? Do you still not want to live together?”
“OK,” he said. He was worn down and felt bad. “You can move in.”
“I can. Really.”
“Yes.” She smiled in a funny way. Her smile was too friendly. “Actually, I don’t want to live together anymore.” She whirled and strutted to the door. “Good-bye, sucker!”
For months he called her and left messages about how much he loved her and wanted her. “I’ll be different,” he told her. “I’ll buy you one red rose every day for the rest of your life!”
“You mean that?” she answered sweetly. “What a nice thing to say! The answer is still no.”
She tortured him for months until he had worked himself into a mini rage one night and waited outside her apartment. “You’re nothing but a…but…but…but…but a…bitch!” He was so scared of his rage that he was stuttering. “I hope you get run over by…by…by a Mack truck!”
As he sat on his office chair in the dark staring at the computer screen without seeing it, one bad memory after another took over his brain. They would keep jumping around until he couldn’t stand it anymore and then he would start pacing around his office. “I’m not a stupid guy! Hell no! I’m a lawyer and a very good one at that!” he asserted to the dark room. It was the truth; he was one of the top lawyers in New York when it came to domestic litigation cases. He knew exactly how to advise women. But when he had to be himself and live his personal life, he was not good at it at all. So now, as he did most nights, he walked around and around, circling the edges of his office...
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