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The bathroom door was ajar and she saw his eyeball out of the corner of her degradation. The twenty-seven-year-old caught her plucking a black wiry hair out of her chin, like a fish dislodging a hook from its own face. But the problem, Joan knew, was that if you be nice to you, you get fat. be nice to you, said signs outside Sabon on the way to Organic Avenue. It’s expected that your eyelashes are already black and thick as caterpillars. Nowadays if you have a one-night stand you can’t run into the bathroom in the morning to apply mascara.
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Sure, it had always been like that, but lately it seemed like they took up so much brain estate that a lady hardly had enough time to Instagram a photo of herself feeding each need. Everything in Manhattan was about feeding needs. She was horrified by how much she needed in a day, to arrive not hating herself into the evening. She needed five hours, but she only had four. She needed a blowout and a wax and a manicure and a salt scrub and an eyelash tint, which she should have done yesterday but didn’t. Tonight there was a wedding and she had to look beautiful. She told her therapist as much, and her therapist said, That’s nothing to be envious of, but Joan thought she could detect a note of pride in the voice of her therapist, who was married, with three small children. They have, like, six little legs at their knees. to get stuff done because they can’t work when the world knows they’re awake. In addition to the young girls, Joan envied also the women who wake at three a.m. Sleeping with an older woman is like having a weekend vacation home.
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But at Joan’s the rugs are free of hair and dried-up snot. At home your towels smell like ancient noodles. In a small wooden box at her nightstand she kept a special reserve of six joints meticulously rolled, because the last time she’d slept with someone on the regular he’d been twenty-seven and having good pot at your house means one extra reason for the guy to come over, besides a good mattress and good coffee and great products in a clean bathroom. Daily happiness depended on how that sentence was ordered in her brain. Or her thighs were taut, but her knees were wrinkled. Her knees were wrinkled, but her thighs were taut. She looked good in them, especially from far away. She performed tricep dips off the quiet coast of her teak bed. Back at home before bed she freestyled a hundred walking lunges around her apartment with a seven-pound weight in each hand. In the evenings she would attend a TRX class or a power yoga class or she would kickbox. For the last decade she’d been polishing her pride like a gun collection. She didn’t eat at places she didn’t have a reservation or know the manager.
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For example, she was never one of those older women who is the last female standing at a young person’s bar. He tweaked her bony nipples and the most she felt of it was his eyes on the wall in front of her. Courageously he regrouped, bent her over, and fucked her anyhow.
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After undressing her, the guy, a hairless NYU professor, looked at her in a way that she knew meant he had recently fucked a student, someone breathy and Macintosh assed, full of Virginia Woolf and hope, and he was upset now at this reedy downgrade. She had sex one time the forty-first year, and it lopped the steamer tail off her heart. Somehow it was better than forty-one, because forty-one felt eggless. You know the type, until you become one.įorty-two. The class was a bunch of women squatting on a powder-blue rug. At six in the morning she ran to her barre class in leg warmers and black Lululemons size 4. On Mondays and Tuesdays, which are the kindest days for older single women, she worked out as many as four. In New York the things you hate are the things you do.
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Tonight there was a wedding in goddamned Brooklyn, farm-to-table animals talking about steel-cut oatmeal as though they invented the steel that cut it. She lives with her husband and daughter in New England. Her nonfiction has been included in the Best American Sports Writing and Best American Political Writing anthologies, and her short stories have won two Pushcart Prizes.
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Taddeo is the author of Three Women, which she is adapting as a dramatic series at Showtime, and the novel Animal. The following is a story from Lisa Taddeo’s new collection Ghost Lover.