Love in the Age of Chemicals Ch. 01

"I'm picking up on that," she stated, though I was more distracted by the way she was tugging her shirt, fanning herself in response to the sweat that was forming as she made repeated trips to and from her car. It was a simple motion, but the act of pulling her shirt away from her body and shaking it was almost hypnotizing. Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice.

After a few more trips for both of us, we soon had her car empty and her room full. Fuller than might be comfortable, I noticed. As I looked at the mess that had filled the room -- a room I had not cared about until it was messy -- I suddenly realized I was standing by myself. Miranda was walking around, evaluating the place. Occasionally, she would raise her phone and take a picture of a room.

"What are you doing?" I asked, nervous.

"Well, I'm going to need to make it look a little bit like I live here, in case we get visitors. But I'm taking pictures so I can return everything exactly the way it was when this is all over." It showed foresight. Planning. And, I was relieved to note, the reminder that this was temporary. Though I was a little worried at the suggestion that we would be receiving guests.

She spent the weekend "settling in." Which meant her room, the living room, the kitchen, and the hall bathroom underwent dramatic changes. Not only were things cleaner than before, but they looked... inviting. Miranda called it "homey." She minimized her intrusion into my world, which I noted with pleasure. At home she was very quiet and made no demands of me. For the most part, we lived quite independently of each other.

As word spread of my marriage, I received comments from my colleagues, some congratulatory, some seeming to be in jest, and some even outright ribald. But after a few weeks, things returned to normal. I was beginning to think that this could work. My "domestic life" was quite simple. I had even grown accustomed to wearing a ring.

*******

I mentioned that Miranda's entry into the social scene on campus became a problem. Well, the depth of that problem became more evident as we cohabited. Though I was often gone from the house, spending much of my free time in the lab, I reserved most of my weekends for home. Punctuating my weekly schedule with a regular day off made me more productive on the workdays. And it was oddly difficult to shake the Sabbath habits of my upbringing. So Saturdays were spent reading and researching (I couldn't delegate all my research to Miranda) and Sundays were mostly spent resting.

And so I noticed that Miranda was seldom home on Friday nights. She would usually be back by the time I woke up on Saturday morning, but she wouldn't stir from her room until nearly noon. The same process was usually repeated the next night. I knew what that signified -- I wasn't that naïve. But what bothered me was that her work those days was of considerably lesser quality. And, as I mentioned before, she was increasingly agitated.

As I sat at the table one Saturday in November, eating lunch and reading, Miranda came from her room and sat at the table, head between her hands. She groaned and asked, "Is there coffee?"

"It's probably cold, but you can use the microwave to heat it up," I answered.

"Would you mind?" she asked, looking up with a strained face.

"No, go right ahead," I answered, trying not to lose my train of thought.

Miranda stared at me for a moment, then sighed and stood up to make her coffee.

"You are absolutely clueless," she said softly as she shuffled around the kitchen.

"I get that a lot," I replied. "I don't mind."

"You wouldn't," she said. Once she had her drink and had taken her seat across from me, she said, "I feel like shit."

Realizing I wasn't likely to continue uninterrupted so long as she was nearby, I tried to carry my end of the conversation. "The consequences of your choices," I stated.

"Well, we can't all be monks," she sneered.

"I'm hardly a monk," I snorted. "I lack the... spiritual fortitude. Or basic convictions."

"That's not what I mean," she said, cringing as she sipped the strong blend that was supposed to improve her mood.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," she said, putting her mug down and looking into it, "you're single. And you seem to have no interest in... you know..."

"Social activities?" I suggested.

"That's quite a euphemism," she smirked. I felt compelled to try to make her laugh.

"You're talking about companionship?"

"Damn, what is it with you?" she asked, shaking her head. "I mean... I'm climbing the walls here. I've got... natural, normal... urges. And as much as I want to just go out and... and satisfy them, it's not that easy. Especially now that I have to wear this," she said, flashing her ring finger with a flourish and almost giving the impression of having made a different gesture with her fingers.

