Free Phoenix Heart by Carolyn Nash

once when they’d had men from their print ads in the
store doing some sort of promotion. They looked as if someone in marketing had
sculpted them precisely to appeal to the female psyche. Well, maybe not psyche.
A bit more visceral than that. Yet, in Macy’s that day, I saw no woman approach
them to speak, to flirt, to even ask directions. It felt like if you were
foolish enough to try, the men might just stare through you, uncomprehending
and unseeing, so totally on another plane of existence that the light and sound
coming from you vibrated at frequencies impossible for them to register. It
never had occurred to me to wonder what they thought or felt.
    At
the university, if I’d been passing the men’s room as Dr. Richards happened to
come out, I might have stopped for a moment, puzzled, thinking what’s wrong
with this picture?
    For
the first time, I thought, maybe being good looking is not all it’s cracked up
to be.
    I turned and looked out the window and watched a parade of
fast food restaurants and gas stations go by. As if superimposed on the
scenery, I could see Lance’s pale face, his closed eyes pooled with water,
black smoke pouring out the door and along the ceiling.
    My eyes slid back to Dr. Richards and I studied that face,
wondering what those eyes behind the dark lenses would tell me if I could see
them. He rubbed a hand up and down his denim-clad thigh. Large and strong-looking,
I could almost feel it coming up my arm, stroking my neck, cupping my face as
he leaned forward to...
    Whoa, girl. That is enough! Start
acting like you’ve got something between your ears besides a giant,
prepubescent gland.
    I took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. I
folded my hands in a ladylike way in my lap.
    “Damn it,” he whispered, and then I heard him punching in a phone
number.
    I reached down and pulled a novel from my purse and opened
it at random and stared at the words.
    “It’s Andrew. Read your texts sometime, will you?”
    …
    “I’m okay. A friend’s giving me a ride to the airport.”
    His voice: He had a perfect voice to go with the perfect
body and face: deep, just a little gravelly, educated yet not pompous; the
voice you’d want to hear coming from the other pillow saying, Call in sick.
We’re spending the day in bed.
    “Because it’s the only way,” he said into the phone.
    …
    “Look, now’s not the time to argue. I only have my ID. Send
something through Uncle Marley, will you?”
    I reached up and slowly turned a page, tilting my head ever
so slightly to look at it.
    “I think…”
    I kept my eyes on my book, pretending to be so utterly
absorbed that I couldn’t possibly hear a word of his conversation. Yet, the
silence lengthened, and then I had the uncanny feeling that his eyes were on
me. I looked up, and he smiled brilliantly. And it was strange: for the first
time since I’d seen him when I walked into the graduate admissions interview,
those flashing teeth had not the slightest effect on my heart rate.
    He looked out the window, and I back to my book. “I think I
know a way,” he said.
    I tried to read the words on the page, to concentrate on
them to shut out that voice, but the letters blurred and danced.
    “I’ll get this straightened out.”
    …
    “Because I can’t do it if I’m... I can’t do it that way.
Listen, watch out for him.”
    …
    “I don’t want anyone else… involved.”
    …
    “I’ll be all right.”
    …
    “I will be all right!”
    …
    “I’d better get off now. I’ll call when I can.”
    I continued to stare at the book, turning a page
periodically.
    He handed the phone back to me. “Thanks.”
    His fingertips brushed against mine.
    “Not at all,” I said, and blushed as I heard the hitch in my
voice.
    I turned to look out my window, now utterly bored with the
book and utterly fascinated with the scenery. The sun was lowering behind the
buildings of west LA, turning the smog from brown to orange. We were stuck