Love in the Age of Chemicals Ch. 02

Chapter 2

I expected to be thoroughly distracted the next day. I knew there was much I needed to process, and I expected that most of the day would be wasted in evaluating the sexual experience of the night before. But what I experienced instead was a remarkable clarity. I was so refreshingly focused that I broke my routine by going to the lab on a Saturday. While in the lab, I made rapid progress, discovering and exploring creative alternatives to previously failed experiments. My mind felt cleared, like it had been scoured and freshly ordered. From an initial evaluation, my decision to have sex with Miranda was a complete success.

That's not to say I didn't relive the experience in my mind. I replayed every moment over and over, only it wasn't distracting. It was like a familiar movie playing in the background while you work. You can still hear it without focusing on it. When I had a moment to spare, I would shift focus and think about the extraordinary events of the night before. But I was always able to return to my work with ease. I reached a good stopping point in the late afternoon, and as I was walking to my car I received a text message from Miranda.

Picking up pizza on my way home from the library, in case you don't have plans.

I replied a simple, Thank you, and noticed that I was quite hungry, having worked through lunch. I arrived at the house before she did and even had time to shower before she arrived, pizza in hand.

It was only when she walked in the door that I felt a sudden surge of awkwardness. This woman had seen me naked. She had seen me behaving animalistically. What was more, I had seen her (mostly) naked. How could I look at her again, knowing what beauty was under those garments? How could I look at her eyes and talk about traffic and weather and drink options when I had seen that same face contorted in the throes of the most beautiful agony? How could I listen to that voice speak of journals and citations that had so recently cried out my name during climax?

I felt like I had to hide. Everything that had been so clear and simple that morning was now so muddied and chaotic. By the time we were sitting down at the table, my ears were filled with the sound of rushing water. I was sweating and itchy. My vision blurred and I couldn't stay still. I jumped up and ran to the sink. After downing a glass of water, I hastily refilled my glass. As I stood bent over the sink, I could hear a voice in the distance. It was Miranda, standing right next to me.

"Deke... Deke, are you alright?"

Suddenly my vision and hearing normalized. My pulse was slowing. Her hand was on my back. I rubbed my eyes with one hand and returned to my seat. Miranda slowly sat down across from me.

"I'm fine," I lied. "Just... just felt a little nauseated for a second. I skipped lunch."

"Oh good Lord, Deke. Eat!" she insisted, pushing the pizza box across the table towards me. I took a slice and had soon finished it and was reaching for another. Miranda watched me with curiosity and seemed ready to say something when my phone rang. I looked at the number and weighed my options. It was my mother. At the moment, I didn't trust myself enough to talk to her without getting agitated. Miranda seemed the safer option. I put the phone back in my pocket. Miranda raised an eyebrow in question. When I said nothing but instead reached for another slice of pizza, she asked in that musical way of hers, "Sooo,... how was your daaaay?"

"Very productive. I was quite pleased," I stated between mouthfuls.

"Good," she said with a smile. "Me too."

We ate in silence for another minute, after which Miranda asked, "Sooo... did you think about anything in particular?"

I swallowed hard. Then took a long drink.

"Are you wanting to talk about last night?" I guessed.

"Only if you're ready to," she shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

I sighed and looked around. "Until a few moments ago, I thought it was an unqualified success. I was relieved of my distractions, I had renewed vigor, you expressed similar satisfaction..."

"But..."

"But upon seeing you again, I was struck by a whole new category of complications." She frowned at that, but I continued while I was able to think clearly about it. "The dynamic of our relationship has changed in a way that I'm not equipped to handle: I'm at a loss to know how to relate to you now. As a reasonable person. I believe I should be able to treat you the same as I did before last night, but I am failing at that."

"Well, maybe there's no such thing as a 'reasonable person,'" she shot back, smiling as she put air quotes around the last phrase.

"I don't want to reduce you to a sexual object in my mind," I stated emphatically.

"You won't," she shrugged. "You'll get over it eventually. It's only the day after."

"Is that what happens?" I asked. "Is that how it usually goes with these friends with benefits?"

Miranda shrugged slowly and casually said, "I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? Haven't you done this before?"

