WHY IS THIS IN THE FILE?
Nobody took responsibility quickly enough.
At sixty-three, I was sleeping with three women and telling myself I had become interesting.
The women were fifty-two, fifty-nine, and sixty-four. They knew I was seeing other people. I was honest about that. I was less honest about the originality of my conversation.
I had been married for twenty-seven years. After the divorce, friends advised me to take time to discover who I was. I discovered that I liked being invited upstairs. This struck me as useful information.
I bought new shirts. I learned to order wine without pointing. I began saying things like ‘my week is a little complicated,’ a phrase I had previously used only when a public consultation overlapped with a dental appointment.
There was no promise of exclusivity. No secret wife. No elaborate deception about where I spent the night. My failure was smaller and, in its way, more humiliating.
I told all three the same story about a kingfisher I had seen after my father died.
It is a true story. A good story. There is a silence near the end in which people sometimes take your hand. I had discovered this property of the story and had begun leaving space for it.
The women met at my birthday drinks. I had invited them separately, explained who would be there, and congratulated myself on treating everyone like grown-ups. They got on well. I went to fetch more olives.
When I came back, they were discussing the kingfisher.
I said, ‘Ah.’
The youngest said, ‘We know.’
I would like the record to show that nobody was angry about the sex. They were annoyed about the apparent distribution of a prepared emotional statement.
The group chat began that evening. They told me about it. I was not a member. The name was The Kingfishers, which I thought unnecessarily accomplished.
One of them stopped seeing me. She said she liked me but had begun to feel that I was waiting for a good review. Another continued, on the condition that I stop calling ordinary coincidences extraordinary. The third invited me to lunch and asked what I was like when I wasn’t trying to be memorable.
I had to think about that.
I told her about my knees. The actual knees, with their limitations. She told me about a disagreement with her sister that did not contain an uplifting ending. We ate our lunch.
She still sometimes invites me upstairs. I try to arrive as the person who has been invited.
The group chat continues. They exchange gardening advice and restaurant recommendations. One of them recently met someone new.
I am pleased for her. I am.
I would also like him to be a little less interesting than he looks.
Fiction from Slutty Confessions. Desmond Pike is a Broken Zine persona.
