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“Oh, but I do,” I cry out in excitement, tearing away the paper and fingering the raised white lettering on the box. CHANEL.
Bernard looks slightly uncomfortable with my overwhelming demonstrance. “Teensie thought you’d like it.”
“Teensie? You asked Teensie what to get me? I thought she hated me.”
“She said you needed something nice.”
“Oh, Bernard.” I lift the cover from the box and gently open the tissue paper. And there it is: my first Chanel handbag.
I lift it out and cradle it in my arms.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“I love it,” I say solemnly. I hold it for a few seconds more, savoring the soft leather. With sweet reluctance, I slip it back into its cotton pouch and carefully replace it in the box.
“Don’t you want to use it?” Bernard asks, perplexed by my actions.
“I want to save it.”
“Why?” he says.
“Because I always want it to be . . . perfect.” Because nothing ever is. “Thank you, Bernard.” I wonder if I’m going to cry.
“Hey, puddy tat. It’s only a purse.”
“I know, but—” I get up and curl next to him on the couch, stroking the back of his neck.
“Eager little beaver, aren’t you?” He kisses me and I kiss him back and as we’re starting to get into it, he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.
This is it. And suddenly, I’m not so sure I’m ready.
I remind myself that this should not be a big deal. We’ve done everything but. We’ve spent the entire night together a dozen times. But knowing what’s to come makes it feel different. Even kissing is awkward. Like we barely know each other.
“I need a drink,” I say.
“Haven’t you had enough?” Bernard looks worried.
“No—I mean a drink of water,” I lie. I grab one of his shirts to cover myself and race into the kitchen. There’s a bottle of vodka on the counter. I close my eyes, brace myself, and take a gulp. I quickly rinse my mouth with water.
“Okay. I’m ready,” I announce, standing in the doorway.
/> I feel all jumbly again. I’m trying to be sexy, but I don’t know how. Everything feels so false and artificial, including myself. Maybe you have to learn how to be sexy in the bedroom. Or maybe it’s something you have to be born with. Like Samantha. Sexiness comes naturally to her. With me, it would be easier to be a plumber right now.
“Come here,” Bernard laughs, patting the bed. “And don’t get any ideas about stealing that shirt. Margie used to take my shirts.”
“Margie?”
“Let’s not talk about her, okay?”
We start making out again, but now it feels like Margie is in the room. I try to banish her, telling myself that Bernard is mine now. But it only makes me feel more diminished in comparison. Maybe after we get it over with, it’ll be better. “Let’s just do it, okay?” I say.
He raises his head. “Don’t you like this?”
“No. I love it. But I just want to do it.”
“I can’t just—”
“Bernard. Please.”
