Page 122 of There Are No Saints

And yet . . . somehow she was right. She knew what I would do better than I did.

I’ve never been in this position before. I’m cut loose. Floating in space. Unsure of anything anymore.

I check the fridge in the small kitchen. It’s filled with drinks and snacks, though usually the housekeeper ends up throwing away the food and buying more, because I often forget to eat while working.

I make a plate of fruit and cheese, pouring two glasses of Riesling, nicely chilled. Carrying the repast back to the bed, I see that Mara has sat up, her damp hair in a dark rope over one shoulder, her eyes silvery in the reflected light of the television.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” she asks me.

Smiling to myself, I set the food before her. Mara has an incredible ability to treat the bizarre as normal. To continue on in her daily life no matter what happens to her.

She tears into the food, stuffing BellaVitano and raspberries into her mouth.

“I’m starving,” she says, unnecessarily.

I eat the same thing as her, in the same order. Tasting the sharp, nutty cheese and the tart raspberries as one food. Sipping the wine in between, letting it pop in the back of my mouth. Closing my eyes like Mara does, focusing on the food.

“It’s not better than sex,” I say. “But it’s damn good.”

Mara laughs.

I don’t know if I’ve ever made her laugh before. I like the way it rolls out of her, throaty and pleased.

“Better than sex with some people,” she says. “But not you.”

I feel a warm burning in my chest. Is it the wine?

“You’re a responsive subject,” I say.

“Have you ever done that before?” she asks me.

She seems curious, not jealous.

“No,” I reply. “Not like that.”

“Neither have I,” she says, unnecessarily. I already know how uncreative men can be.

“What movie do you want?”

She shrugs. “I was just looking through Netflix.”

“What about the one you mentioned at the Halloween party? Is it on there?”

Mara blushes. “You don’t want to watch that. It’s old.”

“Yes I do. Put it on.”

She finds the film, which has a ridiculous illustrated poster, reminiscent of old fantasy novels from the 70s.

It’s a classic “portal into another world” story. I watch it like I watch everything—carefully, as if there’s going to be a test later.

“You think it’s stupid,” Mara says, finishing off the last of the berries, sucking the juice off her fingertips.

“No. I understand why you liked it when you were little.”

Mara nods. “I would have done anything to disappear into another world. Watching it now, I guess it’s kind of creepy how she’s a kid playing with toys and David Bowie is a grown ass man. I thought it was romantic. I guess I wished I had someone powerful who gave a shit about me.”

I look at her wild, elfin profile—ethereal like David Bowie, not soft like the youthful Jennifer Connoley.

---