In the end he says, "Attraction is ephemeral."
Jean Smith

In the beginning, profound thoughts about my tongue licking
the top of his tongue -- he is behind me, touching me between my legs, his bestial noises in my mouth. Heart pounding. Left leg trembling. Urge to slide off my chair, to the floor, to press myself against him.

Our first time together in bed ends with him saying, "I need to get to know you first. I need to feel comfortable with you before I can have sex. I've always been like this."

Bryce comes over in a new $1600 suit. He arrives hungry and I don't have much to eat. I don't really like feeding people, yet here I am in a red vinyl mini-skirt, stockings, high heel boots and a way-too-low-cut black-lace top with my hair piled in a mound of curls. I motion for Bryce to sit on the patio. I, dressed to kill, serve him an odd little supper -- two bowls of soup: a curried fresh-tomato and a cream of kale with miso. He wants bread or a cracker. I have neither. I give him a little dish of almonds and a cup of green Darjeeling tea. On the phone I'd asked, "What sort of tea do you like?"

"Darjeeling. Bee Brand. Or any brand."

I'd looked in about six stores and couldn't find any Darjeeling, then I remembered the fancy tea bags I'd been given -- individual pyramid-shaped packages. Something fancy that I just happened to have on hand. Green Darjeeling. Bryce takes apart the package. "Someone would have had to design all these little flaps and folds."

I suggest a blob of yogurt for his spicy soups, he agrees. I go inside, zero-in on a little-used Chinese bowl, scoop in yogurt and impulsively give it a quick sprinkle of dill before sticking a fresh serving spoon in it -- surprised at this side of me arriving from wherever I have had it hidden. I sit beside him as he eats; when he finishes, he drops his napkin on my leg. I lift it up by a corner and put it on the table.

"I'm intrigued by you," he says. "You're beautiful."

"Thank-you," I say, wondering -- is this all just a big performance? We connected so quickly. It was there from the start -- no awkwardness. You can't make this happen, can you? Would someone be able to make this happen?

It gets chilly. We step inside. I make more tea – plain tea. Cheap tea. Bryce says, "I love a woman who adorns herself with jewelry. I like a woman who has lots of variation in her wardrobe. I love good shoes on a woman and beautiful lingerie." He suggests I visit a website of Austrian designed lingerie. "It's expensive, but it's beautiful," he says.

There I stand by the stove, in my slutty outfit, the total of which probably cost me $25, including my $1 panties and my Value Village bra.

"What do you wear during the day, when you're here working?" he asks.

"Old Levis cords, a t-shirt, paint splattered hush puppies with holes in the soles." I guess I could have said, "Prada, darling."

Doesn't he see that I'm scraping to get by? I can only pull so many fabulous outfits from my closet -- all thrift store and garage sale. Thinking about a paper bag of jewelry I keep in a box in the bathroom -- would there be anything in there? Anything like whatever he is talking about? Adornment. He's an architect -- hospitals, hotels, a prison in Texas.

"Don't warn me about yourself," he says. Does that includes not telling him that I'm too cheap to take the bus so I walk twenty minutes to get to the store and that I carry my groceries home in a packsack -- which is fine with me -- that I don't buy crackers and cheese and pickles and cookies because they are too expensive? I know the prices on almost everything in the little shops -- if oranges 59 cents a pound here, and the same ones 49 cents across the street. I cross the street to save whatever it is a pound on my two oranges -- and brag about it.

I mean, I'm happy. I chose my path as an artist and I am staying on it. Soon I will have to find a part time job -- wondering how he would like to be going out with a woman who works at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Bryce says, "We have time."

The second time we are in bed he has the same problem -- an inability to maintain an erection. He tries to put the condom on; I am under him, listening to him stretching it like he's making a balloon animal. I try to see what he's doing, but I'm pinned beneath him. He gets the condom on, tries to penetrate me, but he's too soft. He lies down on top of me – two hundred and thirty pounds.

"Am I crushing you?"

"Sort of," I say.

"I need to tell you something."

"What's that?" I ask.

"I have a condition that impairs my performance. Prostatitis -- it's an enlargement of the prostate gland. It's like a headache in the nether region and it hurts to come. I've had it a few times over the years. It goes away after a couple of weeks."

He gets off me.

In his deep, sexy voice he says, "I want to please you."

"You do please me," I say, as one does.

"I mean really please you," he says.

"OK," I say, and then we both laugh, me -- until I cry.

Illuminated by a string of tiny Christmas lights, Bryce suggests tea.

"I'll make it," he says.

"No, I will." I say, getting up, pulling on a short black slip. I put the pot of water on the stove and re-fill the Brita jug. Bryce comes into the kitchen, looks at the stove and says, "That pot was made in New Brunswick. I recognize the design of the handle. It's a good pot."

"I've had it twenty years," I say.

