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If I do it with him now, he’s going to compare me to Margie. I imagine them having sex all the time, in this apartment. I picture Margie kissing Bernard with an intensity that matches his, like in the movies. Then I see myself lying naked on that bare mattress, my arms and legs splayed out stiffly to the side.
Why didn’t I do it with Sebastian when I had the chance? At least I’d know how to do it. I never guessed someone like Bernard would come along. A grown man who obviously assumes his girlfriend has sex regularly and wants to do it all the time.
“C’mon,” he says gently, pulling at my hand.
I balk and he squints at me. “Don’t you want to make love?”
“I do,” I say quickly, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “It’s just that—”
“Yes?”
“I forgot my birth control.”
“Oh.” He drops my hand and laughs. “What do you use? A diaphragm?”
I blush. “Yeah. Sure. Uh-huh.” I nod.
“A diaphragm’s a pain. And it’s messy. With the cream. You use a cream with it, right?”
“Yes.” I mentally pedal backward to the health classes we had in high school. I picture the diaphragm, a funny little object that looks like a rubber cap. But I don’t recall any mention of cream.
“Why don’t you go on the pill? It’s so much easier.”
“I will. Yes indeedy.” I agree vigorously. “I keep meaning to get a prescription but—”
“I know. You don’t want to take the pill until you know the relationship is serious.”
My throat goes dry. Is this relationship serious? Am I ready for it? But in the next second, Bernard is lying on the bed, and has turned on the TV. Is it my imagination, or does he look slightly relieved?
“C’mere, puddy tat,” he says, patting the spot next to him. He holds out his hands. “Do you think my nails are too long?”
“Too long for what?” I frown.
“Seriously,” he says.
I take his hand in mine, running my fingers over the palm. His hands are lovely and lean, and I can’t help thinking about those hands on my body. The sexiest part of a man is his hands. If a man has girlish hands, it doesn’t matter what the rest of him is like. “They are, a little.”
“Could you cut them and file them for me?” he asks.
What?
“Margie used to do it for me,?
? he explains. My heart softens. He’s so sweet. I had no idea a man could be so cozy. But it’s not surprising, given my limited experience with romance.
Bernard goes into the bathroom to get clippers and a nail file. I look around the spare bedroom. Poor Bernard, I think, for the hundredth time.
“Primate grooming,” he says when he returns. He sits across from me, and I begin carefully clipping his nails. I can hear the rain drumming on the awning below while I file rhythmically, the motion and the rain putting me into a soothing trance. Bernard strokes my arm and then my face as I lean over his hand.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply simply.
“This is what it should be like. No fighting. Or arguing about whose turn it is to walk the dog.”
“Did you have a dog?”
“A long-haired dachshund. He was Margie’s dog first, but she could never be bothered to pay attention to him.”
