Patricia

I have a list of six names scrawled on a grocery pad, and in block letters up top it says: "Geniuses to have sex with." Underneath, I've added: "(in order of sexiness)" but that's hard to do. I hemmed and hawed and in the end I just listed them randomly, boy girl boy girl boy boy.

Genius number one was "Richard Feynman (1918-1988)" and his name's already crossed out. I took a red pen and drew a little frowny face, too. Asshole.

Genius number two is "Patricia Highsmith (1921-1995)" She's standing behind the counter over there, twenty one years old, gaunt and fierce. There are pimples along one side of her forehead, but when she turns everything is fine again. Her skin on this side is smooth and perfect, like in the photographs I've got up on my walls.

With Feynman, we made love after he'd already won the Nobel Prize. That kind of success does something to a person in bed. It was awful. But Pat hasn't even begun her first novel yet, and I have a chance at the real her. The real Patricia Highsmith, blemished, violent, brilliant. I want something from her, but I don't know what it is. I guess that means sex.

She's straightening the dolls on the shelf behind the counter. What do you say to someone you've stalked through time? Do you come here often? Can I buy you a drink?

She'll just say, "Thank you, no, I'm a lesbian. You shouldn't be here. This makes no sense. I'm long dead."

The note was a better idea, I think. It's taped to her jacket sleeve, a small green envelope with "Pat" written on the front. Inside there's nothing. What do you say? I wanted to just write "1995" on a slip of paper. I wanted to write a passage from The Talented Mr. Ripley. I wanted to write, "I'm not so ugly. What does it matter? It's just one night. Take me home." I'm sleeping in a park nearby. I've got no money here.

She's talking with a customer, smiling, and I'm thinking I should walk over and ask, "Haven't you ever wondered about the construction of a moral universe within the novel?" I'm thinking I could put my hand on her neck all easy, and say, "I'm at least as well-endowed as any woman. Give it a chance."

I thought being this close would let me see into her head a little better. It's worse, really. The zits have sort of driven home that she's a real person, more complex than the little snatches of interviews could possibly show. Before, I could believe I knew her, that I could see the passions that drove her characters, the fears that twisted the plots of her novels, but now I can see that's bullshit. It's written all over that side of her forehead.

There's a picture on the wall in my kitchen of Pat standing in a doorway, shadowed and naked, her skin perfect. My friends never want to have dinner over, it's always, "Let's eat out," or "Come over for pizza," and it's because I stare. What an amazing picture. I should have tried to find out what day that was taken. I should have shown up then.

The customer is still talking. He's ugly, balding, and I swear to god if he touches her elbow once more I am going over there. She's smiling even though I know that inside she's hating him, wishing he would go away, imagining some death for him, some completely justifiable murder. Does he show up in a novel? I try to remember.

Her hair looks nice. Maybe I should wait a few days to approach her, until the pimples have cleared up. It will distract me in bed. The customer looks over, meets my eyes. One of his ears is higher than the other, just a bit.

"Excuse me," he says, loud enough for everyone in the department to hear. "Is there something I can help you with?" Now I can see that he's got a name tag on, too. How long have I been standing here watching? Has it been twenty minutes? An hour? Both of them are looking at me, expectantly. "Are you waiting to be served?" he says, and I nod, looking at her.

She walks so strangely. I've never seen her move, her back up, her eyes on mine. Shit. Shit. Her name tag says, "Patricia," and I want to reach out and wet my fingers in her eyes. It doesn't feel right. She's looking through me. I turn and start walking away. In my head I beg her not to say anything. I don't want to hear her voice yet.

On the bench outside I think, will I end up in her journals? If we go to bed, will she write me down in cruel honest description? In fifty years, will I be mentioned in a biography? Will I be a brief detour on the road trip they paint of her psychosexual development as an artist, or a fork in the road? Will she come? Will she want me to want her to come, or will she want me to play indifference? Will she want me to come?

I find her later in the bar, drunk with her arm around a nervous looking girl from the university. The top button on her blouse is undone. I sit a few feet from them and I watch as the girl pulls free, as she looks around for her friends and takes off, drink in hand. Pat watches her walk away, bored. I take a deep breath. I stand.

In bed she tells a dirty joke. She forgets my name. She touches me and laughs about my ridiculousness. I tell her, "I've always loved your novels," and she laughs harder. In the end she comes, and doesn't care if I do or not. I ask, if she wants me to come and she points off to the bathroom and says it's none of her business what I do out of her bed. She says to clean up afterwards.

I want to lay down and cuddle, but she's having none of it. She's pouring herself a drink and looking at me differently. I have no idea what she's thinking. I say, "The individual has manifold shadows, all of which resemble him, and from time to time have equal claim to be the man himself," and she just sits there drinking. Have I got my dates wrong? Maybe she doesn't start reading Kierkegaard until '48 or '49. I start thinking that I should go, but this isn't right. I haven't come and I want to, I think it's important to come.

"Haven't you got somewhere to be?" she says, sounding annoyed. I want to say something perfect, something that cuts to the root of who she is, but also makes her want to make love with me again. I'm stammering in the doorway, foolish in my underwear.

"I... I like your cat," I tell her, and we're both dead quiet for almost a minute.

And then she smiles.