"Sex? Yes. Friends with benefits? No. Honestly, I'm not... very experienced."

I rubbed my hand across my face, trying to recollect my thoughts from where passion had scattered them. "I just... look at you and remember... everything," I said softly, ashamed.

"Good," she said -- all too happily, I thought. "As long as they're good memories."

"Yes. Very good memories. Overwhelmingly good. Addictive," I said before I could catch myself.

"Well, the same for me. I had a great experience with you, one I hope we can have again. And yes, I thought about you in that way today. And I no doubt will again. But it's not going to take over. It's just another dynamic, another... facet. Pretty soon, your science brain will kick in and you'll start compartmentalizing. Sometimes I'm student Miranda, sometimes I'm research assistant Miranda, sometimes I'm roommate Miranda, and sometimes I'm sex partner Miranda. Besides, once you hear what I came across in my reading today, your mind will get back on track. But now that we've opened this door, it just means that every now and then we can explore that side of our friendship. If at some point you find yourself thinking about me too much in a sexual way, we can just have sex and relieve the tension. All you have to do is ask."

I processed what she was saying, trying to fit new ideas into new categories. I realized that in our whole conversation I had failed to think about what was under her shirt. It pleased me to realize we could approach stability again.

"Wait," I said suddenly. "Did you say you found something interesting in your reading today?"

Miranda smiled mischievously and said, "As long as you're still dealing with the problem of unpredictability in synthetic synaptic reconstruction."

"What have you found?" I asked eagerly, leaning in and pulling my notebook and pencil closer.

"I'll get my notes," she smiled, swinging her legs out from under the table.

Miranda was right. It was easy to get my mind back on track, given sufficient stimulation.

*******

The next few days were interesting, as my mind assimilated the new facet of my relationship to Miranda. Student (of sorts), wife (on paper), roommate (for appearances), and now sexual partner. Even if the events of that previous Friday were not repeated, she would still be a leading figure -- if not the sole figure -- in my sexual history. And she was correct in suggesting that my ability to think of and relate to her would somewhat normalize in time. I expected (naïvely) that I for one would not again feel compelled to resort to sexual relations. As rewarding as the experience had been on a sensory level, the complications that preceded and followed it posed somewhat of a threat to my stability. An objective cost-benefit analysis would undoubtedly show how much celibacy is to be preferred.

And I hoped that Miranda could be similarly persuaded. She at least did not suggest any further sexual activity in the week that followed, which I took to be a good sign. She did, however, take a greater than usual interest in my life outside of school. I noted that we began sharing more meals, which made practical sense if nothing else. And with those meals came conversation. It was a little easier for me to talk to Miranda than to most people, mainly because she was becoming accustomed to my struggles with "normal" conversation. But she had an unattractive habit of pushing boundaries just a bit, as if testing how far she could take certain things. For example, no one before Miranda had ever attempted to discuss my family with me.

"Are you going to be seeing family over Thanksgiving?" she asked during a meal she had prepared for us. It was eight days after our sexual encounter.

"No," I answered.

She waited for a further response, but I did not offer any.

"Why not?" she prodded. "Too far away?"

"My parents are a short flight away and would like me to visit, but it's not an efficient use of the time. I'll visit them during the winter break."

"Deeeeke," she said, using the tone that always preceded a chiding. "You can't talk about your parents that way."

"In what way?"

"Efficiency," she said, as if the word was distasteful.

"I didn't speak of them in that way," I objected. "I spoke of the time spent traveling, not to mention the cost, for the relatively brief time spent visiting them."

She opened her mouth to object, then clearly reconsidered, shaking her head. After a few more bites, she asked, "So you'll be around this week?"

"Yes. I'm hoping to take advantage of the relative quiet on campus."

"What about Thanksgiving Day?"

"It's a Thursday. I'll be at my lab."

She sighed. "Deke, I'm serious. What are your Thanksgiving plans?"

"Miranda, it's nothing special to me. I'd prefer to keep to my routine."

"What about joining me? I've got plans for dinner that afternoon."

"Will you be alone?"

"No, actually I'll be with a group of... friends. Kind of. Helping serve dinner at a shelter."

