“I think I get why men are so ‘visual,’？” Greta said. “It’s because they can see their own dicks at all times.”
Big Swiss rolled her eyes. “It’s sociological. Men are taught to be visual, to objectify. It’s not a biological trait.”
“I think it might be as simple as see dick, see Jane, see dick go into Jane.”
Greta brought her hand to her nose and inhaled. Only one thing rivaled the view, and it lingered longer, affected her like lavender was supposed to, and sometimes got her through the unbearably long weekends, which were off-limits to Greta.
“Nothing gets your smell off my fingers,” Greta said.
Big Swiss didn’t say anything.
“Yes, I’ve tried kerosene,” Greta said.
“Is this a problem?” Big Swiss said, sitting up. “I mean, is it interfering with your life?”
“Calm down,” Greta said. “I was kidding about the kerosene. I stopped washing my hands weeks ago. I relish sniffing my fingers, especially at the grocery store.”
“You’re different when you’re on top,” Big Swiss said. “You look different, and your personality changes.”
Greta thought about it. “I feel more like myself. My true self, I mean. Not to sound corny, but I feel like I’m accessing—and inhabiting—one of my past lives.”
“Which one?” Big Swiss asked.
“I was a guerrilla living in the jungle.”
“A big gorilla,” Big Swiss said, nodding. “That makes sense. I can see that.”
“Guerrilla,” Greta repeated. “With a U and E. My point is, I feel radicalized, ready to fight.”
“We’re just having an affair,” Big Swiss said.
“Think of all the calls you’ve missed, the meals you’ve skipped, how late to work I’ve made you. Think of all the surprise raids in broad daylight.”
Big Swiss shrugged.
“Who have you told about us?” Greta asked.
“Only my therapist,” Big Swiss said. “He’s local—you might know him. I’m kind of embarrassed to say his name.”
“Om,” Greta blurted. “He buys weed from Sabine. He’s over here all the time and hangs out for hours.”
This was a lie. Om knew where Sabine lived, but he didn’t know her exact address.
“Your mouth’s doing that thing again.”
“Can you maybe not be super specific when you talk about me? I don’t want him looking at me all knowingly in front of Sabine.”
Big Swiss would probably tell him fucking everything now, including all the bad things. She’d already told him Greta’s first name, she said, which Greta said was fine, so long as Big Swiss didn’t mention where Greta lived, or with whom.
“Who have you told?” Big Swiss asked.
“No one,” Greta said.
“Not even Sabine?”
“Especially not her,” Greta said.
“Why, is she homophobic?”
“Pistanthrophobic.”
“What’s that?”
“A fear of trusting people, or getting cheated on.”
“But you’re not in a relationship,” Big Swiss said carefully, as if this were news to Greta.
“Yes, but you are,” Greta said. “I’m sleeping with a married woman almost half my age. She’d say I’d lost the rest of my marbles.”
And she would be right. Greta was beginning to feel more than a little unstable.
Big Swiss straddled Greta and pinned her wrists with one hand. She thrust the other hand between Greta’s legs. It had been over a week since Big Swiss had touched her down there—or anywhere, really.
“How do you feel now?” Big Swiss asked.
“Like you, maybe. A guarded pillow queen.”
“We talked about this,” Big Swiss said. “I’m up to my elbows in vaginas all day. Being on top feels like work to me.”
Greta sighed. “Pillow queen” wasn’t quite right, anyway. When she was on the bottom, Greta felt like one of the Tahitian women in a Gauguin painting. Beneath Big Swiss, Greta felt poor, foreign, and fetishized. She would’ve said as much, but Big Swiss probably had no idea who Gauguin was, even though a coffee-table book of his paintings lay on the bathroom floor upstairs. The book belonged to Sabine and always seemed to fall open to the painting titled What! Are You Jealous?
Outside, Greta heard a vehicle roll into the driveway. Pi?on sniffed the air, hackles raised, and gave a low woof. Greta recognized the seductive thwomp of a Mercedes door closing. Boots crunched snow. Downstairs, the Dutch door unlatched, creaked open, banged shut. Boots clomped across the concrete floor. An armful of logs fell into the fireplace; newspaper crumpled. Sabine started swearing.
Greta looked at Big Swiss, who was already dressed and leashing Silas. Big Swiss slung her condiment bag over her shoulder.
“Leave the bag,” Greta whispered. “Too noisy.”
“I can’t. I need it.”
Greta imagined Big Swiss squeezing Swiss mayonnaise into her mouth as she drove over the Rip Van Winkle Bridge.
“Greta!” Sabine suddenly yelled from the kitchen. “I’m home!”
Pi?on whined at the door. He’d missed Sabine as much as Greta had.
“Coming!” Greta yelled.
“Who’s Greta?” Big Swiss whispered.
“Greta Garbo,” Greta said. “Her nickname for me.”
“Who?”
“Forget it,” Greta whispered. “I’m going downstairs, you sneak out the front door.”
* * *
IF LOOKING AT BIG SWISS was like staring at the sun, Sabine was the sun’s afterimage, a shimmering red orb with a spectral green halo. Greta switched on a lamp and blinked. The halo turned out to be a hat, and Sabine wasn’t shimmering so much as shivering. So were dozens of cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.
“Where the fuck is that draft coming from?”
“Everywhere,” Greta said.
They never bothered with pleasantries. Greta thought of the day Sabine kidnapped her in the Sprinter van in California, the beginning of the life Greta was living now. They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in years. Sabine had simply rolled down the window and made a giddyup noise, and Greta had climbed in, no questions asked.
“Whose car was that?” Sabine asked.
“Tinder date,” Greta said.
Sabine looked alarmed.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” Greta explained. “I got lonely.”
Sabine was mystified by longing of any kind. Well, except longing for warmth—that was allowed. There was a little too much Florida in her face. She looked like she’d been sleeping outside for weeks, but at least she’d put on some weight. She was huggable now.
“I guess I just don’t understand how Tinder works in a town this small. Don’t you run into these people in person?”
“I only have sex with Airbnb-ers,” Greta said.
Sabine sighed and looked around. “Any chance you could have sex with some local tradesmen? We need a lot of work done around here.”
“I’m not that good in bed.”
“Flirt with some carpenters,” Sabine said. “For starters. Also, don’t freak out, but we have… company.”