Seven: The Burden of My Affections

Now, it has never been a trademark of mine that I should enjoy particular mastery in beseeching the wily female to suspend better judgment in favor of gradually becoming naked in my company. (For years this woeful inadequacy, this nettlesome spectre, has haunted even the grandest of opportunities.) To this end I am usually resigned to despair from the outset; I endeavor instead to invest myself in the few small things I can affect, such as breathing through my nose instead of my mouth, maintaining an appropriate posture, and taking care not to hold hands lest mine prove unduly temperate. These are small things, hardly commensurate to the caliber of upper-class chicanery required for the American woman to remove her bra, but whose aggregate weight I like to regard as working somehow in my favor. And to their credit, they have at times afforded me the calming knowledge that all bras must eventually be removed in one context or another--of this we can be certain--and as such so too will my beloved be removing hers, even if it is several hours after our date, while brushing her teeth.

For the moment, Maureen has since ended our spat of patriotism in favor of an HBO movie starring Jessica Lange. I am watching it contentedly myself, remarking occasionally on the points I find noteworthy or humorous. It is not a very good film, I am afraid; and yet it seems to entertain nonetheless. The strangeness of our circumstances are being consumed by the familiarity of this American pastime, perhaps; and naturally there is little question as to the effects of alcohol and the steadfast approach of midnight on women and on men: Maureen pulls me alongside her singlemindedly.