The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty (21 page)

She must have looked sad, because he finally asks, “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” she says. “I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

“I’m not attractive enough for you, right? I know I’m not good enough for you.”

“No, you’re wrong. I find your face very moving.”

“Are you mocking me?”

He looks at her and sees tears in her eyes.

“You’re not,” he says, perplexed.

She shakes her head.

He descends upon her. They kiss passionately, each with their own personal desperation. He basks in the sight of her face, running his fingers through her hair, devouring her with his eyes, and then with his mouth, and again with his eyes. Before long, they move to the bedroom. He undresses her quickly. Even though their passion is frantic, every second is slowed in her mind, and she has time to relish the caresses. She hugs the body she craved for years, the body that never wanted her and still wouldn’t if she hadn’t worked beyond sanity to warp reality.

Afterward, he notices blood on the sheets. “Oh. You have your period?”

“No,” she says.

He frowns. “That’s strange,” he mutters. And then he opens his eyes wide and looks at her. “Were you a virgin?”

“Yes.”

“Why me?”

“You’re my type.”

“No one else was your type before me?”

“Not so much.”

“I hope this isn’t some elaborate and cruel prank because I’m not so bad of a person to deserve it.”

Chapter Fourteen

D
uring the next two weeks, Lily and Strad see each other almost every day. He treats her with tender devotion. She never dreamed he could be so gentle and loving.

He’s always touching her, caressing her, which she loves. She’s hardly ever been touched before. In fact, she was so touch-deprived that she used to derive inordinate pleasure from the handling of her hands during a manicure. And now he’s constantly grabbing her around the waist, kissing her, hugging her, cupping her breasts, and then jokingly saying things like, “Oops, I’m sorry, am I molesting you? You’d tell me if it bothered you, right?” They laugh. To her, it’s heaven.

When she’s home with a bad cold, he brings her large containers of wonton soup and urges her to drink a lot of it. He buys her homeopathic medications, takes her temperature and gives her foot rubs.

When they go to parties, they stay in a corner, people-watching and whispering. She finds his take on everyone entertaining and witty. Much whispering is done about them, too, of course, as she’s wearing a mask. They have such a great connection. Why couldn’t this kind of connection have existed if she hadn’t become beautiful? Why is it that a connection that seems to have nothing to do with looks—because it feels so much deeper than that, like a connection of minds and souls—is actually entirely dependent on looks?

She realizes she may be in for some serious suffering once he discovers the truth about her—and she does think he will learn it, sooner or later, one way or another, perhaps even from her.

She and Strad are so often together that she doesn’t find many opportunities to work on the piece that will give permanence to her new beauty.

Much of their time is spent at her place; that’s where she feels most comfortable replacing her mask with her music.

“I love making you laugh; you’re so beautiful when you laugh,” he tells her. “But you’re so beautiful when you don’t laugh, too. And when you look sad.”

She laughs.

Strad notices she always has the same piece of music playing. Granted, it’s a very nice piece, and long, and with lots of variations, but still. He asks if he can choose the music, from time to time. She says no.

“That’s not totally fair,” he says.

“I know. But it’s my only unfair thing. You can have one, too, if you want.”

“Can I choose all the movies we watch?”

“Yes.”

“And all the TV programs?”

“Yes.”

Each night, she insists on sleeping alone in her bedroom. She gives him the choice of sleeping on her foldout couch or going home. She sees no alternative—she practiced sleeping with her mask on, but found it too uncomfortable. As for the option of letting the music play all night, she wouldn’t get any sleep, too worried that the music might stop for whatever reason.

Most nights, Strad chooses the couch. After two weeks of this arrangement, he becomes more persistent in his questioning. But Lily remains evasive.

He tells her he’d like to take her to the birthday party of a friend of his. She says okay. He says he’d like her to go without the mask. She says that’s impossible. He gently but firmly wants to know why. She says she will try to tell him soon.

