The Pleasure of M (30 page)

Dare
 I
 hope
 that
 you
 will
 not
 hate
 me?
 
Yours
 truly,
 always…
 
Michel”
 
As
 he
 promised,
 he
 checked
 his
 account
 one
 last
 time
 and
 found
 her
 last
 reply.
 
“Leave
 me
 if
 you
 must,
 I
 hate
 you
 not.
 
Yours
 still
 
Catherine”
 
And
 Michel
 wept
 as
 Titus
 perhaps
 once
 had.
 
 

Her
 end
 

The
  first
  emotion
  after
  making
  the
  decision
  was
  a
  great
  sense
  of
  relief
  and
  this
 
surprised
 Catherine
 quite
 a
 bit.
 She’d
 gotten
 up
 in
 a
 good
 mood,
 as
 she
 had
 the
 last
 
few
 days.
 After
 her
 husband
 had
 left
 she’d
 lazily
 gone
 up
 to
 the
 room
 to
 finish
 her
 
coffee
 and
 surf
 the
 news
 sites
 as
 was
 her
 habit
 before
 leaving
 for
 work
 herself
 a
 few
 
minutes
 later,
 and
 now
 she
 wondered
 as
 she
 had
 for
 the
 last
 three
 days
 if
 she
 would
 
write
 an
 e-‐mail,
 deciding
 once
 again
 not
 to.
 But
 just
 as
 she
 was
 going
 to
 get
 ready
 to
 
leave,
  a
  simple
  question
  came
  to
  her
  mind
  and
  the
  lack
  of
  an
  immediate
  response
 
was
  like
  a
  jolt
  to
  her,
  followed
  by
  an
  epiphany-‐like
  sensation
  and
  then…
  relief.
 
Simply
  put,
  she
  didn’t
  know
  who’s
  turn
  it
  was
  and
  when
  the
  thought
  formed
  that
 
maybe
 it
 was
 nobody’s
 turn,
 in
 the
 blink
 of
 an
 eye
 it
 was
 over,
 and
 she
 was
 smiling
 
as
  she
  walked
  out
  the
  door.
  “It’s
  my
  turn”
  she
  thought
  to
  herself
  as
  she
  got
  in
  the
 
bus,
 “one
 last
 time.”
 These
 three
 words
 echoed
 in
 her
 mind
 all
 during
 the
 bus
 ride
 
and
 by
 the
 time
 she
 got
 off
 and
 walked
 the
 block
 and
 a
 half
 to
 her
 office
 she
 knew
 
that
  tomorrow
  would
  be
  the
  first
  day
  of
  a
  changed
  life,
  one
  more
  simple,
  less
 
encumbered.
 

Her
 day
 had
 an
 odd
 configuration
 as
 she
 was
 taking
 the
 afternoon
 off
 from
 work
 to
 
compensate
 for
 having
 aided
 her
 boss
 in
 hosting
 an
 event
 at
 city
 hall
 the
 previous
 
Sunday,
 and
 she
 had
 scheduled
 for
 the
 afternoon
 an
 appointment
 with
 her
 therapist
 
followed
  by
  a
  massage,
  something
  she
  indulged
  in
  perhaps
  once
  a
  month.
  The
 
massage
 had
 marked
 the
 starting
 point
 and
 the
 endpoint
 of
 her
 affair
 but
 as
 striking
 
as
  that
  may
  seem,
  if
  there
  was
  any
  meaning
  in
  this,
  anything
  beyond
  a
  pure
 
coincidence,
  then
  she
  failed
  to
  discern
  it.
  The
  morning
  went
  well
  and
  the
  now
 
apparent
  success
  of
  the
  event
  she
  had
  hosted
  earned
  her
  some
  collateral
 
compliments
 from
 her
 boss
 which
 she
 handled
 with
 grace,
 however
 unaccustomed
 
she
  may
  have
  been
  to
  such
  circumstances.
  By
  the
  time
  she
  left
  the
  office
  she
  was
 
very
 relaxed
 and
 happy,
 feeling
 very
 much
 alive,
 feeling
 as
 if
 a
 quest
 had
 ended
 in
 
success
 with
 a
 prize
 worthy
 of
 the
 risks
 involved.
 This
 must
 be
 akin,
 she
 thought,
 to
 
the
 feeling
 a
 con
 artist
 would
 get
 after
 pulling
 off
 her
 final
 caper,
 now
 finally
 having
 
enough
 to
 lead
 a
 straight
 life,
 the
 joyous
 end
 to
 a
 long
 chapter.
 For
 indeed
 Catherine
 