I tried to picture that. Whatever she meant by "shelter" sounded like something with a lot of unfamiliar people. I could see no good in forcing myself to do that. "I think I'll stick to my plans," I concluded.

"I think it could be really good for you," she insisted, sounding worried. "I think you might really like some of these friends. One of them used to be a professor. And one's a doctor. And they're really friendly, and I..."

"I would rather not," I said with finality. Miranda stared at me for a moment, with no evident ill will but perhaps considering whether to press the issue. I held my breath and hoped she didn't.

"OK, Deke," she said softly. "I just feel sad thinking about you here alone."

"Would it help to know that I'm not sad?" I asked.

"Not really," she answered, pushing the last bites of her food around with her fork. I stood up to take my empty plate to the sink. After I had rinsed it off and began to put away the uneaten food, Miranda's phone began to ring. Because I was closest to it, I picked it up from the counter and handed it to her. She looked at the number and made a confused expression. I watched her flip her hair to one side as she put the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Oh! Oh! Hi, Jeanine!" she said, making sure I was watching. Her lips mouthed a message to me; I thought it was "Jeanine DiNardo," Miranda's coworker and the wife of one of my colleagues.

"Yeah, yeah, we'll be in town... No, we have plans that day, but thank you... Oh sure, that would be great!... Really? Uh... I guess that would be fine... No, no problem, I'll just need to be sure to clean up a bit, you know. These men and their messy habitats... Oh, you don't need to do that. Deke and I would be happy to make something... Sure, sure. Let me talk to him and get back to you... No, it's no problem, really. I'm looking forward to it... You too... Bye!"

I had stood in front of the open fridge for the whole conversation, fearful of what I was deducing from one side of the conversation. Miranda hung up the phone and sighed, putting her face in her hands.

"They're coming over?" I asked with trembling voice.

"Yes," she groaned through her hands.

"Why..." I stammered, "Why did you agree to that? They can't just invite themselves over, can they? People don't just do that, right?"

Miranda dropped her hands and slumped her shoulders as she turned to look at me. Then standing up and walking over to the fridge, she reached around me and closed the fridge door. Leaning in, she put her arms around me and rested her head on my shoulder. I stiffened and did not return her hug until she reached for my arms and forced them around her back.

"Read between the lines, Deke. It's a test. Someone is suspicious. They invited us over for Thanksgiving. I said we had plans. Then she said we should get together that weekend. But conveniently their kitchen will begin being renovated that weekend, so she suggested they bring food here. I offered to make dinner, which is really no problem. The real problem is convincing them that we're really married."

"But we are really married," I objected, staring at the wall behind her.

"Not like that," she muttered next to my ear, without a tone of judgment. "They need to be convinced that we're in love, and that we're enjoying marriage in every way."

"So we'll tell them we had sex?"

Miranda's body began to shake in my arms. She pulled back and was laughing so hard I almost joined her. I did manage to smile. When she looked at my face, though, she suddenly composed herself and said, "No, we won't tell them that. But we need to be convincing. Like... you can't cringe like that when I hug you. And we need to call each other silly names like 'Baby' and 'Dear' and 'Honey.'"

"Is that all? I think I can remember that... Baby," I said.

"No, Dear, that's not all," she smiled, draping her arms behind my neck. "But we'll work on it. And there's one more thing."

"What's that?"

"You're not going to like it," she warned.

*******

"I think this is a good compromise," Miranda argued.

I stood in the doorway of my room the following Wednesday and cringed. "It's just so... different," I complained.

"Different does not equal bad," she told me for the fourth time that day.

"It does to me," I mumbled, walking into the room and surveying the changes. It even smelled different.

"You wouldn't buy a bigger bed or even let me buy one for you. And if they see that the master bedroom has only a double bed... plus a single bed in the library... there's no way they'll believe we're married."

"You could say I snore too loudly," I suggested.

"Nah, newlyweds don't care about that. Sex is still too big a deal."

"Sometimes I think you take advantage of the way I trust you to interpret normal behavior."