"I'm sure there are quite a few young men who don't care about... that," I said, not having thought about that facet of our situation.

"That's not what I mean," she said, lowering her forehead to touch the table. "I don't even know what I mean. It's just that I can't... I can't do the casual thing. I've tried, but I can't bring myself to do it. And the long-term thing isn't going to happen," and with that she wiggled her ring finger again. "So I've got all this stuff all bottled up and no way to really let it out. And I can't even talk to anyone about it because I'm supposed to be married and people think we're back here having amazing sex all the time and I feel like I'm going to go crazy." At the explicit mention of sex, my throat tightened and I shifted self-consciously in my seat. I was unable to avoid the mental image of what it might be like to have sex with Miranda. And it had never occurred to me that people were just assuming that was happening... and often.

Miranda lifted her mug and winced as she swallowed three large gulps of hot coffee, then roughly put the mug back on the table. She stood abruptly and muttered, "What's the use? It's not like you'd understand." She stormed back to her room, and I picked up my book with trembling hands. I found myself unable to remember anything else I read that afternoon.

*******

Miranda didn't come out of her room that day. And I didn't hear her go out that night. I saw her moving casually around the house on Sunday, mostly calm and quiet, lost in thought. I watched her from a distance and tried in vain not to think about the previous day. One part of our conversation in particular stuck with me, of course: the idea that the people in my life assumed I was having sexual relations with the woman posing as my wife. I didn't really think of myself as a sexual being. It was odd -- very odd -- to think that other people saw me that way.

That afternoon, she asked if I had anything planned for dinner. When I said I had no plans, she said she had enough fixings for two, and invited me to join her. I saw no reason to decline. Though I'm not very particular about food, the smells that filled the house that evening made me very glad I hadn't made other plans. We sat down across from each other, and I found it difficult to keep my eyes from turning towards her. She wore a thin tank top, despite the November chill. And, from what I could tell, a tank top was all she wore on top. Her hair hung down over her shoulders, mostly, but not fully, concealing her chest.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, until I remembered to compliment her on the delicious food. She seemed pleased at that, but said nothing further. As we finished, Miranda picked up our plates and took them to the sink while I sipped the glass of water in front of me. She sat back down and said, "So... Dr. Kirsch. Or may I call you Deke?"

I looked up in response. She wasn't my student, so there was nothing inappropriate about using my first name. "I suppose Deacon is fine," I answered. "No one calls me Deke."

"OK, Deacon," she said, stretching out my name playfully. "We haven't talked about rent, or anything."

Rent? It hadn't occurred to me. It should have been something we talked about before she moved in. But the circumstances surrounding that event were so discombobulating that I hadn't thought it through carefully.

"I... guess we can talk about that," I finally replied. "You've been here almost two months. If you're going to stay for the duration of this... arrangement, then I suppose rent would be appropriate. I'm sure whatever you were already paying at your last apartment would be fine."

Her face turned to a slight pout. "That's fair, but... what if it were to be a little lower? I already work so much, and if I could lower my expenses and cut back my work hours a little, I could put more time into classes... and into your research." On the face of it, I saw no problem with that. The money hadn't occurred to me to begin with. Her presence added no significant cost to my budget, and rent would be just nominal. Symbolic.

"That's fine. I don't even know what you were paying to begin with. So... just whatever you think is appropriate."

Miranda looked at me quizzically. Then she sighed and said, "Oh, but really, I feel like I'm taking advantage of you. A young woman, living in your house... You've done so much, I just think I should be trying to repay you somehow."

As is often the case, I felt like there was an important subtext to this whole conversation, something I was missing entirely. But I replied, "Just keep working hard on my research. If you do that to my satisfaction, I'll have no complaints. That, and continue to live as unobtrusively as..."

"Dammit, Deke!" she snapped, slamming her palms onto the table and startling me into silence. She looked at me, hurt and confused, then stood up and walked briskly to her room.

