The worst was when that damn song would come on the radio or when I heard it inside a department store. Sometimes, when my psyche failed me and I had to cleanse myself of suppressed guilt, I’d listen to it over and over. The beat would drop, and I’d fish into my memory to find the exact second I made a baby inside my daughter. It was locked in time, forever, in that one song. The hurt would fill me, I would lust for her, I would hate myself, I would hate her for not letting me inside her again. I’d hit the rewind button. Rinse repeat, like self-imposed torture. Once, fetching some paper towels from a gas station, it came on. I stood there, staring into space. The cashier came from behind the counter to ask me if I was alright. I could never shake it from my subconscious.
—
I had visited her alone before, but the time I flew out to her Manhattan apartment in the spring was different. I wanted to have her see some family before Easter, even if it meant we could only spend a day together.
As we walked to a restaurant the evening I arrived, we passed by a mom holding the hand of a little boy, who was perhaps five or six years old. I noticed Sarah turn her head for a second look, and I followed. When I looked to her face, I knew what she was thinking. She wasn’t the tough vixen she tried to be. Even the most dominant people are human.
At her mother’s request, I brought up her love life over dinner. I’d completely avoided any such talk for fear of veering the discussion back to our past. Her opinions on relationships and men were the same as they were six years before.
“I don’t want a husband, boyfriend, anything,” she said, her golden locks flailing as she shook her head, “Never. Kids, yes, dealing with a man, no. I guess I’m too selfish.”
And so it was. She truly was independent in that regard. But then again, time can change anything.
Back at her apartment, she washed dishes, and we talked as I sipped some coffee. I teased her about how ridiculous it was that someone of her means washed her own dishes. She was wearing a short skirt with nylons, and when she leaned over to reach something, I was a little taken aback at how revealing the outfit was.
“I only wear designer clothes now,” she said, almost reading my mind. She faced away from me as I leaned against her countertop. “This whole outfit, including the underwear, costs about $3,000.”
I found it to be a random comment…but I complimented her on how “nice” the ensemble looked.
“Oh, and this new contract I signed with an agency…it’s got a pregnancy clause. They have to pay me even if I decide to have a baby. I mean, I’ll have to get back to a certain weight within a certain time, but it’s something not a lot of models get. Not like I’ll ever find a guy who can get the job done.”
Two random comments in a row…somethings amiss. I put my coffee down. My eyes dropped and ran up and down her legs.
“And I read this crazy thing on the internet…apparently the body stops growing once you hit twenty-four. Like, it doesn’t generate new cells. So…I’ll never look this good again. I don’t know what it means about my earnings, but I know this is the last time I’ll ever look this way. It’s almost like it’s the last time I have the chance to, you know, I dunno…be at my peak, my absolute physical peak.”
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