I try to remember everything I’ve read about impotence. “Maybe I can help you,” I falter. “Maybe we can work on it—”
“I don’t want to have to work on my sex life,” he roars. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to have to work on my marriage. I don’t want to have to work on my relationships. I want them to just happen, without effort. And if you weren’t such an asshole all the time, maybe you’d understand.”
What? For a moment, I’m too stung to react. Then I draw back in hurt and indignation. I’m an asshole? Can women even be assholes? I must really be terrible if a man calls me an asshole.
I shut my mouth. I pick up my pants from where he’s dropped them on the bed.
“Carrie,” he says.
“What?”
“It’s probably best if you go.”
“No kidding.”
“And we . . . probably shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
“Right.”
“I still want you to have the purse,” he says, trying to make nice.
“I don’t want it.” This, however, is very much a lie. I do want it. Badly. I want to get something out of this debacle of a birthday.
“Take it, please,” he says.
“Give it to Teensie. She’s just like you.” I want to slap him. It’s like one of those dreams where you try to hit a guy and keep missing.
“Don’t be a jerk,” he says. We’re dressed and at the door. “Take it, for Christ’s sake. You know you want it.”
“That’s just gross, Bernard.”
“Here.” He tries to shove the bag into my hands but I yank open the door, hit the elevator button, and cross my arms.
Bernard rides down in the lift with me. “Carrie,” he says, trying not to make a scene in front of the elevator man.
“No.” I shake my head.
He follows me outside and raises his hand to hail a cab. Why is it that whenever you don’t want a taxi, there’s one right there? Because half of me is still hoping this isn’t actually happening, and a miracle will occur and everything will go back to normal. But then Bernard is giving the driver my address and ten dollars to get me home.
I get into the backseat, fuming.
“Here,” he says, offering me the bag again.
“I told you. I don’t want it,” I scream.
And as the cab pulls away from the curb, he yanks open the door and tosses it inside.
The bag lands at my feet. For a moment, I think about throwing it out the window. But I don’t. Because now I’m crying hysterically. Great, heaving sobs that feel like they’re going to rip me apart.
“Hey,” the taxi driver says. “Are you cryin’? You’re cryin’ in my cab? You want sumpin to cry about, lady, I’ll give you sumpin. How about them Yankees then? How about that goddamned baseball strike?”
Huh?
The cab pulls up in front of Samantha’s building. I stare at it helplessly, unable to move for my tears.
“Hey, lady,” the driver growls. “You gonna get out? I don’t have all night.”
I wipe my eyes as I make one of those rash and ill-advised decisions everyone tells you not to. “Take me to Greenwich Street.”