Tell Me. M. Colette Jane

      Apparently not.

      I give Marie a pat on the arm that she morphs into a hug.

      Again, I think I could tell her. I should tell her. So she doesn’t feel alone. So I don’t feel alone. We could be the anti-Nicola-and-Colleen. Commiserating, instead of about their cheating husbands, about our fucking lovers.

      But I can’t.

      Because…

      I just don’t.

      ‘You really, really don’t look well,’ Marie repeats.

      Too much cyberfucking, not enough sleep, I’m tempted to say. Except it’s of course not just that. Secrets. They exhaust. Moral ambiguity, it exhausts.

      And there’s a big crash halfway up the hill, and Marie and I race up to disentangle limbs and sleds and to kiss bruises and fix toques and mittens.

       Use your mouth even longer because I know you’d rather be fucked in your pussy

      —oh dear fucking god I am so wet

       Cum for me.

      Oh, Jesus. I really need to work on feeling badly about this. And I need to…I don’t know what I need. A smack upside my head. A reality check.

      The phone rings as I’m unloading the kids at the front door. ‘Dad?’ I say with surprise. My mother calls me and texts me constantly. Annoying ‘What are you doing?’ texts, random ‘I love you guys!’ texts, to-the-point ‘Do the kids want anything special for lunch on Tuesday?’ texts, passive-aggressive ‘I know you don’t care about such things, but it really means a lot to Dad and me to have our anniversary acknowledged…’ My father calls only in real emergencies. As do I.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ I say. Anxiety mounting.

      ‘Why does something have to be wrong for me to call my only daughter?’ my father says. ‘I just called to see how you guys are doing. And to tell you I love you.’

      Fucking twilight zone.

      ‘OK,’ I say. ‘We love you too. You sure everything’s OK?’

      ‘Fine, fine,’ he says. ‘You know, it’s that time of the year when there’s just not much to do at work. So an old man’s mind wanders. To the things he loves.’

      This is not my father talking.

      ‘Dad?’ I ask. ‘Are you by any chance recovering from a Christmas lunch that involved too much wine?’

      ‘Jane!’ he’s appalled. ‘You know I never drink at work. With work colleagues. I guess it’s just the season to feel, you know, sentimental. And we’re having our lunch tomorrow, and I just…I wanted to tell you I love you. And how much I’m looking forward to seeing you.’

      ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Well, we’re just fine. And I love you too. You sure nothing’s wrong?’

      ‘Everything’s fine, fine,’ he says again. And rings off.

      I’m a little weirded out.

      When Alex comes home and I tell him about the phone call – he’s also weirded out.

      ‘Maybe he had a prostate exam or a colonoscopy or something and is suddenly aware of his own mortality again,’ Alex suggests. ‘Remember that time he had to have an MRI? He wouldn’t stop hugging me.’

      ‘Maybe,’ I agree. The phone blips to announce an ‘I love you xoxoxoxoxo love Mom’ text from my mother. I type back ‘xoxo’ without saying anything to Alex. Sigh.

      ‘Is it too much to ask of your parents to be predictable?’ I ask.

      ‘Yes!’ Cassandra and Henry call in unison from the living room.

      ‘Little ingrates,’ I shout back. ‘Supper in five!’

      I make it through the evening, bedtime and beyond without starting up Facebook, or even picking up my phone.

      But I still don’t sleep.

       Day 4 Fatherhood

       Thursday, December 6

       This is how I start my mornings now. Waiting for you.

      —I’m here. I guess playing coy and hard to get when you come won’t really cut it.

       Not any more. Nor would I want that.

      —What do you want?

       You. Angry and wet. Dressed to please. A half-willing slave.

      —oh my lover

      —there is a special place in all hells for people like you

       I know it.

       What do you want?

      —you

      —on no terms

      —so entwined with me we don’t end

      —for a few hours

       Then I send you home. Bruised and happy.

      —not too bruised, not in any too obvious places

       Of course.

       Perhaps hating me just a little more.

      —Of course. Inevitable.

       Swear at me. Curse me when I’m fucking you.

      Walk in my door. Say ‘fuck you.’ Then – submit.

      —I want to meet you in a public place first.

      —Will you let me?

       If you demonstrate your submission in public. By how you dress

       How you speak.

       How you admit you’re my whore.

      —I want your hands under my clothes, on my skin, in a place with eyes

       My shameless exhibitionist whore.

      — (suddenly all of our…previous…encounters seem so fucking tame)

       (Practice.)

       Will you do all that I ask?

      —yes

       Good answer.

      —I’ve forgotten…

      —I’ve forgotten how you fit into the crevices, indentations of my mind

       I very much like reminding you of yourself

      —Tell me, what do I do to you?

       You feel like a counterpart. A woman me. You spark a fire deep in me. And you bring to mind how I was shaped, erotically. You affected me so. Of course we fit. You impressed me.

      —impressed

      —imprinted

       I still have the bruises

      —inside

       Deep.

      — [deleted]

      — [and again – I can’t form the words]

       Say it

      —you’re like a disease

      —I knew it then

      —wanted you so badly, I needed to run