Had she done the same thing fifteen minutes ago while making direct eye contact with Ree-schtard?
“I’m trying to lighten your mood,” Big Swiss said. “Besides, why does it matter? I’m here with you.”
“And I’m here with… Sharon Stone, folks,” Greta said into a fake microphone. “What are you wearing tonight, Sharon?”
“Who?”
“Did you just become unfrozen? How do you not know… anything?”
Big Swiss calmly chewed ice. “Internalized misogyny,” she said. “That’s my guess. You’re a self-loathing misogynist, which is one of the worst kinds. You probably inherited it from your mother.”
The larger part of her inheritance: morbid jealousy. Her mother had been both pathologically jealous and envious, even—or sometimes especially—of her own daughter, and Greta had regularly felt as though she were being poisoned. In the Shakespearean sense. She never drank anything her mother gave her, not even water.
“I need a breather,” Greta said, and stood up. “BRB.”
“Your mouth is shaking,” Big Swiss said. “FYI.”
“Try not to flash the entire town while I’m in the bathroom,” Greta said.
It was Greta’s desire that had mutated, she thought on the toilet. She’d become a vile, greedy nightmare, seemingly overnight. It would be good to go back to the beginning, when all she’d desired was the dream house between Big Swiss’s legs, and not, as it were, the entire property. Big Swiss was both too big and too much work, and completely out of Greta’s price range. Not that Big Swiss was even on the market.
“She’s not a house,” Greta reminded herself out loud. “She’s a human being hoping for twins, and happily married for the most part.”
“Who’re you talking to?” Big Swiss asked.
Greta looked up. One of the pitfalls of same-sex relationships was that you couldn’t break down in public restrooms. At least, not in peace. The bitch followed you in there. You couldn’t weep or talk yourself down in the mirror, or even in the stall. She entered the next stall, stood on the toilet, and observed you, as she was doing now.
“Let me in,” Big Swiss said.
Greta unlatched the stall door. Big Swiss squeezed inside and straddled Greta. As always, once Greta had her hand inside Big Swiss’s underwear, nothing was static, everything was possible, they could do whatever they wanted. And so, they indulged in one of the benefits of same-sex relationships for twenty-five minutes.
When they emerged from the bathroom, the crowd parted to let them pass. Some insect in skinny jeans buzzed around Big Swiss, wanting to know how tall she was and whether she was Swedish or South African.
Greta continued walking through the crowd and then straight out the door. Big Swiss followed. On the sidewalk, Big Swiss pulled a small velvet box from her purse and passed it to Greta.
“I meant to give you this earlier,” Big Swiss said.
Inside, a vintage onyx signet ring Greta had lingered over in one of the antique shops on Warren Street weeks ago. They’d been window-shopping that day after having stand-up sex in one of the alleys. When Big Swiss noticed Greta admiring the ring, Greta said she’d totally buy it if money were no object. “It’s vain to buy jewelry for oneself,” Big Swiss had said. “That’s ridiculous,” Greta said. “What’s vain is using the word ‘oneself’ in casual conversation.” Big Swiss hadn’t talked much after that, and then she’d abruptly excused herself and disappeared. At the time, Greta assumed her feelings had been hurt, but they’d never discussed it. And now, lo and behold, the very same ring. Greta felt flattered momentarily, before she remembered that five hundred dollars was chump change to Big Swiss.
* * *
AFTER A LONG ABSENCE, they returned to the dog park. The meadow had been landscaped, shrubs planted, ceramic sculptures installed, new paths cut into the woods, benches placed along the paths. The park was crowded with unfamiliar faces and accents. It seemed people came from all over the world now to walk their dogs in Hudson. It was late spring and everything was fragrant and in bloom: the dogwood trees, the dogs themselves, their owners. Big Swiss was a showy white flower in puffed sleeves and linen shorts. Greta, who’d peaked weeks ago, was already wilting and losing her petals.
They walked the dogs in the wooded area and then picnicked on a blanket in the meadow. About fifteen other people had had the same idea. Big Swiss removed her blouse and sunbathed in a halter top. After a while, she unbuttoned her shorts and pulled them down a little. A bunch of blond pubes poked out of her purple panties. Greta stared at them while Big Swiss had her face buried in a tree manual.
“Flowering dogwood trees are bisexual,” Big Swiss said. “Like us.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Their flowers have both stamens and carpels, or male and female reproductive organs,” Big Swiss said. “They’re called ‘perfect’ flowers.”
“Listen, letting an older lady fuck you doesn’t make you bisexual,” Greta said. “Or perfect. You’re just… bored.”
“Most of the trees in this park are male,” Big Swiss said, ignoring her. “Which means they don’t have seeds or pods. They have pollen, though, which they spew everywhere indiscriminately.”
“I knew I smelled semen,” Greta said.
“See all the chartreuse dust on the ground? That’s why people’s allergies are so out of control.”
“Have you been inseminated recently?”
Big Swiss closed the manual and looked at Greta.
“Is it leaking out of you right now?”
“Not convincing,” Big Swiss said.
“What?” Greta said.
“Your tough-girl routine. It’s pretty transparent at this point. Actually, it’s been transparent since the beginning.”
“Listen, sister,” Greta interrupted. “You spent the morning with Luke. Now you’re here with me, but—why? What are you doing here?”
“I make it pretty obvious. I’m undeniably attracted to you, I can’t stop thinking about you, and I’ve never said no to you, not once. So, relax. You have more power than you think.”
“But you’re so stingy with compliments. You won’t touch my tits. You won’t even hold my hand.”
“Maybe you should be with a man,” Big Swiss said.
“Oh, because men are so effusive? Why can’t you gush a little?”
She sounded as whiny and petulant as some of Om’s clients. Quite a few of them behaved like this as a matter of course, and she wondered if transcribing their emotional reactions had somehow influenced her own. Emotional eavesdropping, it was called. She’d read about it online. It was something children did, not adults. But why couldn’t she be more like Big Swiss? Because Big Swiss was withholding, that’s why, and the more she withheld, the more frantically Greta pursued.
“When I’m fucking you, you get this bored expression on your face. It’s confusing, disorienting, and—if I’m being honest—extremely exciting. Then you’ll suddenly laugh for no reason, which also excites me. And you’re an angelic sleeper. Your face is so serene and at peace, a little smile on your lips—it looks like you’re pretending to sleep. I also like that you only speak one language, and when I see your knees in jeans, I get light-headed.”