She ignored my remark and walked around the bed, running her fingers along the new sheets and bedspread. It was two beds, really. She had moved her own single bed in next to my double bed and had gotten large sheets to make them look like one large bed. She had moved her clothes into my closet and had moved her dresser into my bedroom as well. She had put up some decorations and gotten new curtains. I didn't recognize my own room.

"Don't worry, it's just until Saturday night," she assured me. "Then we can change it all back."

"Are you planning to... uh... sleep in my bed until then?"

"Maybe... if you want me to," she said, sitting down on the corner of the bed and smiling at me as she leaned back and put her hands behind her on the mattress. "I won't even make you ask nicely. You just have to ask." Sitting that way, her breasts were prominent and I turned to examine the master bathroom, which had also been rearranged and cleaned.

"But seriously," she said loudly so I could hear her from the other room, "I can just sleep on the couch in my room tonight. And then I'll be spending Thanksgiving with some friends, and maybe the next night, too. I'll be back no later than Saturday morning. And we can move everything back after Ray and Jeanine leave."

"OK," I sighed, feeling on edge about the new furniture arrangement. "But what about when I need to get up at night? I won't know my way around. I'll bump into things."

"Awww," she pouted, leaning forward and putting her hands together. "Do you need a nightlight?" I started to think she was mocking me. Then standing up, she crossed the distance between us and put her hands on my shoulders. I consciously relaxed as she approached, as she had taught me to do over the past few days. I even put my hands on her waist, trying not to pay too much attention to the softness of the flesh under her shirt. She moved in closer and I did my best to embrace her the way a husband would. After a few seconds she leaned back and said, "Good job, Puppy."

"Puppy?"

"Yeah, I think that's my pet name for you. It's cute and endearing. Besides, I've always wanted a puppy."

"How am I a puppy?" I asked, confused at the association. It wasn't apparent to me.

"You're... I'm not saying you are a puppy. I'm just... It's an endearment. Like 'Honey.'"

"Honey is sweet," I replied, having studied that endearment years ago. "Puppies smell funny. And they are messy."

Miranda sighed, evidently frustrated. "Puppies are cute. You're my puppy. Besides, it sounds a little like Papi, which is what some of my girlfriends in high school used to call their older boyfriends. Just accept it, Puppy. I'm kinda fixed on it now."

I sighed deeply and looked away. "Well, what am I supposed to call you?" I asked. "Can't I just call you Miranda?"

"You should call me 'Dear' or 'Darling,'" she stated. "It suits your whole 'I act like an old man' thing."

"I act like an old man?"

"Puppy, I know sixty-five-year-old guys that are way younger than you," she smiled. "Which reminds me, there's one more thing..." As she broke our practiced embrace, she trotted out of the room, then returned a few seconds later with several large plastic bags in hand.

"There's always one more thing with you, isn't there?" I said, a statement of defeat more than a question.

Ignoring me, she emptied some of the bags onto my/our bed. "They say a man's sense of style can reflect well or poorly on his wife."

"Who says that?" I challenged.

"An unspecified sample set... They say it," she replied while pulling out a few shirts and holding them up to my chest. "And you, Puppy, are not making me look good at all. Take off your shirt."

"What? No!"

"Come on. You can leave the t-shirt on, just take off that gray relic and try this on."

"Why do you care how I look?"

"Just trying to sell the act, Puppy. Now that we know people are really watching, we can't have anyone thinking I don't care how you dress... or wear your hair..."

My hair? There really was always "one more thing!" I unbuttoned my shirt -- one I had worn regularly since I was in graduate school -- and tried on the more colorful garment that Miranda forced into my hands. It felt less conformed to my shape, but the material was soft enough and the collar didn't irritate my neck. "This one's fine," I assured her, hoping that would be enough.

"Good," she said, "now these." I saw a pile of shirts and pants on the bed and realized I would not be given a reprieve until she was satisfied with my wardrobe.

"I thought you were struggling financially," I said as I tried on another shirt. "How can you afford this?"

"Not me, Puppy. This is all you. You bought it all," she said, handing me some slacks. "Put these on with that shirt."

"Turn around," I commanded her. She looked at me in disbelief, but I raised my eyebrows to confirm that I was serious. Miranda rolled her eyes and turned around. "Now... uh... Dear, tell me what you mean."