A mature adult would simply call Om, describe the weird run-in with Big Swiss, along with the subsequent, totally understandable panic at having to introduce herself—never mind, that seemed childish. The thing to do was to roll the dice, meet Big Swiss as planned, have a drink—just one—and then never see her again.
First, Greta climbed into bed and attempted to service herself to images of jimsonweed. Or datura, as it was also called. The flower was highly poisonous, had a dark history with shamans and teenagers. It was capable of killing both humans and livestock. Not even hummingbirds would fuck with it. The blossom itself was large, trumpet shaped, and pendulous. If Greta closed one eye, it might resemble a droopy boob, if she were also very drunk. She decided the flower would only be titillating to a child, say, or a moth. Or Mapplethorpe. Although, it lacked the velvety, asymmetrical, creamy white lips of the calla lily, as well as the schlong-like spadix.
Greta switched to more traditional material, as she did at the end of every workday, and sometimes during, as it was difficult to transcribe sex therapy without touching oneself, even if the sex being described wasn’t sexy, and it very rarely was, and the therapist happened to be Om. She chose short videos that she could watch from beginning to end—purely out of respect, like those nerds who refuse to leave the movie theater until they’ve sat through the credits. If the video was longer than, say, twelve minutes, Greta kept scrolling.
“Knock knock,” Sabine announced.
Greta closed the browser on her phone, grateful the volume had been muted. A verbal knocker, Sabine only knocked after she had already entered the room and lit a cigarette, even if Greta was attempting some other form of self-abuse, such as yoga.
Sabine opened Greta’s woodstove, which she liked to use as an ashtray, and made a clucking noise. Fixing Greta’s fire had become one of her favorite pastimes. She picked up the poker and expertly rearranged the burning logs.
“Are you sleeping?” Sabine asked.
“Wide awake,” Greta said.
“Aren’t you happy you bought that bedding?”
“Very,” Greta said.
Just as one should purchase new underwear in a new relationship, Sabine encouraged new bedding in a new house, even if the house was an ancient, crumbling ruin. Greta’s wrought iron bed frame was vintage and worth money, her mattress deep and plush, but her sheets had contained a small amount of polyester. Thirty percent, to be exact. As far as Sabine was concerned, Greta may as well have been sleeping on a stack of newspapers at a bus stop. She’d dragged Greta to the Pine Cone Hill outlet in Pittsfield, where Greta had splurged on a bright white linen duvet cover, matching white sheets and shams, and an ethereal bed skirt with multiple layers of sugar-white tulle. Now her bed resembled an expensive wedding cake, and not just to Greta, but to hundreds of thousands of tiny black ants. Thirty minutes after she’d slipped between the new sheets, a large army had poured out of a crack in the wall, fallen to the floor in clumps, fanned out, and climbed Greta’s bedposts. They weren’t even marching in a line. It was every ant for himself, and the army was big enough to blanket Greta’s entire blanket, and Greta herself, and also Pi?on, who couldn’t stop sneezing and throwing himself against the door of the antechamber. He hated ants as much as Greta did. They’d spent the following few nights sleeping in the antechamber, even though the ants had only been passing through, evidently, and were gone by morning.
“I was planning to make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner,” Sabine said. “But I’m over it.”
“I may eat out tonight, anyway. I met this girl at the dog park yesterday, and we’re having drinks.”
“Drinks!” Sabine gasped. “Finally.”
“Maybe I’ll put on a skirt.”
“What skirt?”
“The long denim one. With the buttons.”
“Hold on.” She flicked her cigarette into the fire and walked to the door. “Take off your clothes. I’ll be right back.”
Greta removed her sweatshirt and pajama bottoms. She could hear Sabine in the closet upstairs, scampering around like a red squirrel, a family of which lived in the attic. Since the house had been uninhabited for an entire century, the squirrels had been wintering in the attic for at least fifty-nine generations, and so it seemed cruel to evict them. Unfortunately, they stayed up late, chattering and shooting marbles, it sounded like, and dragging heavy objects from one side of the attic to the other.
Sabine returned with an armful of garments, including a long, tattered dress that buttoned up the back.
“Don’t judge until you put it on,” Sabine said.
“My tits will never fit in this.”
“Nonsense,” Sabine said. “It’ll fit you like a glove.”
The dress was white and gauzy, with three-quarter sleeves, a built-in slip, and a lot of visual interest—ruffled layers, a raw hem, several dark, splotchy stains.
“Did you use this dress to check the oil?” Greta asked.
“No, it’s blood,” Sabine said. “Old blood.”
“You were stabbed? In the thigh?”
“Not my blood. This guy I used to know—” She waved her hand. “Never mind. Turn around.”
Greta turned and Sabine buttoned her in.
“I’m against the white,” Greta said.
“Ivory,” Sabine said, correcting her. “And you shouldn’t be. It brings out the olive in your skin.”
“Who wants greener skin?”
“Um, lots of people,” Sabine said. “You’ve always dressed like a ghoul, but you need to lighten the fuck up. You live in the country now.”
“This seems slightly… delicate.” She meant shabby, threadbare, raglike.
“It’s Japanese voile,” Sabine said. “With visible French seams. The underlayer is soft muslin. See how it peeks out under the hem? It’s very chic and, if I recall, quite expensive.”
“And see-through.”
“Well, you can’t wear underwear, obviously.”
“Can I wear a coat?”
“You don’t wear a coat with this,” Sabine said. “You wear a cape.”
She handed Greta something made of boiled wool. Greta slipped it over her head. It was black, which was nice, and had pockets.
“Did you use this as an ashtray?”
Sabine peered at the fabric. “Fuck,” she said. “The moths got to it. They’ve eaten half my wardrobe.”
“It’s better with holes. Less formal.”
“You look good,” Sabine said. “Too bad this isn’t a date-date.”
“I think she thinks I’m gay, though. Do I seem gay to you?”
“No,” Sabine said, after too long a pause. “But you do have bags under your eyes and they’re two different sizes. Wait here, I have something.”
Above the mantel hung an enormous gilt-framed mirror filled with mysterious black and silver clouds. It made Greta’s room feel like a belle-époque brothel, but sometimes Greta wished she could find her face in the thing. Oh, wait. There it was. She did in fact have bags under her eyes, and they were in fact two different sizes. One was a toiletry bag; the other, a weekender.