*******

Later that evening, I was sitting on the couch watching a movie. I hadn't seen Miranda since her outburst, and a movie was providing exactly the level of diversion I needed. The lights were all off, the only illumination coming from the TV screen. I was fully engrossed in the movie -- a mystery thriller so full of scientific errors it was almost a comedy to watch -- when I heard the unmistakable sound of Miranda's door opening. Expecting her to go to the kitchen or the bathroom, I paid no mind until I felt her sink down onto the couch. She picked up the remote control and paused the movie.

"Hey!" I objected. "I was..."

"We need to talk," she insisted.

"Can it wait?"

"Probably. But I don't care."

I could barely see her in the dim light of the TV, which had paused during a darker scene. She was wearing a sweatshirt now, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had on the glasses that I had sometimes seen her wear around the house.

Taking my silence for consent, she asked, "Are you gay? It's OK if you are, I just need to know."

It was, frankly, not the first time I had been asked that question. "No. No, I'm not."

"Then why don't you... Why aren't there women in your life?"

"That's a personal question," I objected.

"Yes. Yes it is. But I'm your wife. I get to ask personal questions."

I looked back towards the TV, willing it to resume the movie. When that failed, I sighed and said, "I'm very focused on my work."

"So are a lot of people. A lot of people who are married or dating or who have some form of human contact in their lives."

"Most of them aren't as focused as I am."

"And that's it?" she asked, implying she suspected it wasn't.

"And... you may have noticed... I'm not very adept at... conversation. And understanding people."

I heard her softly exhale. "Are you happy?"

I thought for a moment. "That's a complicated question. Happiness, contentment, they're mostly states of mind that are powerfully affected by cultural conditioning and the chemical..."

"Shut up," she said forcefully. We fell silent.

"I'm happy when I'm working in my lab," I said. "Happy enough."

"Is this all you want in life?" The way she questioned me, there in the darkness, her face barely visible, made it feel like the darkness itself was interrogating me.

"Of course not. I have important goals with my research, things I want to accomplish, discoveries I..."

"That's not what I mean," she interrupted. "If you had all that and nothing more, would you be... content?"

I thought briefly. "I don't think we're ever really content. We're not wired that way."

She sighed in exasperation. "You're not... I mean... Do you ever want a family? Kids? Do you ever want to get married?"

"If being married means my wife interrupts movies with existential questions, then no," I said plainly. There was no response. "That was a joke," I added.

Without warning, Miranda shoved my arm, knocking me onto my side. I straightened up and answered seriously, "I don't ever see it when I picture my future. I just don't think I'm that kind of guy. Not capable of it."

That comment hung in the air -- a thought I had never vocalized before. Just as I was about to retrieve the remote and start my movie again, hoping the issue was settled, Miranda asked, "But what about sex?"

I gulped silently, my mouth feeling dry. "What about it?"

"Do you miss it? Do you just... not have those desires? Have you figured out some way to suppress them?"

You can't miss what you've never had, I almost answered, but then thought better of it.

"Yes... I... I have those desires. But... but life is about subjecting some desires so you can satisfy others. I mean, look what it costs you to go pursuing some fleeting pleasures every weekend. Look how your work suffers. Look what it does to..."

"Shut up," she demanded, and I could hear a sniffle in the darkness.

I sat awkwardly waiting for her to either leave or continue, but she did neither. It may have been one of the longest two minutes of my life.

"Well, this hasn't worked out like I planned," she said with a sniff.

"What hasn't?"

"I guess I need to try the more direct approach."

"That's usually the clearest way," I agreed, and she laughed softly.

"Of course," she whispered to herself. Then clearing her throat, she said, "Well, Deacon, I was wondering if you would be willing to help me out with something. I've been trying to hint at it, but I don't think you quite read things the same way as most people."

I didn't think that was meant to be an insult, just an observation, and a correct one, at that.

After a short pause, she continued. "You're right. My social life, such as it is, has been a bit distracting. I wish it wasn't, but you of all people should understand the power of chemistry."

She paused, perhaps waiting for me to respond. Or had that been a joke?

"Anyway," she went on, "I was thinking... since we're married anyway... and you're unattached... and I'm not getting anywhere pursuing other options... and I feel like I owe you so much already, not even taking rent into account..."

