“I’ll be here,” Greta said.
10
There was a house that existed only in Greta’s dreams, a house she’d been visiting for years. Sometimes it felt like she’d been dreaming about it her entire life, which was why it seemed as familiar as her own face. And yet, it always disintegrated the second she opened her eyes. She only remembered what it had been consumed by in the dream, and of course that always varied. Water, fire, dirt, dead leaves. If she saw a house in real life that she liked or admired, some aspect of it might later appear in the dream house, and so it was likely a hodgepodge of conflicting styles. At any rate, Greta was usually happy to see it—Here I am again, she often thought, remember this—even though Pi?on had died there a dozen times. He was always falling down the stairs or being chased onto the roof, and Greta woke up scream-whispering, or choking on her own despair.
But now, for the first time ever, Greta felt like she was inside the dream house while awake. That’s what being inside Big Swiss’s pussy felt like, a place she’d been visiting in her dreams for years and forgetting. How exhilarating to finally be awake for this, lucid and somewhat in control. On the other hand, how devastating. She was crushed by the number of years she’d wasted.
“You keep making little gasping noises,” Big Swiss said.
“It’s so alive in here!” Greta said.
As alive and abundant as the universe. If Greta spent time here every day, anything and everything seemed possible. She could pilot a helicopter if she wanted, or act in a play. She could make soap, sweaters, sausage. Maybe dance? She had way more rhythm than she realized, along with more nerve endings in her fingers. It astounded her how satisfying this felt, how natural and innate. No wonder lesbians seemed so smug.
“What’s happening to you?” Big Swiss said.
“Nothing,” Greta said. “Everything.”
“You look like you’re… mutating,” Big Swiss said.
“I might be growing a third eye,” Greta said.
Big Swiss sat up. “Whatever it is you think you’ve discovered—” She shook her head. “Never mind, I’ll sound like my mother.”
“Go ahead,” Greta said. “I’m listening.”
“Lie next to me for a minute.”
They lay on their sides, facing one another. Big Swiss had given Greta carte blanche, but that was yesterday. Today, just before Greta had entered the dream house, Big Swiss said, “If you want me to come, I’ll have to stare long and hard at your face, and you can’t stare back.” No eye contact, in other words. A tad extreme, but it had worked, twice. Greta had been bowled over by Big Swiss’s orgasms. They seemed so guileless, so comprehensive, so stark and new.
But now that Greta had left the dream house, Big Swiss demanded to be looked in the eye.
“You already had it,” Big Swiss said.
“What?”
“What you were looking for,” Big Swiss said. “It was already there, inside you.”
Big Swiss’s neck reddened, along with her chest. Her face was almost too beautiful to look at directly. It was like staring at the sun. Greta blinked and rolled onto her back. It dawned on her slowly, a little painfully, that what she’d been looking for inside the dream house, and what she’d found, was her own appetite. She’d been famished all these years without knowing it.
“You seem freaked out,” Big Swiss said.
“I guess I’m worried I’ll lose my mind or, like, overdose,” Greta said. “It’s like coming into money and fame and not knowing how to handle it because you’ve been poor and invisible all your life.”
“My vagina isn’t made of gold,” Big Swiss said.
“Desire,” Greta said. “You may not understand this, but I haven’t felt real desire in years.”
“What else are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling pretty gay, to be honest,” Greta said.
“Where are you growing this third eye?” Big Swiss asked.
“On my scalp,” Greta said. “You can’t see it.”
“What else are you hiding?”
My real name, Greta nearly said. “A lot of gray,” Greta said instead. “Also, I don’t wear reading glasses because they give away my age. That’s why I’m always squinting at my phone. I guess I feel pretty old around you.”
“Ten years isn’t a big deal.”
“Seventeen,” Greta said. “I’m actually… forty-five.”
Big Swiss reared back slightly to take in Greta’s whole face. “Oh, baby,” Greta imagined her saying. “You look incredible for your age. You know that, right?” But Big Swiss said nothing and covered herself with the sheet.
“Has it sunk in?” Greta asked.
“That you can’t be trusted?”
“That I’m too old for you,” Greta said.
“My last crush was fifty-eight. The one before that, sixty-two.”
“It’s different with dudes,” Greta said.
“They were women.”
Greta rolled onto her side once more. “I doubt you were dreaming of having sex with these women. You probably weren’t even picturing them naked.”
“I watch porn now, thanks to you.”
Greta laughed. “Lesbian?”
“Too fake,” Big Swiss said.
“Oh, right. MILF.”
Big Swiss shook her head. “Those women look like they’re in their thirties.”
Greta mentally scrolled through the categories, starting with B—babe, BBC, big tits, big ass, big dick, blow jobs, bondage—because nothing under A was coming to mind. Oh, wait a minute.
“Anal?”
“Mature,” Big Swiss said.
Greta gulped. Mature—a little too real, even for Greta. Too close to home. Regardless, this was a first. She’d been not skinny enough, not busty enough, not blond enough, not bubbly enough, but Greta had never been not old enough, not even in junior high.
“Has it sunk in?” Big Swiss said.
“That old lady at the dog park,” Greta said. “With the pink hair? You’d be okay with, uh—”
“Yes,” Big Swiss said.
“Jesus,” Greta said. “So, you’re saying I’m too young for you.”
“You can stop worrying about your age,” Big Swiss said. “It’s not an issue for me.”
“What else are you hiding?”
Big Swiss closed her eyes and took a long breath through her nose.
“Have you ever been brought to your knees? And forced to beg?”
“Metaphorically?”
“Have you ever completely prostrated yourself?” Big Swiss said.
“Are you a dominatrix?”
“Listen,” Big Swiss said. “I’m going to tell you something, but—I’m not sure I have it in me to tell you the whole thing, and I also don’t want to ruin your evening.” She waved her hand around. “Or this… tableau. Our time together here.”
Greta braced herself. Obviously, it was about Keith, and it was about time—they’d been baring themselves in so many other ways for weeks now. On the one hand, she’d been anticipating this confession and was slightly offended that it hadn’t come sooner. On the other, heavier hand, she dreaded hearing it again. Transcribing it had taken over six hours, so, in a sense, she’d heard this story a hundred times, what with all the rewinding, replaying, tapping it out word for word. In fact, she was probably more familiar with it than almost anyone, and yet, could she really pretend to be hearing it for the first time? She didn’t feel capable of arranging her face into the appropriate expression. Of making the right noises. Of saying the right things. She was, in fact, a terrible actress. Friend. Human being. What kind of person pulls a stunt like this? Hadn’t Big Swiss suffered enough? Why on earth was Greta putting her through this, and for what? The woman was married. And much too young, though she seemed more mature than Greta. Big Swiss had a savings account, for example, with money in it. She drove a new car. She was a doctor. She owned a house. And a carriage house. And land. She took real vacations. On islands. She wanted children. Plural.