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!
