Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page B

mother with baby twins, pushing a double stroller and talking emphatically on her cell phone. All of them were struggling to get through their days as well as they could. All of them were faced with things they didn’t want to deal with, people who didn’t treat them kindly enough. I smiled warmly at anyone who met my eyes and silently wished the rest of them a Merry Christmas even if they celebrated something else. “Merry Christmas” was, to me, a coded catchall phrase that meant “I hope you get through this mess with as little pain as possible.” The rest of the year, Jesus was a grown-up with a beard, but in this season, he was a needy, tender little baby just like the rest of us. To me, saying “Merry Christmas” just acknowledged this general vulnerable-newborn status. It struck me as nothing but good manners and common sense.
    I stopped in at my favorite deli, then crossed Union Square and walked a block down Broadway to my office building. I let myself into the building, climbed one flight of stairs, unlocked the office door, and went in. It was dark and a little chilly in there. I placed the deli bag on my desk, turned on the lamps, turned up the thermostat, and took off my coat and hung it in the closet. I loved my office. It had a thick rug, two comfy club chairs, a long leather couch, a tiled coffee table, bookshelves, and a small cherrywood desk. The lamps cast a warm, flattering, cozy light. A translucent curtain hung like a scrim in front of the window to let in daylight but soften the harshness of the cityscape. The walls were thick, the window double-paned, so the only noises that filtered in were muted, almost unnoticeable. The room’s atmosphere was intended to suggest hopeful possibility and nonthreatening comfort in equal measure.
    I sat at my desk and unpacked a toasted everything bagel with melted Swiss cheese. I hit the play button on my answering machine, hoping everyone had canceled, but there were no new messages. I ate my bagel and drank hot black coffee while I reviewed my notes from the previous week’s session with Sasha Delahunt, my first client that morning.
    The taste of Peter remained through toothpaste, coffee, and food. The sensation of his cock in my mouth would not go away. It was a pleasurable, shocking memory. And before that, the excitement of my conversation with Mick remained, too, the heady triumph of being sexually alive again. I dreaded seeing Anthony later; I hoped Wendy would come home for dinner so I wouldn’t have to eat alone with him. Maybe I’d stay at Indrani’s and eat party leftovers with her. I was so relieved to be going over there that afternoon after work; thank God for Indrani. She was so easygoing, such a warm, familiar, comfortable friend. Even the thought of her gently plaintive neediness didn’t bother me now. I felt grateful for it, in fact. Right now, I was very glad to be needed by someone who would listen, someone I could confess everything to.
    The buzzer rang. I pressed the button that opened the door, then put Sasha’s folder back into my desk drawer and cleaned up all evidence of my breakfast. I sat and stared into space for a few minutes, collecting myself. I fluffed my hair, checked my teeth for poppy seeds in a tiny mirror I kept in the top drawer, put the mirror away, and then, at exactly ten o’clock, I got up and opened my office door with a welcoming, reassuring smile.
    “Hello, Sasha,” I said. “Come on in.”
    Sasha was a pixieish, skittish fashion designer with a pathological fear of her boss, and, for that matter, anyone in a position of authority or power over her, including me. She had been terrorized by her two older sisters and her father, and meanwhile her mother had been meek and apologetic and no help at all. I had been working with Sasha for almost a year, and she was just beginning to be able to enter my office without visibly cringing. She reported similar progress at work; apparently, she was now able to make