December 24th, 2002

Best Swimmer Drowning


Dr. Catherine is a beautiful woman, but nevertheless I am holding her at arm’s length. Her e-mailed portrait resembles the actress Marlene Dietrich. Haunting eyes. Strikingly sensual lips, more Italian than French.

If this encounter had taken place a year ago I'd be in a frenzy, my mind racing a thousand miles an hour, thinking of the romantic possibilities. But as it is I'm wary, cautious. I’m working hard to avoid lapsing into my old behavior—that of too quickly being overtaken by obsession. I’m determined to change!

The major reason for my wariness is that I am involved with someone else, and I find it impossible to lie to one, or to the other, or to both. Women can tell when I’m lying; they can see it in my eyes.

But then wait a minute. The affair with the other one isn’t likely to develop into anything serious, what with her lurking estranged husband and three young children. That is clear. So therefore I have every right in the world to explore possibilities with a woman who is...well, available.

Actually the problem is that I'm a fucking lunatic.

But nevertheless, I will drive 150 miles to White Plains and we—Dr. Catherine and I—will have a quiet dinner this evening at a restaurant on a cliff overlooking the Hudson River.

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