L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

your scenarios?”
“No! I have zero complaints about the fantasies so far,” I said. “In fact, they amaze
me. But why has no one wanted to … you know?”
“Cassie, there’s a reason these fantasies haven’t involved full-on sex,” she said.
“Sometimes sex has a way of turning into love for some women. Their emotions get
caught up with the ecstasy and they forget that physical pleasure and love can be two
separate things. We’re not trying to help you fall in love with a man. You clearly don’t
need help doing that. We want you to fall in love with yourself rst. After that, you’ll be
in a much better position to choose a partner, the right one. A real one.”
“So you’re saying I can’t have sex in my fantasies because you’re afraid I’ll fall in
love?”
“No. What I mean is we need to wait until you understand the tricks your body will
play on your mind. Sex creates chemicals that can be mistaken for love. Not
understanding that about our bodies creates a lot of misunderstanding and unnecessary
suffering.”
“I see,” I said, looking around the bar, one mostly lled with men having beers with
other men. Fat, short, young or old, I used to wonder how they did it, how some men
could have sex and then so easily disengage. I guess it wasn’t their fault. It was
chemical. Still, Matilda was right. I got attached easily. I ended up marrying the rst
man I had sex with because my entire body said it was the right thing, the only thing to
do, even though my mind knew it was completely wrong. In fact, I almost got o the
train at the Jesse stop because he talked to me, made me laugh and was an amazing
kisser.
“Cassie, please don’t worry so much. But believe me when I say to you that this is
about sex. Pleasure and sex. Love, my dear, is a whole other thing.”
My next fantasy card arrived almost six excruciating weeks later, after the heat wave
had been replaced by a storm watch, the weather perfectly mirroring my frustration.
The fantasies would take place over the course of a year, I was reminded. And though
the Committee tried to space them out evenly, even Matilda admitted in a quick phone
call that six weeks was unusual. “Patience, Cassie. You can’t rush some things.”
A few days later, at night, a courier rang the buzzer downstairs. I practically ran down
the stairs to sign for what he had. I was so excited I almost kissed him on the mouth.
“I saw that you were up,” he said, pointing to the dormers on the third oor of the
Spinster Hotel. He was young, maybe twenty-ve, with the kind of body only the most
aggressive of bike couriers can achieve in a city this at. But he was so damn cute that
inviting him up crossed my mind.
“Thank you,” I said, snatching the envelope from his sinewy hands. The wind whipped
my hair around my face and sent my robe flapping up my legs.
“Oh, there’s this too,” he said, handing me a cushioned envelope the size of a small
pillow. “Storm’s coming. Dress appropriately,” he added, taking one bold look at my
legs and spinning away with a wave.