“Hi, Mary,” I say. “You look very beautiful today.”
She’s about to lean back into the loveseat when she pauses in mid-lean. I’ve never been so forward with her before. “Well, um, thank you, Jim.”
I can see she’s a little discombobulated. She wasn’t expecting a compliment. She’s been here three months now without me giving her a compliment. Hell, I am nearly as surprised myself.
But she’s a pro, and she’s certainly cute enough to have gotten her share of sweet compliments. I wonder if she feels self-conscious about her nose. Probably not. I suspect Mary the Grief Counselor is a very even-keeled, well-balanced late twentysomething woman. My guess: twenty-eight. Eleven years younger than me.
Too young, I think.
“What would you like to talk about today, Jim?” she asks, now fully recovered from my blindsiding compliment. She always calls me Jim, even when I ask her to call me Jimmy. I don’t know why.
The sliding glass door to my balcony is open and a cool wind is making its way around the living room. No doubt she’s feeling the wind on her slender ankles. Birds twitter in the eucalyptus trees beyond my balcony.
“I think I love you,” I say. “That’s what I want to talk about.”
She makes no other movement other than her mouth dropping open comically. Then she blinks slowly, as her occipital nerves kick into gear. As she focuses on me, her pupils shrink a little. Laser pointed.
Finally, she says, “You’re joking, right? Another one of your jokes?”
“Do I sound like I’m joking?”
She has now successfully absorbed her shock, and her training and poise kick in. She gathers herself, pressing her knees together tighter. Positions her pen on the page, and throws back her perfectly straight hair. “You do not love me, Jim Booker. It’s called emotional transference. It’s not called love.”
“Then I would like to make emotional transference to you,” I say. “All night long.”
She laughs and shakes her head. I note that she hasn’t taken her eyes off me. I see this as a good thing.
“I come here every week,” she says. “We talk about important things. I listen to you. I care for you. It’s easy to transfer your emotions onto me. In this case, love.”
“It’s very, very easy to transfer my emotions onto you.”
“Jim, I have a job to do. Please respect that.”
“I respect your job very much.”
I still notice that she hasn’t taken her eyes off me. Her fingers, I notice again, are long and thin. Her nails are painted red. Shortish nails. Not too long. Just enough length to make the nail polish worthwhile.
“Can we get back to work, Jim?” she asks.
“I’m just work to you?”
Now she looks a little put out. I think it’s some kind of defense mechanism. But what the hell do I know? I’m just a private dick. “Where’s this coming from, Jim? I come here for three months and we talk about all the women in your life. The many, many women in your life. Your self-punishment and recklessness that’s led to your current condition—”
“You mean my permanent disease,” I correct her. Always, she glosses over the disease. Which is strange. She’s trained not to gloss over such things. I know this. Why does she gloss over my disease?
“Yes,” she says, “that. For three months, I’ve been coming here and never once have you expressed any indication that you might be interested in me. Are you expecting me to believe that it appears”—she snaps her fingers—“just like that?”
“Emotional transference works in mysterious ways.”
“No, it doesn’t. It’s quite predictable. I could have predicted this outcome.”
“Oh? And did you?” I’m now sitting a little more forward on the couch. I don’t have a lot of strength to sit forward, but looking at her, at the way she’s breathing a little harder, the way her chest rises and falls a little faster, I find the strength. “Did you predict that I would find you utterly ravishing?”
“You are hardly in a condition to ravish anything, Jim.”
“I still have a good ravish or two in me.”
“Then you don’t want to waste them on me, trust me.”
And now I’m standing slowly. My legs are shaking. The chirping birds seem to disappear. I’m completely and totally absorbed by the woman sitting across from me. I say, “I can’t think of a better person on earth I would want to waste them on.”
“Jim, please. You need to rest—”
“No,” I say, sitting next to her on the loveseat.
She continues staring at me, and I can see something I hadn’t noticed until now, yet something I’m sure I felt. She has feelings for me, too. She really cares about me—and not just as another client.
“What are you doing, Jim?”
“I’m going to kiss you.”
“Jim, please.”
“Please what?”
I rest a hand on her knee and she doesn’t move, although she looks away. Her expression has changed into sadness. I know its source. My disease is her sadness. Hell, it is mine, too.
Well, screw my disease. It’s taken so much away from me. For once, it can give something back.
So I lean over, bracing one hand on the arm of the couch—a hand that quickly begins to shake—but somehow I find the energy to lean over and kiss her softly on the lips.
CHAPTER NINE
I am hanging onto Numi’s arm as we make our way through the dingy apartment complex in Echo Park. Feeble metal railings line the outdoor stairs.
“You really kissed her?” asks Numi. News of my therapy session last night has my friend perplexed. Numi doesn’t usually waste my precious energy, but for some reason today he’s asked me the same question over and over.
“Yes,” I say again. We head up the stairs together. The stairway railing appears less secure. Hanging onto Numi’s strong arm feels much safer, even if the act of holding onto him makes me feel uncomfortable. “A small kiss on her lips,” I add.
“And she didn’t, you know, seem upset?”
“Because I have AIDS?”
“Yes.” Numi doesn’t mince words, which is something I appreciate about him. I don’t have time for those who mince words. I also don’t have time for those who ask me the same question over and over, but I understand Numi’s confusion. At least, I think I do. Yes, a part of me senses he’s jealous, but for reasons that I think might be too complex for my simple brain to understand.