Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,4
put it away, girls.”
“Seriously, how old are you?”
“Didn’t we just do this?”
“I’m just asking because I’ve never heard a grown man call boobs ‘lady parts,’ so, you know, I’m naturally curious.”
“Speaking of lady parts—”
“No. No segues.”
“How’s Mary Ann?”
“She’s great.”
“She’s great?”
“She’s visiting her sister in Baton Rouge.”
“Still?”
Mason frowned and played with the window’s handle. “What do you mean?”
“Last week when you needed a ride from your meeting, she was up there.”
“No, last week she was visiting her Mom.”
“And the week before that,” I said, “she couldn’t drive you because her car was making a clunking noise.”
“Right,” Mason said, working the handle back and forth.
“And the week before that,” I said.
“Dag,” Mason said, his eyes cutting toward me. “Come on.”
I raised one hand in surrender.
“Things are fine,” Mason mumbled, giving the handle a final whack. “Things with Mary Ann are just great.”
ELIEN (3)
The rest of the week passed quickly and quietly, the way all my weeks passed. I watched Ellen in the afternoon. I chopped bell peppers and packaged individual servings in plastic baggies. I had Richard’s Sazerac waiting for him every day when he got home from work. I did ferocious amounts of what Richard laughingly called jazzercise—cardio workouts with pseudo-militaristic themes like Boot Camp and Basic Training. I was fighting a losing battle, though; most days, my pants had elastic waistbands.
On Saturday morning, I was lying on the couch, watching Richard read the paper. He had thick gray hair on his arms and the backs of his hands; I could see the little spot where his hair was thinning when he turned the page. I dug my toe into his side, and he grunted. When I did it again, he took my foot and gently moved it aside, but he kept his hand there, his thumb running over my ankle.
“I’m trying to annoy you,” I said.
“That sounds like attention-seeking behavior,” he said. He had a lovely voice, rich and cultured and commanding. He squeezed my ankle once and then let go so he could turn the page again.
I got my toe back against his ribs again. “I’m seeking attention.”
He pushed my foot away. Again. Gently.
Dig. Dig. Dig.
Behind the paper, he sighed. “Elien, I would really like to read my paper.”
“I could start a fight.”
He turned the page. “That sounds like a lot of work.”
“I could do something really drastic. I could do something bad.”
He must have found something interesting, because now he was shaking out the fold, trying to follow a line of text.
“Maybe I’ll drive into town and buy a dozen donuts and eat all of them.”
“That sounds nice.”
“A baker’s dozen. That’s thirteen.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I’ll eat them in the car so you won’t know and then I’ll pull over and stick a finger down my throat and barf it all up on the shoulder.”
From behind the paper came another sigh, and then Richard folded the Times-Picayune and set it aside. He had soft brown eyes that always looked like he was about to cry.
The worst part about dating a psychiatrist—well, besides his absolute refusal to write me a scrip, and making me go to Zahra for everything—was that he did very annoying things like Pay Full Attention and Really Listen and Ask Good Questions. He was doing all three of them right then.
“I understand that you are asking for my attention, and now I’m giving it to you. I hear you, and I see you, Elien. What’s this about? Do you really want to talk about your diet?”
“I just told you my new diet: it’s all donuts.”
“I think it’s important for you to be able to eat whatever you want in moderation.”
“Nope. No moderation.”
“Is this about how you feel about your body?”
I rubbed my belly. “I love these curves. I love my new, sexy look. Voluptuous. I think that’s the word, right?”
“I don’t like it when you make jokes about how you look, Elien. It makes me uncomfortable because I love you and I find you attractive, and it also worries me because you have a history of not taking care of your body.”
Another really fucking annoying thing psychiatrist boyfriends do is Say True Things.
“You find me attractive?” I said, tugging up my tank, rubbing my belly again. “You want to go upstairs and prove it?”
“Yes,” Richard said. “I would like that. Would you like that?”
He held my gaze, and I broke first, my eyes dropping, my face heating.
“How would you feel if I talked about how old and decrepit I am?” Richard asked. “What if I told you every day