He knows she’s a fragile soul—just as I had warned him—and he loves that about her. To be with a girl possessed of beauty so great that it has screwed her up to this degree is thrilling. Girls of this sort are rare. Guys lucky enough to get those girls are even rarer. Strad got lucky. He knows that. Nevertheless, he wants to understand her better. So he keeps asking questions.

On her end, Lily has been trying to come up with plausible explanations, though without much success. Narrative invention is not her forte. She knows that sooner or later she’ll have to ask the expert for some ideas.

OUR WHOLE GROUP,
including Peter, is gathered at our beloved restaurant, Artisanal, for our annual holiday dinner. We’re seated at a round table.

“Strad wants to know why I always wear the mask outside our apartments. Any thoughts?” Lily asks Georgia.

“I’ll think about it and try to come up with something,” Georgia says. “But I have to warn you, it’ll have to be melodramatic and sentimental to be effective with Strad. You may balk.”

“I won’t.”

As soon as my friends start digging into their cheese fondues, they perform their usual gesticulations and noises of ecstasy.

Peter looks at them, startled. “Oh, my. What a beneficial group to be with.”

“What do you mean?” Georgia asks, munching happily.

“Years ago I met a tribe in Africa who believed that you can derive more benefits from being in close proximity to someone experiencing pleasure than you can from experiencing pleasure yourself.”

“How could that be?” Penelope asks.

“They claimed that people who experience physical pleasure emit vibrations—pleasure vibes—that are beneficial to people around them. Anything that pleases any of your five senses or that simply makes your body feel good will cause your body to exude these invisible pleasure vibrations that are therapeutic to others.”

“So having sex must be the most beneficial,” Jack says.

“No, actually, sex is the one pleasure that doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I can’t remember exactly the reason. It was something about pleasure vibes staying within. They claim that’s what makes orgasms so powerful: the vibes are trapped, and so the pressure builds and builds until it explodes. But it’s an internal explosion. Nothing escapes. Except fluids, of course, but no vibes.”

“So, what specific benefits does the tribe believe one gains from being exposed to someone’s pleasure vibes?” Penelope asks.

“Every benefit you can think of. They say you’ll feel better, look better, sleep better, think better, be happier and more energetic,” Peter says. “And maybe that tribe does benefit from practicing this philosophy because they were possibly the healthiest, most charming and appealing people I’ve ever met. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Well then, let’s indulge, for the sake of bettering each other!” Georgia exclaims. She dunks a potato into the melted cheese.

“You should know, though, that the tribe believes that the pleasure vibes work even better if one person is emitting them, and another person is completely passive, just receiving them. That’s because if both people are experiencing pleasure simultaneously, then their outgoing pleasure vibes will tend to get in the way of each other’s incoming ones.”

Peter changes the topic, asking us what we’re all doing for Christmas. We go around the table, answering this question.

When it’s Penelope’s turn, she says, “I don’t know. Christmas Eve is in three days and I still haven’t heard from my parents. And yet my rent has been paid. Clearly my dad hasn’t stopped supporting me.”

“You should call them,” Georgia says.

“I don’t feel like it.”

“What will you do for Christmas?”

“I don’t know.”

Jack suggests that she spend Christmas with him and his mother at the senior center where he works. “If you’re lucky, you might even get to see me break up a fight,” he adds.

Penelope has tears in her eyes—perhaps at the thought of spending Christmas at a senior center.

“Or you could spend it with me and my family!” Georgia and Lily offer, almost in unison.

“That’s very nice of you guys,” Penelope says. “Maybe I’ll spend it at the senior center. A little volunteer work might make me feel better. Thanks, Jack.”

Georgia barks at me, for the whole table to hear, “Why are you staring at Peter so intensely?”

“I’m not staring,” I lie. She caught me.

“Yes you are,” she says. “You look like you’re devouring him with your eyes. Especially when he’s not looking.”

My face feels hot.

“Plus,” she continues, “you’re as red as a tomato right now, which I think is a sign that I’m correct.”

I feel the roots of my hair prickling under my gray wig.

Peter gazes at me.

“So? Are you going to explain?” Georgia asks.

