different today,” I said.
“Oh yeah? What?” Sarah asked.
I was staring right at the girl. I couldn’t see myself explaining what I was here to do—much less actually doing it—with a tween standing close enough to me that I could brush her hair if I wanted to. The girl was just standing silently and politely, as though she were awaiting instructions from me, but those were clearly not forthcoming as I was so uncomfortable in my state of undress I could hardly speak.
And then finally, thankfully, Sarah clued in, picking up either on my nerves or my balled-up thong on the table, or perhaps the three-quarters of my butt sticking out beneath my top.
“Ooooohhhhh,” she said, and leaned toward me. “You having an affair?”
That made me laugh hard enough that I forgot for a moment about my circumstances and put both hands over my mouth, and just like that I was all out there. I covered up quickly and glanced right at the girl, who did not bat an eye.
“Come on, lie down,” Sarah said, and then she turned and said something to the girl, who turned to me and nodded politely and then she was gone, and I was on the table, flat on my back, as Sarah began to heat the wax.
“You know,” she said ominously, “this is going to hurt.”
SAMANTHA
ALL OF A SUDDEN I felt pain unlike any I can ever remember.
The numbness that at first spread about my body like gushing water was replaced by a searing agony. Suddenly I couldn’t keep up with the number of emotional hammers pounding away at me: stunned disbelief, murderous rage, agonized sadness. And, worst of all: pity. I have never before felt as sorry for anyone as I suddenly felt for myself.
I dove into the bed and buried my head beneath as many pillows as I could stack. I wanted total pitch-black darkness. I wanted never to see again. The pity threatened to consume me completely, and it occurred to me that self-pity is the most devastating of all emotions. Anger can be motivational, sadness can be galvanizing, but pity is crippling. I couldn’t even cry, because I didn’t have the strength. I could hardly take a breath, my chest felt heavy and constricted. I tried to breathe deeply, to gather my thoughts. How had I gotten here? I was twenty-eight years old. I had joined the Peace Corps out of college. Then I was a television producer in New York. Now I was a cheated-on newlywed.
That was when I smelled him. One of the pillows piled atop my head must have been his, and all at once he was all over me. I tried to get away but accidentally I rolled to his side of the bed and found myself in the slight indentation he’d made when he slept, and then my hip touched a wet spot and I shot out of the bed as though it was a cannon. That was his wetness on the mattress—we’d made that wetness together—how long ago? It felt like days had passed, but how long had it been really? An hour? Less? I could feel him on me, on my flesh, inside me, and without thinking I stripped off everything and dashed to the shower. I turned the water as hot as I could stand and scrubbed. Once my skin was as pink and clean as I could get it I turned off the water, put on a sports bra and running shorts and sneakers, and then I was outside, steps from the beach. And then I started to run.
I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t even really know where I was, I just knew I needed to run, to recapture myself. The self-pity threatened to stop me, threatened to knock me to the ground, but I pushed on. I am not someone who feels sorry for herself, I told myself. I am not.
I really am not. I feel sorry for so many people but never for myself. I feel sorry for all the same people you do: orphans, circus freaks, single mothers, homeless children, widower fathers, crack babies, drug addicts, blind peddlers, deaf beggars, and anyone missing an arm, a leg, or any other valuable appendage. But for you it likely ends there, while for me it is just the beginning.
I feel terribly sorry for the woman who worked at the drive-thru window at the Dunkin’ Donuts near my father’s house in Connecticut. It could be twenty below zero