Free The Not-So-Perfect Man by Valerie Frankel Page B

said it again.
    “So do you,” she said. “Here.”
    Not wanting to arrive empty-handed, Frieda had brought Sam a gift. He unwrapped the present.
    “Hey! Look at that,” he said, appreciatively. His framed review had turned out perfectly. “It looks awesome.”
    She said, “Forget about the bill. My treat.”
    “I accept, and thanks,” he said. “Would you like to sit?”
    He gestured toward the couch. She could see it plainly from the doorway. She could see the entire studio from the doorway. She knew it was a sublet, and hadn’t expected much. Her expectations weren’t quite as low as the reality. A stove and refrigerator, a bed on a frame in one corner, the couch in the another. Kitchen, bedroom, and living room within four gray walls. The gray carpet on the floor had stains (but seemed clean, well vacuumed at least.) A TV, cable box, VCR, and stereo were arranged on a long console near the bed. Pots and pans hung from hooks in a peg-board over the stove. Like the carpet, the stove was clean of surface dirt, but marred with burn marks that couldn’t be washed away. The couch, where she was to sit, was pilly and frayed.
    He put the framed review on the table and asked, “Would you like a Scotch?”
    She hated Scotch. But coming out of Sam Hill’s mouth, in this dumpy sublet, a drink sounded like just the thing. She sat on the lumpy, orange couch. He solicitously poured, making sure he put in adequate ice, and brought the glass to her.
    He sat next to her, his shoulder touching hers. The contact was sublime. Warm, like hot bread. She said, “Toast?”
    “I’ll drink to that,” he said. He held up his glass. “A toast to toasting.” They clinked and drank.
    The Scotch was awful, burning. “Tastes like lighter fluid,” she said.
    “I’ve never had lighter fluid,” he said, nodding. “So I’ll have to take your word for it.”
    “Refill?” she said.
    He poured her another shot. “Are you nervous?” he asked.
    Frieda said, “Yes. About what might happen. I’ve been thinking about this constantly.”
    “Me, too,” he said.
    “Are you nervous?”
    He said, “No. Just excited.”
    Fearless, this Sam. “Who, or what, is Sam Hill?”
    “He was a farmer from somewhere in New England who ran for public office in the late eighteen hundreds, but no one knew who he was or where he’d come from,” he said, finishing his drink. “He didn’t win.”
    “Never ran again.”
    “Faded further into obscurity,” he said. “He has a famous name for being an anonymous person.”
    Frieda, draining her glass, decided she was wrong. She loved Scotch. It was her new favorite drink. She said, “I haven’t had sex in a year and four months, and that wasn’t real sex. You can’t have real sex with someone in the final stages of terminal cancer. I hope you’re not shocked by that. I never know how much people can take, which is why I talk about my husband’s death so infrequently. Hardly ever. In fact, never.”
    She paused, noting his perplexed expression. Not repulsed. But definitely puzzled. Where was she going with this? She said, “My point is that it’s been forever since I’ve done it with any degree of abandon. And I need more Scotch, please.”
    He said, “You’ve had enough,” taking her glass and putting it in the sink. It was only four paces from couch to kitchen. Ilene would plotz if she saw this place. Frieda was to have sex, for the first time in forever, in a shit hole.
    “How long has it been for you?” she asked.
    He didn’t answer, rinsing out the glasses and putting them in the drying rack by the sink. He didn’t let dishes sit. That was a good sign. The place was clean. No dust bunnies or lint. The kitchen orderly. She hadn’t yet seen the bathroom. It could be ugly in there.
    Frieda repeated, “How long for you?”
    He said, “I’m thinking.”
    Didn’t seem like a question that required much thought. Frieda wondered if he were thinking about how to get this tipsy