I’m too flustered to resort to anything but the truth. “I was just wondering how much pleasure Peter was deriving from his food and whether he was emitting any pleasure vibes.”

“Why only Peter?” Georgia challenges, still loudly. “Why not the rest of us?”

Not knowing what to say, I finally, lamely answer, “I guess because he was the teller of the story.”

Peter startles us by taking out his wallet, placing a few large bills on the table, and rising.

“Hey, Peter, what’s going on?” Georgia asks, chuckling uncomfortably.

Peter walks over to my side of the table and extends his hand to me.

Addressing my friends, but looking down only at me, he says, “I hope you all don’t mind if Barb and I leave. She’s in need of a demonstration, and I, being the teller of the story, want to give it to her.”

“You mean you’ll do something pleasurable to yourself while she watches?” Georgia asks.

Peter laughs. “Yes, something like that.” His hand is still waiting for mine.

I glance at my friends, hesitant to leave them in the middle of dinner. But they don’t seem to mind. They’re smiling at me.

I finally accept Peter’s hand and we leave the restaurant.

Once in his apartment, he gestures for me to sit on the huge white couch. I do, admiring the sumptuous living room with lots of glass surfaces.

He takes care of a few things in the kitchen and comes out with a small tray. He positions a chair right in front of me, very close, and sits on it. His seat is slightly higher than mine, so he is looking down at me somewhat, his legs open to accommodate mine between his. Our calves are touching.

He picks up a chocolate truffle and bites into it and chews it slowly, looking at me like I’m the next truffle he’s about to relish.

He then takes his iPod, puts the buds in his ears, and makes his musical selection. He goes back to gazing at me intently, while I hear the faint tinny noise emanating from his earbuds. It sounds like classical. Something passionate. Wagner, perhaps.

After about three minutes he selects another piece of music and another piece of chocolate and consumes both while we stare at each other for another two minutes.

“Do you feel anything?” he asks.

I chuckle and say, “Yes,” though I doubt the excitement I’m experiencing has as much to do with his emanating pleasure vibes as it does with my anticipation of what might happen next.

He switches off the iPod and pulls his earphones out of his ears.

He stares at me for a few more seconds and says, “I saw you bite into a bruschetta, once, during one of our Nights of Creation. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back, reveling in the taste. As I observed you, a feeling I’ll never forget coursed through me—a feeling so spectacular, it felt like a drug. And I thought,
Our world doesn’t pay enough attention to that feeling. Almost as though it hasn’t been discovered yet. Maybe that tribe really was onto something.”

I smile. We are silent, our eyes locked. Now is the time. He will lean toward me. He will touch me. He will kiss me. He will be the only man who has ever done this since I started wearing my ugly disguise after Gabriel’s death.

He starts moving. He picks up his iPod, searches for another song, and puts his earbuds back in his ears, saying, “I bet this one will sound great to the sight of you.” He listens to it while staring at me.

He is trying to torture me. That must be it. I am so drawn to him that were I to move toward him, it would simply feel as though I’m letting gravity take me. But my policy specifies that he has to make the first move because I need to be utterly convinced—I need irrefutable proof—that he wants me in spite of how I look to him with my disguise on.

When the song ends, he places his iPod on the coffee table next to his chair and says, “That was very pleasurable, listening to music while staring at you.”

“Great. I look forward to reaping the fruits of your pleasure,” I joke.

He nods. “Now, during this session I’ve derived pleasure from each of my senses.” He pauses. “Except for one.”

“Is it an important one?”

“Yes.”

“So what are you going to do?”

This is the moment. This is the very moment when he is going to make a move to indulge his sense of touch.

He answers, “I’ll make sure it’s not neglected next time.”

How it is that he brings the evening to an end without anything having happened is a mystery to me. It must be my teeth. Or my fat, my gray, my frizz, my brown contacts, my glasses. Perhaps I should take them all off. No, I can’t believe I’m even thinking this, after my resolution—after Gabriel. My throat tightens at the memory of him.