"What she hated above all was that most men in her presence wilted, grew small and feeble. Only the timid ones approached her as if to see her strength. She wanted to shatter them, seeing the way they crawled around her treelike body. The idea of letting them push their penis between her legs was like allowing some insect to crawl over her."
Anais Nin, Little Birds, Two Sisters

Started November 1999, completed February 2001.

Menagerie

I meet a woman in tune

'Have you ever been in love?' That is what I asked myself when I first met her. I thought I had been. I also thought myself quite a lover, a man -forgive me- irresistible to women. I am not the bragging kind. Nor do I spend a lot of time 'catching the birds'. I respect women. I have simply never had great trouble seducing a woman when I wanted her or, for that matter, building a steady relationship with one. With several over the years. And then I met her.

I work as an editor for a publishing firm. We publish beautiful books on art. Lina wrote a book on Balthus, he that chronicles the sensuous lives of self-absorbed, adolescent girls. I landed the job of editing it. The day came when she first visited our offices to discuss the book. Our receptionist announced her arrival and then brought her into my office. A knock on my door. 'Come in!' The door opening. The receptionist ushering her in... I was hooked! Then and there.

She was spectacular. Not in an opulent fashion. Probably not spectacular to everyone. Yes, she was pretty -her form, her eyes. She was elegant, well-groomed, radiant, pleasant - all those things, in the eyes of everyone. To me there was more, a resonance. I cannot explain it. One word comes to mind: natural. Nature before the Apple and the Slippery One. The way she carried herself, her gaze - she was very much in tune with herself and her body, unlike most modern specimens of Western mankind. In tune like an animal. The way she walked -her heavenly legs, the way she set down her feet, quickly, but fluently, the movement of her arms, her hands, her slightly bouncing bosom, the flow of her hair; I still see the scene of her entrance in vivid detail, as in slow motion-; the way she got seated, sat, rose again - I could write a book about it. The confident, knowing way she looked at me . ah! She overpowered me, unwittingly, merely by being who and what she was.

The relationship between an editor and his author is easy. The editor takes the author to lunch. They go out for drinks. They take walks. It all follows naturally, as part of the job.

And so it did. I am a Saint! I rigorously abode by the rule of not striking a relationship (or making one-night-stands) with a woman I work with. I did not make a move. We just had a very good time indeed. But, God, was it hard to restrain myself and act as if we were merely working together very pleasantly indeed! Then came the party after the formal presentation of her book.
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The party draws to a close. She comes up to me - a vision in green: a kneelength, sleeveless dress, with splits at the sides, a square-cut décolleté, the bottom line curving down at the centre towards her cleavage - and declares she is ready to say goodbye. I have premeditated this moment.

'Lina, I am not prepared to say goodbye. I have enjoyed being with you.'

'I had not noticed.' She looks me in the eye.

Is there a hint of a smile? I am unsure. She is probably as straight as usually.

'But like you I have enjoyed our cooperation. We could meet again.' I do not sense any irony in her words. Why should there be? She is a natural. She would say 'yes' or 'no' and mean it.

'Let us meet on Sunday for a walk and lunch,' I venture.

'I would be pleased to do so. Goodbye. For now, that is'. She smiles and kisses me on the cheek. Another look straight into my eyes (through me, Lord have mercy) and she turns around. I see her walk to the door and disappear, in her own discretely spectacular way. She does not look back. Why would she? She is straight.

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And so we begin meeting. Because we enjoy each other's company very much, even after the book is finished. We continue meeting more and more frequently, to the point that we spend at least one day together each weekend and an evening or two during the week. If we were children, we could be called bosom friends. Indeed I enjoy our time together. But we are adults. No two unattached adults of the opposite sex have spent time together the way we do, to the degree we do. That is: without sex. She must be a true innocent and not notice my love designs, my desires, however carefully controlled they may be. It puzzles me no end.

We discuss anything and everything. But not our sentiments towards each other. Did she cherish any affective sentiments towards me? She does not wear a ring. And I do not either. I have to assume she is not married. She certainly isn't a mother. She would talk about her children at least. Is she entertaining a steady relationship? Or a number of them? Why would she not mention him, or them?

If we avoid the subject of love for each other, we do discuss our past love lives as the best of buddies, and even sex. Her lovers who left her essentially unfulfilled. And my past, which on the contrary was rather a matter of sex overdose, of fulfillment to the degree of total emptiness. Does she harbour any love for me? I cannot speak for her, but I sense neither devious design, her putting me on, nor bottled-up fear for declaring it. She is natural. I can speak for myself. I am in awe of her. I cannot simply try and seduce her and stand the chance losing her. So I, the coward, exercise saintly control and don't declare my love for her and she therefore does not have to respond. A sign from her is what I require and it does not come. But we meet and have a great time. That includes me. But there are little tinges of regret during our time together. When every so often she casts 'that look' towards me, right through me, I briefly die. At home is where the real regret comes, which I occasionally drown and jive away in one-night stands with my old girls.

Next: A Bug and an Irritant...

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