Rules of the Game (58 page)

And this is not just because of the biological repercussions—pregnancy, labor, childbirth, nursing—but because most women have at some point been hurt by a man. So, before they risk giving themselves over to powerful emotions they have little control over, they want to make sure they're with someone who is being honest with them, respects them, and can reciprocate what they have to give—whether for a night or a lifetime. What many women secretly want is to throw themselves into the fire when they feel love without getting burned, scarred, or hurt. However, until scientists invent an emotional condom, it is typically the role of the man to reassure her before, during, and after that she's making the right choice. Not with logic, but with feeling.

“Before you leave,” I told Veronika, “I'd like to tell you a story.”

The story is not my own. It is about a man and a woman who randomly pass
each other on the street one day. Both immediately get the intuition that the other is the one-hundred-percent perfect person for them. And, through some miracle, they work up the courage to speak to each other.

They walk and talk for hours, and get along perfectly. But, gradually, a sliver of doubt creeps into their hearts. It seems too good to be true. So, to make sure they're really supposed to be together, they decide to part without exchanging contact information and let fate decide. If they run into each other again, then they will truly know that they are each other's one-hundred-percent perfect love and will marry on the spot.

A day passes, a week passes, a month passes, years pass—and they don't see each other. Eventually, they each date other people, who are not their true love. Many years later, they finally pass on the street again, but too much time has gone by and they don't recognize each other.

“You see,” I told Veronika afterward, “the lovers were lucky that fate allowed them to find each other once. When they doubted their feelings, it was like tearing up a winning lottery ticket and waiting for another one just to make sure they were really meant to win.”

Afterward, there was silence. The metaphor had sunk in. We spent the night together talking about nothing but enjoying every word, fooling around but not having actual sex. Now I was not only indebted to Thor for the marriage, I was indebted to the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami for the honeymoon.

In the morning, as I lay in a state of semiconsciousness, Veronika kissed me good-bye. Reykjavík is a small city and we were both attending the same concerts, so we promised to find each other the next night. I spent the afternoon daydreaming about her and about our unexpected connection.

That night, we went to Gaukar a Stong, one of Iceland's oldest pubs. As seemed to happen every night here, the strong alcohol, the hallucinatory music, the clear air, and the winsome populace seized hold of me, and I gave myself over to the adventure the city had in store for me.

It began as I was ordering another Egil beer. A woman's voice to my right asked, “Are you American?”

I turned around to see a lightly freckled girl with short platinum hair dressed in combat boots, torn stockings, and a black sweatshirt emblazoned with a silver lightning bolt.

The conversation quickly turned to stories of sexual adventures, and she
began talking about an orgy she had recently experienced. It soon became clear that the intent of the story was not just to share but to arouse.

It worked.

As we made out at the bar, a woman tapped her on the shoulder. I pulled back to see Veronika standing there.

“I'm leaving the club now,” she told the girl coldly. “You coming with?”

“Yes,” the girl said, grabbing her purse off the counter. Then, to me: “My friend's usually not this rude. Sorry. Nice meeting you.”

It all happened so fast and unexpectedly that I didn't have time to explain myself to Veronika. I had no idea she'd been in the bar the whole time, just as she had no idea I was there—until she saw me making out with her friend. I suppose there was nothing I could say to her anyway, other than she was right when she said that meeting me was too good to be true. I'd already hurt her.

And now I'm sitting on the flight from Reykjavík to Los Angeles, replaying every moment in my head. I have no idea how to find her—or if I'm actually married to her. All I have to remember her by is the blue-and-silver foil chocolate in the pocket of my jacket.

Days pass, weeks pass, months pass, and I never hear from her again. Yet I can't get her out of my mind. My allegory has backfired on me and I've somehow convinced myself that we're the living embodiment of the Haruki Murakami story.

I try to find her on MySpace, but there are too many Veronikas without profile pictures in New York. I track down the photographer who introduced us, but he doesn't know how to get in touch with her. And the promised marriage certificates never arrive, which is actually more a relief than a disappointment.

I keep the chocolate on my desk as a reminder of my guilt, of my susceptibility to my lower impulses, of the fact that it was I and not she who so recklessly tore up the lottery ticket we'd been given.

Then, one night a year later, on a trip to New York, I see her—my one-hundred-percent perfect girl. She is at Barramundi on the Lower East Side, sitting at a table and drinking with friends.

The words “It's my wife” burst out of my mouth. The conversation at the table stops and everyone wheels around to face me.

“Hubby,” she shouts, a wide smile breaking over her face.

I join them, and the hours pass. Eventually, it's just the two of us again.

I've dated many girls since meeting her. And she tells me she's in a serious relationship. Yet we still get along perfectly.

“I'm sorry,” I finally say, “about, you know, making out with your friend. That was really stupid of me. I've regretted it every day since.”

“You're just a man.” She sighs.

“Does that mean my behavior is excusable because of my gender, or you're disappointed because I acted like a typical guy?”

“I guess both.” I watch her lips sip her cranberry and vodka. “I should tell you that I had a boyfriend when we met.”

“Is that the person you're seeing now?”

“Yes. But it's not perfect love.”

“Then why do you stay with him?”

“I guess—” she pauses, reflects, decides “—because it's convenient love.”

