Free Bad Behavior: Stories by Mary Gaitskill

school.” She dabbed between her legs with a nubbly white washcloth.
    “University?”
    “Yeah.” She grabbed a fat economy-size jar of mentholated mouthwash, threw her head back and dumped a big splash into her mouth. Her cheeks worked vigorously as she sloshed it to and fro.
    “Do you show your strength in the way you deal with people? I mean, outside of this place?”
    She spat a green burst of mouthwash into the sink and looked at him. “Yeah. I do.”
    “How do you make them aware of it?”
    She leaned against the sink, facing him with her arms behind her, her face thoughtful and soft. “I just … don’t let people sway my thinking. I don’t mold myself to fit what other people think Iam.” She came forward and put her arms around him. “It’s interesting that you find strength in women attractive.”
    “Why?”
    “Don’t most older men like passive, dependent women?”
    “Oh, that’s an awful stereotype. Don’t believe it.”
    “Is your wife a strong woman?”
    “Yes, she is.”
    “Is she a lawyer too?”
    “No. She’s an antiquarian. She’s got a small rare-book business.”
    “Did you meet her in college?”
    “Yes. She studied art history and Latin. I was very impressed by that.”
    “Was she the first person you had sex with?”
    “Almost.”
    “I bet that’s why you see prostitutes.” She let go of him and hurried to get dressed. The outermost flesh of her backside jiggled as she balanced on one spike heel and stuck the other through a leg of her underpants.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You had so little chance to screw around when you were young. You’re trying to get it now.” Her fingers were flying over the tiny buttons of her checked dress.
    “You know, I think you’re writing a book. That’s what you’re doing here. You’re one of those journalists doing undercover work on prostitution.”
    She smiled miserably. “No.”
    “What do you do, besides work here? I think you do something. Am I right?”
    “Of course I do something.” She said “do” very sarcastically. She trotted to the mirror and got out her shiny silver lipstick case.
    “What? What do you do?” He came toward her.
    “I don’t like to talk about it here.” She opened her black leather bag to replace the lipstick. He glimpsed a roll of money and a packet of condoms in sky-blue tinfoil.
    “Why don’t you like to talk about it?”
    “It makes me unhappy.”
    The telephone by the bed rasped, indicating the end of their hour.
    He saw her again the following night, and the night after that. He relished the way she laughed and playfully squeezed him around the stomach with her hefty thighs, or impatiently squiggled out from under him so they could change position. Her nonchalant reaction to his efforts to impress her sexually made him believe that her excitement, when it did occur, was real, that she wanted him. But if he so much as put a hand where she didn’t want it, she’d fiercely slap it away and snap, “I don’t like that.”
    “That’s why I like you so much,” he said. “You don’t let me get away with anything. You’re straightforward. Like my wife.”
    During that time, she told him that her real name was Jane. She still wouldn’t talk to him about her life outside the pale green room. Instead, she asked him questions about himself. He was too embarrassed by now to tell her that he’d lied about his job. The lie turned out to be a mistake. Not only was she unimpressed by his false attorneyhood, she was an animal lover. The longest conversation they ever had on a single subject was about a cat that she’d had for fifteen years, until the fat, asthmatic thing finally keeled over. “He had all black fur except for his paws and his throat patch. He looked like he was wearing a tuxedo with a white cravat and gloves, and he was more of a gentleman than any human being I’ve ever known. I saw him protect a female cat from a dog once.”
    The cute stories he could’ve told about