Knife Fight and Other Struggles Read Online Free PDF Page A

of those other Lucy Carrolls who said they were from here. So I sent her a note apologizing for being such an asshole, and she sent me a friend request and I agreed—and she asked me to pick a place, and that’s where we met. The Tokyo Grill in the Pier District. I don’t think we ever went there, you and I. But at 12:15 on a Tuesday in June, it’s very bright.
    Lucy wore a rose print dress, not quite as pale as her skin. She had freckles and her hair was more reddish than brunette. Perhaps it was the effect of wearing a dress and not a pair of jeans, but she seemed more svelte on the patio than she did that night on the beach. Her eyes were hazel.
    Do you remember how I courted you? Did you ever doubt that I was anything but spontaneous? That when I laughed so hard at that joke of yours, it was because I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard?
    You didn’t? You should have. I’m not good at everything in life, oh that I’ll admit. But I am good at this part. I am smooth.
    And that’s how I was at the Tokyo Grill that Tuesday.
    Lucy wasn’t sure about me and she made that explicit pretty early. I’d seemed nice at first, but running off like that . . . well, it had been hurtful. It made her feel as though there was something wrong with her, and as she made explicit somewhat later on, there wasn’t anything wrong with her.
    “It’s not you—it’s the rest of the world,” I said, and when she took offense, I explained I wasn’t making fun.
    “The world’s an evil place. Lots wrong with it. Look at . . . think about Len, as an example.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well. How he treats people. How he uses them. Like Kimi.”
    “He’s an important man,” she said quickly. “I imagine it takes a toll. All those clients he’s got to look after.” She sighed. “Clients can be very demanding.”
    “Clients.” I made a little smile. “That’s a good word. Len has clients like other people have friends.”
    Yes, I suppose I was being dramatic. But Lucy didn’t think so; she laughed, very hard, and agreed.
    “So what about you?” she asked. “Are you client or friend?”
    “Something else.”
    I explained how Lucy wasn’t the only one I’d offended with my bad behaviour that night—and again, I layered contrition on top of itself, and doing so took another step to winning her over.
    Working through it, I could almost forget that Lucy was a woman containing a multitude—that as she sat here opposite me in the Pier District, the lids up and down her body squinted shut like tiny incision scars against the bright daylight.
    Like clients.
    I had to forget. Because I couldn’t mention them; Len was right—she didn’t want to talk about it. She may not have even been capable.
    And keeping silent on the subject, and knowing of that alien scrutiny, resting behind translucent lids. . . .
    I couldn’t have done what I had to do.
    Lucy’s next shift at the bookstore was Wednesday afternoon, so she had the rest of the day to herself, and as we finished our sashimi, she made a point of saying the afternoon shift meant she could stay out as late as she liked.
    So we took a walk. We found my car. We drove back to my apartment. And behind drawn blinds, we stripped off our clothes and lay down together on fresh white sheets.

    Oh dear. I can tell you’re upset—not by anything I’ve done, but what you think I’m about to do: relay some detailed account of how it was for Lucy and I, rutting on the very same sheets where you and I lolled, those long Sunday mornings, when . . . well, before you came to your senses is how you might put it. . . .
    I’ll try and be circumspect.

    Lucy talked through it all, same as she had on the beach: those half-formed statements: “He’s the same,” and “The third floor,” and “I do not agree.” Of course, she was talking to them—fielding questions: Is he the handsome fellow from the beach? On what floor is this fellow’s apartment?