Free Red Hook by Gabriel Cohen Page B

post-Freudian—work. The premise is that much of human civilization, from religion to war to art, has been developed by people to defend themselves against their fear of death.” She stopped as he rose from the sofa. “Am I boring you?”
    “Not at all,” he said. “Hey, death’s my middle name, right?”
    She didn’t crack a smile.
    “I’m just getting some more wine,” he said. He went into the kitchen, returned with the bottle, and topped off their glasses.
    “Maybe we should talk about something more interesting,” she said. Meaning, he gathered, that he wasn’t supposed to be able to handle an intellectual conversation. But wasn’t he a professional thinker too? He’d taken his own courses: Estimating Time of Death, Forensic Entomology, Death by Asphyxia and Narcotic-related Deaths, Interrogation Techniques…
    “Why don’t you tell me about your work,” she said.
    “Like what?”
    “Like, I don’t know—do you think you have a different attitude toward your own death than most people? Do you believe in an afterlife? You never talk about what you do.”
    “I don’t know,” he said. He’d started to feel relaxed—now he recognized a clamping-off he always felt when asked such questions by someone who wasn’t a cop or a doctor or a forensics expert.
    “You don’t know what ? Surely you must have thought about these things. I mean, you have this job where you deal with dead people all the time.”
    He stood up, crossed to the sliding door, and looked out at the glowing skyscrapers across the river.
    “Well?” she said. “Tell me something.”
    He tugged on the knot of his tie. “You really have to be there.”
    “Where?”
    “You have…I don’t know. “You have to have seen it.”
    “That’s silly. I don’t have to go to the pyramids to learn about Egypt.”
    He turned sharply. “Nobody’s talking about pyramids. I’m talking about…I don’t know—”
    “ What? Like this is supposed to be some macho thing that a woman can’t understand?”
    “How about a little baby girl with half of her head blown off? You want to talk about that?”
    Sheila winced.
    Somehow there always seemed to be a tension between them and he didn’t know whose fault it was. “Look, I’m sorry” he said. “I just don’t feel like talking about work after a long day. Okay?” She didn’t respond.
    An awkward silence.
    “Am I keeping you up?” he finally asked.
    Sheila didn’t answer. She had to drink a certain amount before she’d admit she wanted sex too. Before then, he had to pretend that wasn’t the reason for his visits. He leaned over to kiss her. She let him, but didn’t respond.
    Christ, he told himself. Get up. Leave. What are you doing here?
    The first few times, they’d kissed like hungry teenagers because they didn’t know what to say to each other. Now they went straight into the main event.
    Jack slid below the sheets and started to kiss the inside of Sheila’s thighs. He worked his way forward, deeper. Her muscles stiffened—not with anticipation, but distaste.
    “Come here,” she said, pulling him up. And then she moved down his body, took him in her mouth, and began to suck him with a detached earnestness, offering the act to avoid exposing herself. He lay back and tried to relax. Outside the bedroom window, the leaves of a tall tree shimmered silver in the street light.
    After his divorce he’d been free to get laid as much as he could, with whomever he wanted. After years of bachelorhood, now he realized that the best sex he’d ever had was with his wife. She’d known that sometimes the greatest gift you could give someone in bed was to trust them enough to let yourself go. Was that all behind him now? Lord knew, most of life’s other milestones were: high school graduation, the army, marriage, having a kid. What was left?
    He couldn’t unwind enough to come. He pulled back, rolled Sheila over, and pushed into her from behind, taking pleasure, when he had