Free Wolfman - Art Bourgeau by Art Bourgeau

a
married man. A professor in his forties, a poet," she added with
a grimace.
    "And you disapprove," said Loring, suddenly
wary. What was she trying to say, why tell him, a stranger, at lunch?
    "Yes, I disapprove. I mean I’m as liberal as
the next person. Nothing wrong with sex. I believe people have to
learn about life and love and so forth. But all this man is going to
do is use her and toss her away. Not fair. She should learn from
someone her own age, that way she'll be less likely to get hurt."
    "Sex is like that . . . hurtful, even tragic . .
." he heard himself say. God, he hadn't intended to say that.
    Erin stared at him. "What an odd thing for a man
to say. Do you really think that?"
    How could he answer her when he couldn't even begin
to answer himself. . . "Sorry," he said, "just
thinking aloud about a friend . . . tell me about being an
anthropologist"
    The waiter came back with her drink and menus, but
Erin paid little attention. She was impressed by the way her story
had seemed to affect this man. He wasn't at all what she’d
expected. With a name like Loring Weatherby she had come braced for
Mr. Cool, probably pompous. He was neither. With his good looks he
could have fitted the stereotype . . .everything was there for it.
But his eyes gave him away. A softness there. A vulnerability?
Whatever, she felt like reaching across and touching his hand, to
reassure him. Strange role reversal going on . . .
    "There's really not much to tell," she
said. "Shamanism is my specialty. I’ve studied it in Jamaica
and Haiti."
    "Voodoo?" he said, glad for a change.
Something abstract to talk about.
    " Sort of, but most Caribbean religions are a
mixture of African religions with an overlay of Christianity,
especially Catholicism," she said, pleased with his interest.
    Loring reached for his drink and noticed that he felt
no chill in his fingertips as he picked it up. This was something
that had been happening lately. The sensation of touch seemed
diminished, but of course he'd had problems with his hands ever since
that bicycle accident when he was twelve and had broken both
collarbones . . .
    He set his glass down untasted and put his hand under
the table to flex his fingers a few times. It seemed to help. He
rubbed his fingertips along his trousers, trying to feel the texture
and scratch of the wool.
    He picked up his drink, sipped but tasted none of the
familiar juniperberry taste of the gin, only a vague taste of alcohol
and lemon. He shook his head. The waiter must have brought him a
vodka martini by mistake.
    He looked across at Erin, sitting quietly, looking at
him with a slight smile on her face. Between her thumb and forefinger
she was rolling the swizzle stick from her drink. Why was she doing
that? Her smile made him feel like he was under a microscope. He
looked at his watch. "I have to get back to the office soon, do
you mind if we order?"
    "No, of course not," Erin said, puzzled at
his abrupt change. Was she boring him? He seemed a nice man, she
didn’t want that.
    As they studied their menus his eyes automatically
went to the filet mignon with tarragon sauce. By nature he was a beef
eater and it was his favorite item on the menu. But today he passed
over it.
    Since the episode in the fitting room he had found
himself unable to eat meat. In fact, every time he tried he became
violently sick. One of the many strange unexplained things happening
to him lately, and that he tried to write off to tension. After all,
with his stomach . . .
    He scanned the menu for alternatives. For some reason
the descriptions of the food made no sense. He tried to visualize the
food, ingredient by ingredient, found it all too complex, the shapes,
the colors . . . Finally his eye stopped on something that did make
sense — potato and leek soup. That he felt he could eat.
    After the waiter had gone Erin said, "Do you
really think this is a good time to invest in the stock market?"
    "If you have courage," he replied, watching
her