Free I Regret Everything by Seth Greenland Page A

in his apartment. Did he know girls who did booty calls? Would he make a booty call later? The questions floated to the surface like bubbles from a diver’s tank as I pictured him in every permutation of each increasingly sex-crazed scenario. Mr. Best with one girl, Mr. Best with two girls, Mr. Best with a guy. Gay . . . That hadn’t even occurred to me.
    To slow my mind, I concentrated on the whiteness of the walls. They were the white of the arctic, of endlessness. Pictures, artwork, something was going to have to get slapped up there. Just nothing that would set me off. The pen and ink drawing of Mr. Best would look good but might be hard to explain to Edward P.
    I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes. I felt old for a teenage crush. These sensations would have to be reined in. Sensations? What was going on? It hit me that whatever silly infatuation I felt for Mr. Best was strong enough to penetrate my weakening chemical armor. Numbness was a fort. Something to retreat to, a place to feel safe by feeling nothing. It was a place without risk and bother, a trial run for a nullity I yearned to escape. The love I felt for Mr. Best would be my means.
    I dug my fingernails into my palms.
    Outside / my win- / dow dy- / ing crick- / ets cry.

J EREMY
Another Facet of the Dreamer
    E verything good?” Dr. Tapper asked. A kind man with a full head of side-parted white hair, he was fleshy, full but not fat. Dr. Tapper always looked like he had just consumed a delicious meal. I had left work early and gone to his office at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital on York Avenue, where Andy Warhol had died unexpectedly. After several days the swelling in my groin had not receded.
    â€œExcellent,” I said, as if there was any other answer. How else could I be? The last time medical drama intruded into my life was when I was stricken by mononucleosis in college. Getting mono was like owning a copy of
Nevermind
. At one time or another everyone had it. After three weeks in bed I was fine. Since then, nothing. I exercised, didn’t smoke, drank moderately, and never had sex without a condom, so no pesky microbes could have been lurking in my system waiting to explode into something embarrassing or fatal. Seated on the examination table with my boxers around my ankles and Dr. Tapper phlegmatically probing the area immediately to the left of my flaccid penis I was a picture of apple-cheeked health.
    Perhaps because I was naked my thoughts turned to Spaulding. That morning she had stopped by my office to bring me coffee and the welcome news that she would be interning at the firm. She was wearing cream linen pants and a faded lavender blouse. Her hair was loose and when she leaned over the desk to set the coffee down I noticed an almond-colored birthmark on the left side of her neck.
    â€œMy class is meeting this afternoon. Will you come talk?”
    I told her that today wasn’t going to work but I would try to get there soon. My gaze seemed to unsettle her slightly. It occurred to me for the first time that perhaps her confidence was something of an act. “Pending my poetry schedule, poets’ lives being the most hectic.”
    One of her front teeth was slightly crooked and when she opened her mouth to laugh I noticed an orthodontist had fitted her with an expander. This imperfection along with the tortoiseshell eyeglasses compounded her owlish allure.
    â€œCan I ask you one more question?” Not waiting for a response, she continued, “What do you do when you’re stuck, when you’re trying to write and nothing . . . ?”
    â€œWrite emails. On your computer, your phone, whatever device you’re partial to. It doesn’t matter to whom. Just pretend there’s nothing at stake, you’re writing to a friend who’s going to punch delete after they read it. Let the words hit the screen.”
    Spaulding nodded as if trying to decide whether I was putting her on. This was