An hour later, we find ourselves at the apartment where I'm crashing. I show her the dead pet goldfish my host, Jen, keeps wrapped in Saran Wrap in her freezer, and then, tired and tipsy, we fall asleep on the sofa bed.

In the morning, we have sex for the first time. It is perfect. We fall back asleep afterward in each other's arms.

When I wake up, she is gone. I search the living room, kitchen, and bathroom for a note. There is none. Once again, I have no way to reach her. And I have a feeling that's the way she wants it.

The problem with one-hundred-percent perfect love is that sometimes it's inconvenient.

Back in Los Angeles a month later, I give in to temptation. I've been working all night and there's nothing to eat in the house. I peel the blue-and-silver foil off the wedding present Thor gave us. Small discolored flakes of chocolate drop to the ground. The candy has turned brittle from age, lost its shape, and faded from brown to inedible gray. There is no point in keeping it anymore. It will only attract bugs.

“I'm throwing up.”

“Did you eat anything shady last night?” I ask her.

“No, I had what you did. How do you feel?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“So.”

This is where it begins to dawn on me that this is not a call for coddling. It is every unmarried man's nightmare—and many a married man's nightmare.

“Do you think you have food poisoning?” I ask. It's hard to just come out with the words. Their impact is too much to take.

“I don't know.”

“Would you like me to get you some Emetrol?” I'm fishing now.

“Could you? Thanks.” Pause. Wait for it. “And could you get a pregnancy test, too?”

When you know a slap across the face is coming, it actually hurts more.

I hang up the phone, brush my teeth, splash water on my face (an ex-girlfriend convinced me one morning that it's bad for the skin to use soap twice a day), and grab the car keys.

It is the worst trip a man has to make.

At the drugstore, I pick up crackers, ginger ale, and Emetrol antinausea medicine. Then I study the shelf of pregnancy tests. The E.P.T. Pregnancy Test seems the simplest: Pee on the white rod, then wait to see whether it displays a
minus sign (indicating freedom) or a plus sign (indicating indentured servitude). I choose the kit with two test sticks. I may need a second opinion.

At the register, it is all too obvious what my errand is. This is far more embarrassing than buying condoms, though I imagine there are more humiliating things to buy. Like Preparation H. Or Valtrex. Or Vaseline and a plastic billy club.

They've probably seen it all.

I rush to Kathy's house. She answers the door wearing just a green T-shirt, her small face blanched, her blonde hair uncombed, her slender body beaded with perspiration. She looks great. No joke.

I unpack the groceries. The first thing she goes for is the ginger ale.

I carefully watch the pregnancy test to see if she's ready, but she just brings it into the bathroom with the medicine. Probably wants to wait. Too much to handle right now.

She doesn't mention it. Neither do I. She's already told me many times that she could never get an abortion. So there's no point in talking about it. Either we're screwed or we're not.

As she wanders around the house cleaning, I wonder how we're supposed to administer the test. The best thing would probably be to go into the bathroom together, as a unit. I'll stand by her side, politely averting my head while she pees on the stick. Then we'll lay it on the countertop and wait. We can run through what-if scenarios together then.

I suppose I could marry her. When we first started dating, I thought she was the one. People say you just know, and for the first time I did: I remember making out with her on the couch on our second date and thinking, I love this girl, and knowing I'd have to wait at least a month before I could actually tell her. I remember watching her sleep, and realizing that I would always love her, no matter how old and wrinkly she gets.

But lately she's been jealous. She doesn't like it when I talk to other women at parties, even though I make it plain to them she's my girlfriend. She doesn't like it when I answer my cell phone when I'm with her, even if it's the middle of a weekday, we've been together seventy-two hours straight, and it's a work call. And when we're lying together and she's looking into my eyes and, for a second, I remember that I have to take my clothes out of the dryer, there's hell to pay for thinking of anything that's not her. I can't live for the rest of my life with the thought police.

This test better be negative.

She shuffles to the TV and puts in a DVD of
Sex and the City
, season three. She's seen every episode at least a dozen times. Refers to them often.

She always tells me that she will love me forever, but how can love exist without trust?

The anxiety affects my bladder like beer and I head to the bathroom. While washing my hands afterward, I notice the pregnancy stick lying on the counter-top. She's got it just sitting there, ready to go. That's kind of sweet.

I pick it up and examine it. I've never actually studied one before. There's a little minus sign in the indicator window.

First thought: She's not pregnant. What a relief.

Second thought: She took the test without me?

I walk out of the bathroom to find her lying on the floor in front of the TV where I left her. She's watching the episode where Charlotte and Trey decide to take time apart.

“Why didn't you tell me it was negative?”

She looks up at me and shrugs, “I didn't want to bother you.”

Then she turns back to the TV. I know how the episode ends. I know how all of them end. They'll break up. Then they'll get back together again. Then they'll break up again. Some things just aren't meant to be.

“Your balls are going to be in your throat and you'll be screaming in pain,” she says.

“No,” I tell her. “I can do it.”

“Sure you don't want to wait a few more days?”

“I'll be fine. Now take off your pants.”

Gina steps out of her pants and I lay her down on the couch. I want to make sure she's as close to orgasm as possible to make this easy on myself.

“No tricks, now,” I warn as I enter her. “If I say stop, you have to stop.”