Not yet understanding where this was headed, I interrupted, "Miranda, I told you, just continue with the research as we agreed and..."

"Shut up!" she insisted, clearly frustrated. "Dammit, Deke, don't you understand what I'm saying? What I'm asking?"

"I really don't," I confessed into the darkness.

"Geez. You really are something else," she wondered aloud. Then I felt her shifting in her seat and could tell that she had turned to face me. "I'm saying... I'm asking... if we could do each other a favor and have sex sometimes."

In the stunned silence that followed, the headlights of a passing car shone through the window and illuminated her face for a second. She wasn't smiling, she wasn't teasing. She was in earnest.

"Sex? You? And me?" I clarified.

"Yeah," she continued, her tone relaxing, as if she was relieved to have gotten the question out there. "It could be sort of like a friends-with-benefits type of thing. You know, it's not about the sex or having a relationship with each other, but when either of us needs a little release, we could help each other out."

"People do that?" It seemed... odd.

"Sure," she answered, "people do that all the time."

"'People' do a lot of things," I replied, putting air quotes around the word "people." "It's an unspecified sample set. When you use general..."

"Do you always go into science-speak when you're nervous?" she asked.

"Maybe," I admitted.

"Anyway, haven't you heard of friends with benefits?"

I had to admit I hadn't.

She laughed once and said, "I guess that shouldn't surprise me by now. But anyway, what do you think? Just an every-now-and-then sort of thing, you know. Besides," she smiled playfully, "it is our six month anniversary."

How had it come to this? Just seven months ago, she was nothing but a former student of mine. Now, here she was on my couch, living with me, married to me, and suggesting we establish some sort of context for having regular sexual relations. I had no words, no concepts that could apply. I don't know how long I sat there, trying to process that information, trying to find categories that would make sense of it. Eventually, Miranda interrupted my thoughts by saying, "Do you need some time to think about it?"

"Yes," I answered, in a bit of a daze.

"Yes, let's do it? Or yes, you need time to think?"

"I need some time to think about it."

"Fair enough," she sighed and put her hand on my knee. That one gentle touch might have been enough to decide the contest. I shivered and felt a surge of desire. Desire that, for once, had the potential for satisfaction. I tried to watch her walk back to her room, but the darkness allowed me only to stare into emptiness and watch the images of my inflamed imagination. In those fantasies, Miranda was naked before me. We were touching. And that was all I could bring to mind. Anything more was overwhelming.

*******

The strange thing about conversations in the dark is that it is somehow easier to pretend they never happened. And that's exactly what I tried to do. Tried.

Miranda didn't mention it again, and in the week that followed, neither of us gave any indication that we had discussed becoming sexual partners. By the second week, I had started to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing. Ten days after our conversation, however, Miranda passed me in the hallway. She was leaving the bathroom, having just showered, and she wore nothing but towel wrapped around her dripping wet body. I politely looked to the side, and she merely chuckled.

"Still thinking about it?" she asked.

"Yeah," I admitted, realizing the question could have a double meaning.

"Alright," she said musically. Then as she swayed toward her room, she sang out, "I'm waiiiiiitiiiiing..."

*******

By the third week after our conversation, I noticed a real problem. My work was suffering. I was distracted, unfocused, my mind unable to concentrate on complex problems. My imagination was wandering and often landing on thoughts of physical intimacy. Of course I turned towards my usual recourse -- masturbation. But it was somehow less effective. The prospect of something other than self-stimulation was enough to make lesser prospects undesirable.

I didn't blame Miranda for the frustration. She was the occasion of my loss of productivity, but she was not the cause of it. That was my own desires at work. And it was hard to blame her for posing the problem when she was also kind enough to present a possible solution.

But would I accept her solution? It seemed that most men wouldn't hesitate. But I was -- for lack of a more scientific word -- scared.

This would, if you haven't already inferred, be my first sexual encounter. I had come close in the past... not very close, but close. And at least one of those occasions had left me emotionally scarred. So would I take the risk, and would I consider this a suitable first encounter?