A sharp intake of breath. She holds the air in her abdomen creating pressure in far away places. She takes his hand and wraps it around her neck, showing him that a lot of pressure is not too much. She grinds against him, feeling his cock rubbing against her insides. No breath. All sensation. She comes in gasps of pleasure straddling him. He cannot come after her display. He removes her from her perch, pulls her into his body. For Abbey it’s womb-like, being cocooned by his arms and legs. She closes her eyes tight against the details of his body, preferring to focus on the feeling of a large, encompassing presence. She relies on his steady breath and warmth to lull her back to homeostasis. Abbey rarely feels small, and sometimes maybe even often, she fears that the men who share her bed feel physically inadequate and week. She sleeps, reminding herself that he is larger. He is more powerful. She is safe.

Hours later, Abbey Shaine’s hair is caught in his sweaty armpit and she is pegged. She looks toward the bedside table with the digital alarm clock. Fuck.
She lifts his arm, freeing her hair. “I have to pee.”
He rolls.

She jumps up. His home on the Rue de Grenelle is larger and grander than she wants it to be. The rooms are not merely painted, but glazed to a high sheen in muted primary colors. She grabs her phone to text to Dmitri.

Open bottles of red wine fill the rooms of this inner-city palace with the perfume of contemporary decadence: it smells a little cheep and shameful. Completely appropriate for an 18th century manse. She retrieves the condom from between her legs, empty. She gives his lack of climax a moment’s thought but figures it may be associated to his occupation. All those hours on those small bicycle seats constricting the blood flow to the testicles. Maybe he’s sterile? Maybe those tight shorts and constant pressure have robbed him of his ejaculatory capacity?

She pees in the shower while shampooing. Removing all evidence of his presence. The hair rescued from his armpit is knotted and stinks. An entire bottle of Molton Brown conditioner is absolutely required to untangle it. She thinks briefly of the infinite alternative lives she could be living if she wasn’t living this one, with an academic; with a misanthropic academic; with an academic who views tenure as an iron neck ring and university politics as shackles. Sometimes all she wants is beautifully scented products minus the social critique.

The cyclist walks in and watches her bathe.
“Can I join?”
“I’m finishing up.”
He hands her a towel.
She uses it to wipe the steam from the mirror.
“Do you have a comb?”

He is still watching. He presents her with his toiletries. A nice caviar leather satchel with a heavy brass zipper. Masculine chic. That is how his road bike sponsors use him, and it suits.

She uses his comb and digs through it for a toothbrush. She wishes he would leave, and almost asks when he infers the logic of her efficiency and gives her a kiss on the nape of the neck, an area made ruddy by their night games, before getting into the shower.
She uses his toothbrush. Defers on his moisturizer and deodorant that have action verbs on their packaging. Energizing Double Action Balm. Ultra Pro Power Gel. She will tell Dmitri of this adventure, but she doesn’t need him to know the man’s smell.

She leaves the Rue de Grenelle. Trotting over the ancient cobblestones, away from fine, leather carrying cases and infinite caches of luxuriant products, Abbey is exuberant to re-enter her life of willful denunciation. Perhaps she is confusing the power of walking away with a fear of striving, but for now that seems an unproductive train of thought.

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through
My girl, my girl, where will you go
I’m going where the cold wind blows
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through
Her husband, was a hard working man
Just about a mile from here
His head was found in a driving wheel
But his body never was found
My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through
My girl, my girl, where will you go
I’m going where the cold wind blows
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through
My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through
My girl, my girl, where will you go
I’m going where the cold wind blows
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through

Dmitri and Abbey are staying across the river at the Hotel Costes. An old friend of Dmitri’s from university is the concierge. He took the job after knocking up a young Moroccan girl in Paris. She’s no longer in the picture, but the job is, and the rate he gets for friends adds a charming aspect to an otherwise dull and defeated former academic.

Dmitri’s in the breakfast room. Freshly shaven, a rarity. He looks like he’s been scalded and flayed. Raw chicken flesh. He seems engrossed in the paper. Taking pains to keep the crease rigid, he wears an imperfect white dress shirt that hasn’t, maybe ever, seen the belly of an iron. She smiles with familiarity.

“Morning.” She sits across from Dmitri. “You look sharp.”

“You look like the cat that got the cream.”

“I feel fine.”

“It’s not so rewarding, flexing your muscles?”

Abbey grabs a croissant from the basket and precedes to dissect it.

“When my mother was a young woman she tried to commit suicide a few times.” She says.

“Yes, you told me, darling.”

“One time, when she was younger than I am now, she waded into the Atlantic, off Far Rockaway. She walked into the ocean never intending to come out. When she was found and dragged onto shore they couldn’t resuscitate her.”

“Hmmm.”

Dmitri leans in. Head on fist. Abbey Shaine focuses on the white of his knuckles and the blue veins of his hands, the hands of a scholar, not at all like the tanned, foreign hands from last night.

“They pulled her out and gave her mouth to mouth. Nothing. Blue as the water’s grey.”

“What are you then? Some Messiah?”

“My grandmother comes hobbling out. Okay, maybe she wasn’t hobbling, but in my mind she’s always already this ancient holocaust survivor.”

“Uhuh.”

“Bubby roles out as slow and relentless as time. Pulls mom’s underwear down and grabs a fist full of her pubes and yanks. Mom screams back to life. ‘Old Polish trick.’” Abbey Shaine says with a put on Polish accent.

“You fucking nut.”

“It’s true!”