Page 11 of Perfect
“Be that as it may, I think we should create a support plan for you.” I glance at the clock. I haven’t even been here that long. I sigh and look back at her, trying to be polite.
“Fine.”
***
After nine years of a routine with very little autonomy, the most challenging part of being home is choosing what to do with my days. I actually listen to one thing my therapist says and give myself structure right out of the gate. Wake up, make breakfast, work out, find something to do, make lunch, find more things to do, make dinner, find another fucking thing to do, go to bed. There’s so much time in the day to fill that I make a long list of projects and throw myself into them as hard as possible.
I clean out the house, box up everything I can’t handle looking at but don’t want to get rid of and donate things I don’t want or need anymore. I get rid of the ornate wood pieces my grandfather cherished and replace most of them with pieces that remind me of the mid-century furniture my grandmother loved. I donate everything in my closet and buy all new clothing, I set up a gym in the basement, I buy a nicer computer than I need and set it up in Boss’s old office, and I work on all three cars and get them running properly again.
I meet with Officer Dent, report on all I’m doing, take my drug test, smile, nod, and shake hands. I work with Catherine to take care of all the bullshit paperwork I need to, like getting everything put in my name, getting insurance, whatever. It’s not really her job, but she helps anyway because my grandmother paid her to. I make a point not to talk to the receptionist, whose name is Alexandria, mostly because I don’t remember how to talk to women I’m attracted to and she’ssofucking gorgeous.
After a few days off my medication, my sex drive comes back with a vengeance, and I finally find something interesting to do with my time. I do not listen to Dr. Mills at all, because she’s a fucking idiot. I barely used dating apps when I was in college, and I find the profiles daunting to set up, so while I figure them out and start talking to women online, I also start driving down the coast, spending every night at different bars, relearning how to speak to and flirt with women.
I lie about what I do, since “just released from prison” isn’t usually a turn-on.
I lie about pretty much everything, and no one seems to notice.
The first few encounters are awkward. I’m too forward, too honest, or too obviously bored by what they say. I’m attractive enough that the women are often forgiving, but it takes me a few tries to remember how to be charming. It’s harder than I remember it being, mostly because I’m genuinely not interested in any of the women I talk to.
Nothing’swrongwith them, they’re just notright.
I ask questions, I listen, I engage, and I make lists in my head of everything that I find interesting or attractive about them. Then, whether or not I like them, I focus on getting them into bed.
The first time I get a woman in bed, it’s been so long that it’s overwhelming, and I come embarrassingly quickly. I spend halfan hour going down on her in apology, fuck her properly, then leave.
Between online dating and going to bars, I start fucking as many women as I can, as often as I can. I pay attention to what they respond to, what they like, and I try to see if I like them more after I fuck them.
I don’t, usually.
One woman holds my attention long enough to see her a second time, but not a third.
She’s not right, either.
The first time I see Alexandria in town, she’s out jogging the riverwalk on a Sunday in a hoodie and a pair of baggy sweats. The first time I think of her during sex, I dismiss it as me having seen her that day in town and finding her prettier than the woman I’m fucking.
The second time I see her, she’s sketching in Shively Park. The second time I think about her during sex, I think it’s because the woman I’m fucking has similar hair.
The third time I see her is at the cafe near her office right before her workday starts. Without realizing it, I’ve started to think about her a lot, and even started trying to figure out where I can see her.
Once I understand what I’m doing, I force myself to stop and spend time on the stupid dating apps until I set up a date with someone.
The third time I think about her during sex, I force myself to be present with the woman I’m fucking, and it almost works.
I don’t tell Dr. Mills any of this at our next session. I’m not interested in her opinion about the fact that my sex drive has started running my life in the two weeks since I’ve seen her. I have no interest in her opinion aboutanything, especially anything that has to do with women, or a specific woman I’m not thinking about. I talk about my daily routine and the self-help book I’m forcing myself to read, and I tell her which of her resources I’ve skimmed. I’m sure we both know I’m bullshitting her, but I lie anyway because it’s a parole requirement for me to sit in this room with her for the next year and get her to approve of me.
I don’t need her help with anything. I spent years working on my issues in prison, and I’m fine now.
After therapy, I head back to Astoria and stay in the house all weekend, trying to figure out what to do about how I’m feeling. It’s been a decade since I’ve felt interested in someone, and this is so different from last time.
I decide to avoid Alexandria for a bit and ignore my desire to get to know her. I’m running out of projects around the house, but I keep looking for things to do to occupy my time. I work out. I meditate. I replace all the lightbulbs in the house. I masturbate. I cook. I clean the house. I listen to an audiobook. I tighten all the screws in the house. I watch TV.
I do anything not to think or feel, and it almost works.
I need to go grocery shopping by Monday. After years and years of prison food, it’s nice to have control over what I do or don’t eat, and I enjoy being picky about it. I loved cooking before I went to prison, and it’s the only thing that really makes me feel calm lately, so I take a lot of time planning meals, picking ingredients, and focusing on the process of cooking.
I’m looking at wine when a short, plump woman on her phone bumps into me as she reaches for some chardonnay. I glance over at her quickly as I step back, and she looks up from her phone for a second and gives me a guilty smile.
“Sorry, excuse me!” She pushes the phone between her ear and shoulder and grabs two bottles of wine. “Hi, Alex. Are you still at the office?” I glance back at her as she turns away. Doesn’t she work with Catherine? My mind empties out at the possibility. “Can you check if I turned off the heater under mydesk?Shit. You’re a lifesaver, thank you!” The woman hangs up as she walks away, and I stare at the wine in my hand.