He picks up the lid of my saucepan and says, "Reverware."

I say, "I've had that about twenty five years."

He says, "You sure don't require much."

I say, "What do you mean? I don't need new pots and pans."

He opens the container I keep my teabags in and takes a sniff. "How long have you had these?" he asks, holding out the container in disgust.

"A week. London Drugs brand. Three hundred for a dollar," I joke, taking two of them and tossing them into the boiling water. I take it off the stove to steep. Mental note to get his Darjeeling. Bryce grabs the pot, adds water from the tap and throws another couple of tea bags in. He turns the stove back on high. "There," he says.

"I don't think you want to boil teabags," I say, thinking – what an arrogant jerk. Bryce takes the comfy wicker chair. I take the old patio chair. He says, "I'd like to get you a beautiful big chair for you to loll around in."

"Really? And do you see any space for such a chair? I barely have a place to put my cup of tea."

Late at night, eating chocolate-covered digestive biscuits -- me still wearing stockings and boots -- he says, "I've never done this before."

I want to ask -- what? Never done what? But I don't.

9 AM. Bryce calls from his car and asks, "How are you?"

"Great," I tell him, "I have an pot of decaf espresso on the fridge. No wait, I mean the stove. One of those beige rectangular items over there is doing something for me."

"Must be nice to have people doing things for you." Joking around he adds, "And next Consuella will arrive to do your housework. She was just here saying -- Mr. Bryce your place is such a mess."

I join in, "Consuella says -- Mr. Bryce why do you pour pickle juice on the floor? I'm going to Miss Celia's where it is much neater. Miss Celia only has popcorn kernels on her floor."

We laugh, imagining Consuella trudging across town, plastic fruit on her head-wrap. When we stop laughing Bryce asks, "Is coffee a ritual for you in the morning?"

"Yes," I say. "I invented coffee in the morning. I have a patent pending on coffee in the morning -- I'm going to be a wealthy woman."

More laughing, giggling, out of control. He gets to his parking space and says, "Have a wonderful day."

"You too. Bye," I say, and hang up. Relief that there is no plan, no outstanding anxiety. Just laughing -- easily. Right into a really funny conversation. So simple -- we just connect and laugh, and we both appreciate it.

Bryce's nickname on Lavalife is "one woman for this man" – exactly the claim I am wary of. Men say they're only looking for one woman to give the impression that they have integrity.

Mistrust -- a flashing neon sign -- trust / do not trust – perhaps because we got together so fast. I feel comfortable with him. I am just being me and he seems to like me. In our Lavalife profiles we both express the idea for a lover -- not a relationship -- and then we just began to get close. Maybe because neither of us expected to find anything other than lover online. He doesn't want me to change. He wants to get to know me. Seems crazy about me. I am being myself. He laughs at what I say -- I laugh at what I say. He says, "Nowhere on all your websites and interviews did I read that you are lovely, funny and sexy as hell." If it could stay like this; but if it doesn't, I don't think I will be crushed. This part feels good too.

Phone calls, chat, a poem in email -- then it tapers off. Maybe the whole thing about needing to feel comfortable isn't true. Maybe he's not that attracted to me.

Thursday, his birthday, I start to feel his disinterest – are we approaching the end already? In chat I invite him out for dinner. He says he can't make it. Later, in email, I tell him I cannot go to Seattle with him on the motorcycle. I wish him good weather for his ride. He phones and says, "It sounds like you're saying good bye."

I say, "You seem to have lost interest."

He wants to set things back in motion. He says, "We won't go to Seattle then. I will come and pick you up in my car tomorrow night, and take you out to dinner. I want to show you off."

I fall into his warmth and concern. His radio voice. Eloquent and determined. He seems to want me. Bryce may need to play it all a bit differently if he has a problem maintaining an erection. He'll need to buy time. Maybe that's what all the compliments are about. Have I entered ultra-theatrical?

For his birthday I post photos of myself on the website I made for him. Naked under a black mesh dress. Sitting at my desk, looking up, the caption reads: "Thanks for calling."

Bryce arrives to pick me up for dinner. "Am I taking you out in those funky shoes or were you just about to change out of them?" He doesn't say anything about the silk dress I have on. While he's taking a piss, I panic, trying to think what other shoes I have and where they are. I compose myself. What a jerk.

At dinner Bryce slowly opens the birthday presents I brought; he doesn't comment on the paintings I've done on the wrapping paper. I found a weird little pendant in a thrift store, cut glass, two people the same size, one waving.

"They're supposed to be the emoticons we use in chat," I say.

"They look like primary school kids," Bryce says.

"Come on – they're clearly the little hugging people we sign off with," I say, joking, surprised he's not getting this. Bryce seems stiff and formal in public. He doesn't relate to the waiter – no please or thank you.