knew
 that
 there
 would
 be
 no
 more
 men
 in
 her
 life,
 no
 more
 affairs
 and
 that
 this
 final
 
story
 in
 its
 own
 way
 had
 fulfilled
 her,
 made
 her
 whole,
 given
 her
 that
 little
 je
 ne
 sais
 
quoi
 she
 had
 been
 longing
 for.
 What
 was
 that
 Heart
 lyric
 again?
 Oh
 yes…
 “And
 what
 
he
 couldn’t
 give
 me
 was
 the
 one
 little
 thing
 that
 you
 can”.
 A
 spark,
 a
 flame,
 passion,
 
lust…
  what
  had
  it
  been?
  She
  wasn’t
  sure
  and
  in
  a
  way
  it
  did
  not
  really
  matter
 
anymore
 if
 it
 ever
 had,
 since
 the
 result
 alone
 was
 what
 truly
 mattered:
 she
 no
 longer
 
felt
 that
 she
 had
 missed
 something
 or
 that
 something
 was
 missing
 from
 her
 life,
 and
 
having
 put
 her
 finger
 on
 it
 she
 now
 understood
 the
 feeling
 of
 relief.
 She
 had
 a
 light
 
salad
 for
 lunch
 and
 headed
 to
 her
 appointment
 with
 her
 therapist.
 

To
  say
  that
  the
  affair
  had
  changed
  her
  would
  somehow
  imply
  that
  there
  had
  been
 
something
  passive
  about
  her
  participation
  in
  it
  which
  would
  be
  laughable,
  but
 
among
  the
  things
  that
  she
  had
  learned
  was
  that
  she
  no
  longer
  felt
  a
  need
  for
 
everything
  to
  have
  a
  reason,
  a
  justification
  that
  could
  be
  rationalized
  into
  a
 
convincing
 argument
 if
 need
 be,
 and
 this
 left
 her
 free
 to
 ponder
 her
 actions
 and
 their
 
origins
  without
  a
  burden
  of
  proof
  concerning
  her
  motivations.
  This
  newfound
 
serendipity
  allowed
  her
  to
  feel
  good
  about
  where
  she
  was,
  to
  be
  very
  much
  alive.
 
Tracing
 the
 familiar
 steps
 to
 Dr.
 Bentsen’s
 office,
 it
 felt
 to
 her
 as
 if
 knowing
 that
 this
 
was
 the
 last
 time
 made
 everything
 look
 new
 and
 different,
 the
 narrow
 lobby
 and
 its
 
rickety
  elevator,
  the
  musty
  hallway
  leading
  to
  the
  office.
  He
  sat
  as
  always
  at
  the
 
small
 desk
 in
 the
 antechamber,
 writing
 what
 she
 had
 always
 assumed
 were
 notes
 on
 
the
  previous
  occupant
  of
  the
  couch,
  and
  remarked
  after
  a
  warm
  greeting
  on
  how
 
well
 she
 looked
 today,
 but
 as
 he
 began
 to
 usher
 her
 to
 the
 office
 itself,
 she
 went
 no
 
further
 and
 smiled.
 

“Actually,
  I
  just
  came
  to
  say
  goodbye,
  and
  of
  course
  to
  give
  you
  a
  check
  for
  this
 
session.”
 

 

“You’re
 stopping
 therapy?”
 he
 asked
 quite
 taken
 aback
 at
 first
 but
 quickly
 regaining
 
composure.
 “May
 I
 ask
 why?”
 he
 continued
 with
 a
 smile.
 

 

“I
 think
 that
 we’ve
 accomplished
 what
 I
 wanted
 me
 to
 accomplish.”
 

 

“Really?”
  She
  heard
  the
  slight
  tone
  of
  incredulousness
  that
  wafted
  through
  the
 
words.
 “That’s
 wonderful.”
 

 

“You
  seem
  surprised,
  doctor.”
  She
  hoped
  that
  her
  own
  tone
  did
  not
  betray
  the
 
amusement
 that
 she
 felt
 at
 this
 moment.
 

“I
 guess
 I
 wasn’t
 fully
 aware
 of
 the
 progress
 that
 you
 were
 making.”
 
“I’ve
 come
 a
 long
 way
 over
 the
 last
 four
 years,
 Dr
 Bentsen.”
 

“Has
 it
 been
 that
 long?”
 The
 sweet
 bespectacled
 octogenarian’s
 fondness
 for
 her
 was
 
evident
 in
 his
 smile.
 “And
 you
 still
 don’t
 call
 me
 Michael…”
 

 

“Do
 you
 ask
 all
 patients
 to
 use
 your
 first
 name?”
 

