Issue #20 (2011) PDF - myweb - Long Island University

―No.‖ I search for something that‘s not in my cosmetic bag.
Jim rises, nodding. I lock the door after him and change clothes quickly, avoiding my
reflection in the mirror. I‘d rather imagine the way I look than see it for real. I take my time
finishing my makeup and brushing my teeth. From outside, I hear the TV. I stare at the toilet and
decide to risk it while he‘s distracted. In the middle of my flow, he lowers the volume, listening to
me pee. I reach over and turn on the bathroom faucet and the TV volume rises once more.
The dining room is wide and two stories tall. Our table is on the lower level and we follow a
waiter as he wends his way among round tables and square ones, here and there a lonely rectangle.
The noise is nearly deafening. Curtains are pulled back to reveal the setting sun and the scent of
flowers overpowers any smells that may be trying to escape from the kitchen. One is meant to savor
cruise ship food with the eyes rather than the nose. Silverware and glasses clink. Bodies press into
tight corners, hands reach out, people introduce themselves by saying where they‘re from. We have
a table to ourselves. No one will shake our hands, ask us where we‘re from, scratch their heads at
the thought of two strangers masquerading as a couple.
I run my hand over the tablecloth, white, pristine, unbelievably free of stains. I study my
napkin folded in the shape of a bishop‘s hat and carefully unwrap it, trying to learn how it was made.
There is a string quartet playing one of Vivaldi‘s seasons. No one seems to be listening.
―Quite a spectacle,‖ Jim says, opening the large menu. ―It‘ll be hard to go back to eating in
front of the TV.‖
Jim has said he lived in a large studio, about the only thing he can afford after the second
divorce. I haven‘t told him I own my mother‘s house now, inherited the money that allowed me to
have the surgery so I can live as a woman. Instead, I said I live in a one bedroom with just enough
to make ends meet. At one point, it was the truth. I have to be careful, remember what I‘ve told
him.
I order a glass of red wine even though it doesn‘t go with the shrimps I‘m planning to have.
Jim settles on the oysters. He reaches for the bread and two round balls of butter.
―So what do you want to do tonight‖ he asks. ―How ‗bout that hot tub‖
―You go. I might do a little reading.‖
He makes a face. ―Seems silly to come on a cruise to read.‖
I give him two points for using my logic against me. ―I don‘t think I care to sit naked in a
hot tub unless I have a bar of soap.‖
―You have a one or two piece‖ he asks. ―Bathing suit.‖
―One.‖ Is he picturing me in it Is that what his look is about
But he says ―It‘ll be a bit more difficult. But not impossible. Trick is not to take the suit off
completely. Just have it down around your knees. This way, all you need to do is pull it up quick.
No fuss.‖
―It sounds disgusting.‖
―Ever try it‖
No, I want to say. I never sat naked in a hot tub, never been married, never lived my life
fully as a woman until I was nearly forty. But I haven‘t told him anything about myself that was the
absolute truth so far—why start now ―Don‘t know if I want to,‖ I say. ―Why do you‖
He shrugs. ―It makes me feel...free.‖
―I‘m not doing the hot tub thing,‖ I say.
―Okay, okay,‖ he says as if he only conceded that round.
The progress from course to course reminds me of walking underwater, slow and laborious.
We avoid each other‘s gaze, comment on the dining room, judge the people around us, guessing
what they do for a living. The conversation that flowed from keyboard to keyboard for two years in
the small hours of the morning doesn‘t translate well to this candlelit table with soft music in the
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