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at pressing times like these, he did not have. Sod’s Law. Catch-22. The mocking Science of Perversity.
    Like other men with complex and attractive wives, he’d fantasized, of course, so many times, so many tense and sleepless times, of waking in the middle of the night, Mouetta dead asleep, as innocent as a cat curled up on her side of the bed, and simply helping himself to her. Helping himself in both the sense of rescuing and the sense of stealing. Just reaching out and piling up his plate with her, as if she were as ready and quiescent as a slice of cake. Her body, almost naked underneath the rucked and pushed-up
nightclothes, would wake before she did, as he imagined it. Or perhaps she’d wake only after he’d pushed into her, alarmed and shuddering and animated by the wet and warm conjunction of their limbs. She’d wake aroused. This would be arousal in both senses of the word for her. She had to wake aroused. That was the whole point of his dream.
    Or then again, perhaps she’d persevere with sleep despite his unignorable embraces, and he would have to penetrate her dreams, so that the husband would become a sleeper’s chimera and only prove himself as flesh again within her slumber and her reveries. Fat chance of that. Because, of course, that was the stuff and nonsense of a dream, his dream, not hers. (Well, that’s a sham. Not dream. This never was a dream. In men, these fantasies are conscious and contrived. They are the product of a concentrated mind, not slumber.)
    Now, in this muddy and secluded place, their privacy protected by the darkness and rain, there was a chance at last—he seemed to have waited all his life for this—to make the fiction real. Except he dared not touch. He dared not seize the opportunity—though he thought of touch, he contemplated it, while Mouetta slept. He dared not even put his finger on her leg, let alone invade her skirt or slip a hand beneath the wide lapels of her cocktail jacket to pick at gaps and buttons on her blouse. He knew, of course, he was a disappointment to his wife, that waking her would wake her irritation, too. He understood. It was his fault, his never-ending fault, that Freda’s student would not be saved by them, that if he always had his way, then nothing brave would ever happen in their world. If only this were on the stage, a semblance of
a car parked, tilted, and spotlit on the boards where all the audience could see inside, then he’d have the nerve to act. He’d have the script. He’d be rehearsed. He wouldn’t hesitate. He’d know no fear—although he’d have the tremors, possibly. That was the bitter joy of acting. It was the business of not being yourself, but knowing you could only be your best when you were being someone else.
    Lix got out of the car as quietly, meekly, as he could—he was ashamed—and hurried behind the nearest tree, beneath its canopy of rain-drummed leaves, to urinate onto the piles of peeling bark. It would, of course, be considerate, quick, and wise to masturbate. Then Mouetta could continue sleeping. He could join her, easily. He was immensely tired—and angry, too. Angry with his wife that she was not like him, not “passionate,” not idolizing flesh, not ruled and motivated by a husband’s cock like women in the cinema.
    His cock, indeed, was full and stiff by now. His urine, steered by his erection, made a confident and steaming two-streamed arc. He pulled his foreskin back and shook himself. It was a tempting moment, difficult to navigate. To masturbate would only rob a minute from their lives. To masturbate would make good sense. To masturbate would not annoy or wake his wife or spoil their disappointing anniversary. But masturbation never is enough. Our populations would be decimated if it were. The joyless pleasure we can give ourselves is only dancing for the mirror. It’s air guitar. It’s sending flowers to