October 8, 2000
“I inadvertently slept with someone last night,” Grant confessed by email.
“I understand completely,” I replied.
Her name is Julia. She’s a professional gambler. She’s lanky.
“What else are you supposed to do with your time?” I typed. “I’m married and you’re far away. You’re a musician! You’re twenty-three. I have no right to be possessive of you.” But I am.
“How did it happen?” I demanded.
He described three queens to her three twos and pair of fours, money not where it was supposed to be, favors demanded.
I’m not happy about this. I always lose at poker. I get too excited and everyone knows when I have a good hand. All these professionals are having at him. Gamblers, foot models . . . Not only that, but Grant has a crush on my husband. Or at least on my husband’s penis as it emerged from Lilly, glistening and “stiff as a broom handle.” It was the first penis he (Grant) ever saw as an adult, and he can’t get it out of his head. He wants to move in and be our butler. Oddly enough I’m not annoyed at the thought, though usually anything that might be construed as groveling makes me want to kick the groveler. But I do think Dave and I need a wife I’m much more like another husband. I work all the time and want someone to bring me a drink.
It always happens, that people get crushes on Dave. Straight guys and prudish ladies especially. I don’t know how to explain it except he’s like a walking, big, straining penis. A 5’8″ penis. I keep re-getting crushes on him too. There’s this song on Dave’s old band’s CD it goes
The parameters of our relationship are tight. I’d say we have about one square inch to move around in.
Dave likes Grant. He thinks he’s “personable.”
I’m looking to my sixth sense for a way out. The sixth sense is not an actual sense it just means I know about the five senses, but I choose to ignore the reality that their data make plain. I get bored when things aren’t what they appear and the opposite of what they appear at the same time and something else entirely different from both of those things, too. I love foreign movies where you never know who the bad guy is and where you barely know what everyone is saying anyway, because you can’t quite read the subtitles and watch the movie at the same time. Maybe everyone is the bad guy. American movies have too many answers.
A long time ago I told Grant about how physicists say there are four realities at any time, and eleven dimensions. Eight more than we can recognize! He thought I was just making flirtatious nonsense talk, but I was trying to tell him that if he can exist on a plane he doesn’t understand or even perceive, then I can meet him there. (It was like a Joy Division lyric! I knew there must be a reason I dyed my hair black again.) The specific problem is that I’ll be in New York in two days and so will Grant. I won’t have an affair, but there’s got to be more than just affair and not-affair.
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com, Inc.