The Pleasure of My Company Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Hi,” she said,
and “Hi,” I said back. “Oh,” she said, “sorry I’m late.” Of course she wasn’t.
She just assumed she was late because the traffic had been murder. “Are you
having a good week?” she asked.
    I was
having a good week, though I couldn’t really tell her why. At least, not
without her thinking I was obsessed with women. I didn’t tell her about my
three encounters with Elizabeth, or about eyeballing Zandy at the pharmacy. So
I lied and said… well, I don’t remember what I said. But I do remember a
particular moment when, after I’d asked her how she was, she paused that extra
second before she said the perfunctory “fine.” She wasn’t fine, and I could
tell. I could tell because my mind has the ability to break down moments the
way it can break down ceiling tiles. I can cut a moment into quarters, then
eighths, then et cetera, and I am able to analyze whether one bit of behaviour
truly follows another, which it seldom does when a person is disturbed or
influenced by a hidden psychic flow.
    I
couldn’t make out what was troubling Clarissa because she’s adept at being
sunny. I’m going to tell you one of the joys of being Clarissa’s “patient.”
While she is analyzing me, I am analyzing her.
    What
makes it fun is that we’re both completely unskilled at it. Our conversation
that day went like this:
    “Did
you find a parking space okay?” I asked.
    “Oh
yes.”
    I said
they’ve been hard to find because of the beach-y weather.
    “Did
you go out this week?” she asked.
    “Several
walks and a few trips to the Rite Aid.”
    “You
were fine with it?” she said.
    “Yeah.
The rules are so easy to follow. Don’t you think?”
    “I’m
not sure what your rules are.”
    “I’ll
bet more people have rules like mine than you think.” I asked, “What are your
rules?” (I wondered if she’d fall for this.)
    “Let’s
stick to you,” she said.
    Outwitted!
     
    The conversation went on,
with both of us parrying and thrusting. I urged myself to never get well
because that would be the end of Clarissa’s visits… wouldn’t it? Though she
would probably have to stop one day when she graduates or when her course— meaning
me—is over. One of us is getting screwed: Either she’s a professional and I
should be paying her, or she’s an intern and I’m a guinea pig.
    Then
something exciting happened. Her cell phone rang. It was exciting because what
crossed her face ranged wildly on the map of human emotion. And oh, did I
divide that moment up into millionths:
    The
phone rang.
    She
decided to ignore it.
    She
decided to answer it.
    She
decided to ignore it.
    She
decided to check caller-id.
    She
looked at the phone display.
    She
turned off the phone and continued speaking.
    But the
moment before turning off the phone broke down further into sub moments:
    She
worried that it might be a specific person.
    She saw
that it was.
    She
turned off the phone with an angry snap.
    But
this sub moment broke down into even more sub sub moments:
    She
grieved.
    Pain
shot through her like a lightning strike.
    So,
Clarissa had an ex she was still connected to. I said, “Clarissa, you’re a
desirable girl; just sit quietly and you will resurrect.” But wait, I didn’t
say it. I only thought it.
     
    I stayed in my apartment
for the next three days. A couple of times Philipa stopped by hoping for more
joy juice. I was starting to feel like a pusher and regretted giving her the Mickeys
in the first place. But I eased the guilt by reminding myself that the drugs
were legal or, in the case of Quaaludes, had at one time been legal. I gave her
the plain Jane concoctions of apple and banana, though I wrestled with just
telling her the truth and letting her get the drugs herself. But I didn’t,
because I still enjoyed her stopping by, because I liked her—or is it that I
liked her dog? “Here, Tiger.” When Philipa walked up or down the stairway, so
did her dog, and I could hear his four paws