I am listening to the acoustics of the room. A conversation at the next table seems to turn into French, the sitar now sounds like a trumpet – Bryce's instrument.

"Listen. We're in Paris in the forties. Can you hear the trumpet?" I say, for fun.

"No, not really. It's a sitar isn't it?"

I'd wrapped the weird little pendant in the same sort of pyramid-shaped package that the fancy tea came out of – at the dinner of soups. I ask if he noticed that. He says he did. I give him a painting of the lilies he had for me on our first date.

"Very sweet," he says. "I don't have many things like this. Little things."

There is a sadness in how he opens the presents -- almost as if he doesn't deserve them. Maybe he already knows this isn't going anywhere.

"I was going to wear the mesh dress, but I didn't have the right thing to wear over it."

Back at my place I change into the mesh dress I've hung strategically on the back of the bathroom door. I approach Bryce; he's sitting in the wicker chair. I lean over and kiss him. He grunts. I sit across from him, bare breasts revealed through the mesh. "Can I make you a cup of tea? I have your Darjeeling now."

"That would be lovely."

I lean over Bryce to set the milk jug, sugar bowl and teaspoons on the little table beside him. He is breathing heavily – he seems to like the mesh. I continue my serving performance, bending over, rather than crouching down, to look in the cupboard for the tea -- pausing there. Bryce grunts and shifts in his chair. While we drink our tea, I cross and uncross my legs, pulling the tight net back down below my knees when it rides up.

"Would you like another cup?" I ask, standing. Bryce takes my wrist and pulls me towards him. "God, you're sexy. You are so beautiful."

Bryce gets it together to achieve penetration with a condom. He yells so loudly when he comes that I wonder if my hearing has been damaged. I press my ear against his face to muffle the noise. I am distracted from my satisfaction -- is he in pain or if he does scream like this every time? Bryce stays the night. I sleep well, but wake early.

"Did I snore?" he asks.

"Not really snoring," I say. "It sounded more like a wolverine devouring gerbils."

We laugh and fool around. I make coffee and ask him to take me for a ride on his motorcycle. At his place to get the bike, Bryce changes into jeans and a black leather jacket. He plays the trumpet for me over a CD. Standing in profile I feel his lips on mine and on his trumpet. He looks so good. I feel all sorts of warmth in myself – warmth for him while he plays. I haven't seen him doing anything creative before. I like this very much. I like him.

Bryce pulls into a gas station way out of town. He takes off his helmet to fill the tank. I leave mine on and stand slightly away, watching him do this. I realize that I enjoy watching him do things unrelated to me -- playing the trumpet, filling the tank. A beautiful Cutlass pulls in, two young guys in tight t-shirts, motionless in the front seat, looking straight ahead. The car reminds me of my old Impala. I imagine myself pulling in for gas and seeing Bryce there – bristle of grey hair, leather jacket, boots. Standing apart from him, I conjure an impression of this scene from another way of meeting.

I say, "If I pulled in to get gas and saw you there, as you are, I'm pretty sure I would come over and say hello. I hope I would." I'm not sure if he gets what I'm saying. It's OK – a slightly abstract thought. Back on the bike Bryce points up at the bridge – the towers and the cables -- as we cross it. I had been looking down at the river -- murky brown swirls. On the road following the river, Bryce points again. I realize I don't know him well enough to know at what. The men sitting on the dock fishing? The old factory? The river? The general landscape?

I run Bryce a bath. "I think you'll like this tub better than the vegetable sink you call a bathtub at your place," I say. I like pampering him. I like his passionate response. I set out the vials of aromatherapy oils – bergamot, grapefruit and lavender -- and make him a cup of tea. I turn on the string of tiny coloured lights and test the water temperature.

"OK, your bath is ready."

Bryce steps in and sinks into the deep hot water. He moans. I smile. I love pleasing this man.

"Wait," I say. "It's about to get a whole lot better." I turn on the jets and watch his reaction. I squeeze into the tub at the end with the faucet to add the scented oils and to bathe him – as requested. Soaping a washcloth, I say, "I'm going to do your dirtiest parts first." Washcloth slowly between his legs, I watch his face as I gently clean his cock.

In bed, clean and relaxed, Bryce gives me a massage – strong hands on my legs, feet, back, arms. We kiss, touch, talk, laugh. Bryce wants tea. He wants a little snack. He goes on and on about wanting jam and why don't I have any jam. He sees a tomato in the fridge and asks for another piece of toast with tomato. I sharpen the knife and ask, "Do you want mayo and mustard?" He does. And freshly ground pepper.

After Bryce has eaten his snack, he takes a medical book off the bookshelf and plops back down in the wicker chair. I serve my food and sit in the patio chair. Bryce reads the section on prostatitis out loud while I'm eating. I want to ask him to please stop, but I decide to endure it. The food references don't help.

