Free Prerequisites for Sleep by Jennifer L. Stone Page B

short skirt and coordinating sleeveless tank with a low neck and a high midriff, moist as if returning from the gym, and tells you that you sometimes act like a mother. You tell her that she always acts like a child. Normally, you say that you are worried because she is unusually late. The argument is punctuated by broken glass, an exclamation mark, the smashing of your favourite photo, a cheesy picture of the two of you biting off the same slice of pizza. You used to think it reminded you of the Disney movie Lady and the Tramp. Perhaps Disney movies were the only things you ever really had in common.
    You end the relationship, vowing to stay single because partnerships with other women are far too difficult for you to manage. You move into a new apartment, which you paint blue and yellow, then spend the next year immersed in your work while trying to adjust to being on your own again. You go to bed in men’s boxers so you can slip your hand inside the fly front and indulge yourself when you have difficulty sleeping. Slip. Rub. Breathe. Moan. Sigh. Sleep.
    At a New Year’s Eve party, an acquaintance introduces you to a man who looks at you as if you are familiar. This man smiles and takes your arm to guide you to the kitchen, where he offers to open and pour the bottle of wine sticking out of your oversized purse. You are attracted to him and feel giddy inside, although you haven’t dated men since high school. The two of you finish the wine and after midnight go to your place, where everything you once felt awkward about when around men now comes easy. He stays the night and you decide you could be convinced to change preferences. You spend the next day together, mostly in bed. He pleasures you with his tongue as women once did and you reciprocate. He tells you he is divorced and that his ex-wife is an artist. You tell him you’re single and that you are a food photographer.
    â€œWhy food?” he asks.
    â€œBecause I don’t cook,” you reply.
    He cooks, rummaging through your fridge and cupboards to find the ingredients for an impromptu fettuccine Alfredo while teasing you about your lack of domestication. You are stunned and amazed that he could produce something from almost nothing, the unused samples you bring home from the job. In a cupboard above the stove, he finds an unopened bottle of Jamaican Rum, a gift your brother brought home from vacation several years ago, and makes hot chocolate liqueurs for dessert.
    On your second date with this man, you meet downtown. The snow is noisy, like corrugated cardboard breaking underfoot, so you walk without words to the Italian restaurant next to the farmers’ market. The restaurant is empty, other than the two of you, and commands quiet, so you talk in whispers. He tells you he has an eleven-year-old daughter who stays with him some weekends. “Don’t worry, she’s a great kid,” he says, before relating the details of her aquatic and music skills.
    Afterwards, you spend the night at his place and he serves you an omelet filled with ham and cheese and fresh vegetables for breakfast. This man is a history professor at the university. He lives in a nineteenth-century house in the south end, the type of house portrayed in nostalgic paintings or Christmas movies — the epitome of security and happiness. He has silver strands of hair at his temples and discerning taste. He tells you that he, like most of his favourite people throughout history, has an affinity for beautiful women. You are conscious that he is trying to win you over with his charm and kitchen skills.
    The first time you meet his daughter is at Swiss Chalet. “Kid food,” the man says, deliberate neutral ground. When he leaves to use the washroom, she spits in your face and says she hates you and that you are not her mother. You wipe the spit off on the red logo of your napkin and tell her you are not trying to be her mother but would like to be her friend