Page 80 of Alone With You in the Ether

The Truth. She seemed to find it only by digging in with an obscene fascination, a close-to-perversity ravaging, no matter the subject. This type of pasta, why? Why this temperature? What happens if you put x here, no it doesn’t work that way, why not? Even sex was a matter of experimentation, try this, Aldo, talk to me like this, no no like this. Regan was always thinking but she called it feeling, and whatever it was, it was rapid and difficult to follow. He felt consistently lost, but he could feel himself changing. He could feel new paths of thought, those previously untraveled for self-preservation (things dismissed for reasons of: not a practical question, impossible, would never work this way) becoming worn beneath his feel. He could feel Regan twining her fingers with his and pulling him along—What aboutthis, have you thought about itthis way, Aldo? Aldo, make love to me and answer all my questions, placate me with answers!, with attention!, with your touch. Aldo, fuck me until my mind stands still; plummet with me, euphoric, over the edge of a fucking cliff.

The semester had ended, finally. He’d gone through the next round of oral arguments for his dissertation, had graded all his exams, had dealt with the muttered, “Thanks, Damiani,” from the students who’d narrowly passed, had submitted his end of term evaluations to the Dean. Everything was as it was before, as it had been each semester prior, except for little, subtle differences. The extra helmet he kept strapped to his backpack, just in case. The checking of his phone more often, waiting for her name to appear on his screen. The extra key on the ring, freshly cut and polished, for when she was awake at three in the morning, her voice a hoarse whisper of, “Aldo, you have to see this shade of blueright now, I want you to see it with me; I want to watch you see it for the first time.”

He had never kept much from his father, and Regan was no secret. What is she, your girlfriend? Yes, he supposed so, though it seemed a silly word for her. Well, what was she, then? She’s, I don’t know. What do you mean you don’t know, how can you not know? No, I know, I just don’t think the word exists. Mm well then tell me, where are we in time, Rinaldo? Lost, Dad, lost, I no longer understand what time is, how it works, what it does, I give up. Ah, Masso said, okay, I see what she is. What does that mean Dad, what is she? She’s your… you know, your provocateur, she’s your disturbance. Big words, Dad. Yes, Rinaldo, big words for a big concept, good luck, I love you, see you soon.

“Home,” Regan echoed. He was playing with her hair, winding it around and around his finger, the thick silken strands glinting in a spiral. “You’re sure you want to bring me? I know how much your dad means to you.”

“Yes,” exactly, that’s the point.

“He might not like me.”

“So? Your parents don’t like me.”

“That’s different, they hate everyone and besides, they don’t matter.”

“I don’t believe that’s true.”

“Well, believe it,” she scoffed, rolling over to face him. Her eyes were oversized, vulnerable. She’d stopped wearing makeup around him and it was a beautiful, destructive thing, seeing her eyes so clearly. She looked younger, five years or lifetimes at least. It made something growl within him, something primitive that made him want to kill tigers for her, to beat other men with clubs. Marc had called at least twice. She hadn’t made a secret of it, had even laughed and offered Aldo the phone, but he hadn’t taken it. He no longer trusted himself.

“I don’t always make a good first impression, Aldo. Especially not with fathers.”

“Why not with fathers?”

“I don’t know, I only know how to flirt. Older men make me uncomfortable.”

Men, he thought. Men make you uncomfortable.

“My dad will like you. He likes, you know. Weirdness.”

“Oh, so I’m weird now?”

“You spend all your free time with me, don’t you?”

“Fair.” She slid a nail down his chest, circling his sternum. “Did you tell him I’m an artist?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m not.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Okay. You’re not, then.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she grumbled, though she snaked an arm up to wrap around his neck, bringing his lips to hers. “I hate it,” she whispered to him, her tongue grazing the edges of his teeth. She tasted like salt, like Amatriciana, which always tasted salty to him.

“Come home with me,” he said again, and she sighed, fingers twisting in his hair.

“And if your father hates me?”

“He won’t. He doesn’t hate anyone.”

“He could hate me.” Her voice was bitter, tasting like anise now. “Plenty of people do.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, tipping her chin up.

Her hand circled his throat, experimental. Her thumb dragged over his Adam’s apple, testing. He wondered what she was thinking. He wondered about her thoughts constantly, even in rare cases when he knew she had none. What did Regan think about quantum groups? Answer: Regan did not think about quantum groups, and yet his mind couldn’t rest from wondering. She slid into his calculations and nudged him, pointing things out. What really happens in a superposition, Aldo? When particles are in two or more states at once, Aldo, what does that mean, what does it mean for us, what does it mean for time? Will we ever knowThe Truth?, and he would think, unsatisfied, No, Regan, we won’t, I can’t do it, I’ve always known I’ll never know, and she would express her disappointment with a bite, with the tightening of her fingers. Give me truth, Aldo, or be gone from my sight, get out.

The kiss progressed, as kisses typically did. He liked the way she changed direction, the way she chose her pace or else put her hands on his hands and told him, You choose, You tell me, You put me where you want me, Arrange me to your liking and let’s see, let’s see where this goes. He was in his head, always, even during sex, but she seemed to like that about him. Her hands were always drifting to his hair, to his neck or digging into his skull, as if she wanted to crack it open and lay claim to whatever was inside. He liked that. He liked it, how grabby she was, how selfishly insistent. He liked her even when she was stingy, when she was ungenerous. He liked her best when she was saying, with the twist of her fingers, You are already mine.

“I suppose,” she sighed, “I should just do whatever you ask, shouldn’t I?”

---