"The prostate is a doughnut shaped gland the size of a walnut," Bryce says. The patio chair seems to be my chair. Bryce, naturally takes the comfortable chair. It's too bad that this will forever be the first thing he ever reads to me -- not his favourite poem or a story he wrote. He reads down a checklist of symptoms. "Pain during ejaculation -- yes. Dribbling after urination -- no. Pain in the lower back -- yes. Difficulty achieving or maintaining an erection." Bryce says nothing. I say nothing. He continues, "Bacterial prostate infections usually respond well to self-care and antibiotics."

Around midnight I say, "We're both tired. Perhaps we should call it a day."

He gulps his tea and leaves.

Tuesday. Chat seems dull now. Intentionally dull, I think. After work he calls on his cell phone. He tells me things his kids said. He wants to come over for tea – like in seven minutes. I tidy up, shower, blow-dry my bangs, put make-up on again, get dressed – still buttoning my sweater when he arrives. I'm tired -- I've been to the chiropractor for a sore back, probably from sitting on motorcycle. He sits across from me, legs crossed, his big booted foot lightly kicking my chair. He looks so conservative. His hair is neat.

"I might come over there and mess up your hair," I say, for fun.

"Don't you dare," he says. He sounds serious. He keeps kicking my patio chair. This is annoying. I stand up and move my chair sideways, intending to be out of his range. He twists slightly and continues to kick. I move again. He keeps kicking -- shock waves up my back. I get up and stand beside the sink. He gets up, says he should go. He leans down and kisses me hard. Pushes me against the countertop, the edge digs into me. He bends me backwards, over the sink. My back cracks twice. I twist sideways to escape being pinned against the counter. Pain shoots up my spine.

I should have said, "I don't want to hear about your day at the office or what your kids said. Quit kicking my chair. And don't be so rough with me – my back hurts."

Wednesday. In awkward stop and start chat, he says, "I didn't get enough of you last night. I want to come over tonight – no talking. I just want to drill you."

I am tired, stressed out from turning down a job. I'm working on new songs. I don't like the 'no talking' comment – now he's tired of hearing me talk? He wants to drill me? Not exactly his forte. I anticipate disappointment. Failure. I'll dress up to turn him on and that might end up with me feeling less than what he requires -- depending on if he can maintain an erection.

Bryce says he'll phone me after a parent-teacher meeting ends at 8:30 PM. I wait a while, thinking that I don't really feel like seeing him; I want a bath and an early night – alone. I email that it doesn't look good for tonight. He says maybe get together Friday or Saturday. No invitation out, just the implication that he'll be coming over.

Thursday. In another bout of uninspired chat, he says, "I'm going out for dinner with friends Friday night."

I say, "I have a meeting at the studio some time Saturday."

He says, "That's okay, we'll get together after that." No suggestion of going out. He's not asking me out. I'm just the drop-by fuck. An attempt to fuck – his sex helper.

"I'll be very busy at work tomorrow," he says. Sounds like he wants to skip chat. Maybe the comment about coming over to drill me is supposed to end it. Leaving it to me to pull the plug. I look at the poem he sent me in the first week – seems long ago. Maybe he sends the same poem to all his new lovers. Change the colour of the eyes and the hair, and it could be about any woman. I block and delete him from my chat contacts. I don't want to see if he's online, away, busy. He doesn't want to chat – he's busy.

Friday. I log on to Lavalife in the afternoon. Two guys I've gone out with ask me out again. I log off and feel sad that Bryce lost interest in me, but more importantly – I lost interest in him. Around 5 PM I log on to Lavalife again -- there he is. I email him: "Please don't contact me again."

I notice that he stays on Lavalife for a while, maybe twenty minutes. It's probably not the first time he's been back in the two weeks we've been interacting. I took my photos down and stayed off.

Saturday. Bryce phones and complains into the answering machine.

"I've got the flu. I can't see you today."

I'm sitting by the phone. Except for tea on Tuesday, I haven't seen him for a week. He only phoned once. He whispers about needing to sleep, how crappy he feels. "Maybe tomorrow, if I'm feeling better."

I pick up the phone and say, "Bryce, you obviously didn't get my message" – even though I think he probably did get my message and he probably saw me on Lavalife.

"No, I didn't get your message," he says very clearly.

"Don't contact me again," I say.

"OK," he says without hesitation. He's not asking why. He sounds fine about it.

"So now you've got it. OK?" I say, and hang up.

A few days later, I arrive home, listen to messages -- Bryce is rambling. I can hear him smoking. He seems to want to be friends, or get permission to call me up some time in the future.

He says, "I wasn't as attracted to you as I had hoped I would be."

"Ya, right," I say to the answering machine. I hear him exhale.

"Attraction is ephemeral," he says.

I pick up my paperback dictionary and flip through 'e' to ephemeral -- lasting, or of use, for only a short time (of an insect, a flower, etc.).