“No,
  not
  at
  all.
  In
  fact
  it’s
  fairly
  rare,
  but
  with
  you
  I
  somehow
  felt
  that
  it
  was
 
appropriate.
  You
  came
  here
  for
  answers,
  not
  help,
  and
  that
  is
  not
  the
  most
  usual
 
circumstance,
  so
  I
  thought
  that
  a
  certain
  rapprochement
  could
  allow
  us
  to
  delve
 
more
 substantively
 into
 the
 issues
 that
 concerned
 you,
 perhaps
 putting
 us
 side-‐by-‐
side
 rather
 than
 face-‐to-‐face.
 Did
 you
 feel
 that
 this
 was
 coercive
 on
 my
 part?”
 
“Not
  at
  all.
  It
  just
  felt
  more
  natural
  to
  me
  to
  address
  you
  with
  a
  title.
  Always
  the
 
Catholic
 girl,
 full
 of
 respect
 for
 authority
 figures.”
 

She
 chatted
 with
 him
 another
 few
 minutes
 before
 a
 warm
 goodbye,
 and
 decided
 in
 
the
 end
 not
 to
 tell
 him
 about
 Michel.
 It
 was
 Dr.
 Bentsen
 who
 had
 said
 that
 having
 a
 
constructive
 dialog
 with
 an
 inner
 voice
 was
 not
 to
 be
 mistaken
 for
 having
 multiple
 
personalities,
  and
  in
  so
  doing
  he
  had
  created
  the
  conditions
  for
  her
  affair,
  yet
  she
 
never
 had
 told
 him
 about
 it:
 Michel
 had
 been
 hers
 alone.
 She’d
 thought
 about
 telling
 
him
 a
 couple
 of
 times
 at
 least,
 of
 course,
 but
 never
 did,
 too
 busy
 living
 the
 dream,
 too
 
lazy
  to
  explain
  its
  convoluted
  premise,
  its
  complex
  technological
  meanderings,
  its
 
irrational
 constructs…
 And
 she
 clearly
 had
 never
 cared
 about
 what
 the
 good
 doctor
 
would
 have
 to
 say
 about
 it.
 

She
  headed
  to
  the
  spa
  where
  her
  massage
  was
  scheduled,
  very
  much
  looking
 
forward
 to
 an
 hour
 of
 pampering
 and
 relaxation,
 just
 enough
 to
 prepare
 for
 the
 final
 
task
 ahead:
 writing
 one
 last
 message
 to
 Michel.
 She
 was
 led
 to
 the
 dimly
 lit
 room
 and
 
took
  off
  her
  clothes,
  transitioning
  from
  mental
  to
  physical
  therapy,
  as
  it
  were.
  She
 
lay
 face
 down
 on
 the
 table,
 relaxing
 into
 the
 heated
 pad
 that
 was
 beneath
 her
 body,
 
the
 heaviness
 of
 a
 sheet
 and
 blanket
 covering
 her.
 The
 therapist
 knocked
 lightly
 and
 
greeted
  Catherine
  as
  she
  entered.
  The
  quiet
  strains
  of
  Asian
  music
  encouraged
 
Catherine
  to
  breath
  deeply
  and
  let
  herself
  relax
  a
  little
  more.
  She
  felt
  the
  heated
 
herbal
 pack
 being
 gently
 placed
 on
 her
 lower
 back,
 one
 of
 the
 areas
 where
 she
 often
 
held
 tension.
 The
 sound
 of
 the
 pump
 which
 releases
 lotion
 into
 the
 therapist’s
 hands
 
was
  soon
  followed
  by
  a
  firm
  and
  gentle
  caress
  on
  the
  soles
  of
  her
  feet,
  moving
 
downward
  to
  the
  toes,
  then
  a
  slow
  knead
  of
  the
  calf
  muscles
  and
  somehow
 
perpetually
  tight
  hamstrings.
  First
  one
  side
  and
  then
  the
  other.
  Each
  time
  the
 
therapist
  moved
  to
  a
  new
  spot,
  she
  would
  carefully
  unveil
  it
  beneath
  sheet
  and
 
blanket
  and
  cover
  the
  area
  she
  had
  just
  completed.
  Her
  hands
  move
  to
  the
  left
 
buttock
  and
  lower
  back
  and
  Catherine
  began
  to
  sink
  a
  little
  deeper
  into
  the
  table.
 
She
 felt
 fingers
 treading
 along
 her
 spine
 and
 ribcage
 toward
 the
 shoulders.