Golden Fleece

What’s just as fascinating is how he views Diana. He sees her as she was two years ago. He’s unaware of the tiny reticulum of lines that has begun to appear at the corners of her eyes. He also tends to see her hair as breaking over her shoulders, even though for over a year she has kept it trimmed so that it barely touches them. Does that mean he’d stopped looking at her, stopped really seeing her? Incredible: to see without seeing. What does he feel as he gazes at her from across the room? What is he thinking? Accessing …

Nothing lasts forever. Is that a rationalization? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the truth. My parents—my adopted parents, that is—broke up when I was eleven. Two-thirds of all marriages don’t last. Hell, even a quarter of limited-duration marriage contracts end up being breached.

I look at Diana and I see everything I should want. She’s beautiful and intelligent. No, she’s intelligent first, and then beautiful. Put it in that order, you pig. Christ, is that what this is all about? Hormones run amuck? If it is just about sex, then … then I’m not the man I thought I was. Diana is pretty—is beautiful, damn it. But Kirsten, Kirsten is gorgeous. Stacked. And her hair. It’s like a chocolate waterfall, cascading over her shoulders, down her back. Every time I see her, I want to reach out and touch it, stroke it, wrap it around my penis, make love to it, to her. Flowing tresses. I finally understand what that phrase means. It means Kirsten Hoogenraad.

And brains? Diana is an astrophysicist, for Pete’s sake. She’s one of the brightest women—brightest people—that I’ve ever met. She can talk knowledgeably about almost anything. About great books that I’ve never read. About great works of art that I’ve never understood. About exotic places I’ve never been.

I wanted Diana so badly just eighteen months ago. I risked everything. My mother will never forgive me for marrying a goy, but then, my mother will be dead by the time we get back. She’ll carry that hurt, the pain of what I did, to her grave. And now I want to give up on Diana?

But eighteen months was an impossibly long time ago, and Earth is impossibly distant. Whatever I do now, my mother will never know—and what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

But I’ll know. And what about Diana? If I do pursue Kirsten, how will Diana take it? Our marriage contract is up in six months. She hasn’t asked me yet if I want to renew it. She has no reason to think I won’t, I guess. Or maybe she’s just being pragmatic. She knows that no renewal is possible until ninety days before the expiration date.

Why don’t I just wait the six months? May, June, July, August, September, October. That’s nothing compared to the time we’ve already spent in this tin can. Patience, Aaron. Patience.

But I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. Every time I see Kirsten I get this feeling, this hollowness inside, this hunger. I want her. God, how I want her!

Waiting for the marriage expiration is a formality anyway, isn’t it? The marriage is over now, really. Besides, who knows whether Kirsten will be available six months from now. It’s no secret that that ape Clingstone has the hots for her. Christ, the way he comes on to her. No finesse. But Kirsten doesn’t want him, can’t prefer him. He’s a moron, a shallow person. Oh, sure, he’s handsome in a Neanderthal sort of way, but looks aren’t everything.

Or are they? What do I really know about Kirsten besides the fact that she’s an absolute stunner? Those legs that just go on and on; those breasts, large and perfect and round and firm. And her face, her smile, her eyes. But what do I know about her? Well, she’s a doctor. Dutch. Trained in Paris. Never been married. I wonder if she’s a virgin. Oh, scratch that. Get real, Aaron.

But what else do I know? Christ, I don’t even know if she’s Jewish. That’s the first question my mom always asked. “Mom, I met a nice girl today.”

“Oh,” she’d say, “is she Jewish?” I don’t give a fuck what her religion is. Of course, maybe she doesn’t want to have anything to do with a Jew.

Stuff that. God, the old teachings die hard, don’t they? She must know I’m a Jew—you don’t get a name like Aaron Ross-man anywhere else. So I’m a Jew and she doesn’t mind. She’s probably not a Jew, and that’s fine with me. Sorry, Mom, but it is. Anyway, she’ll find out soon enough. Circumcision has fallen out of favor among Christians, after all.

Soon enough? Sounds like I’ve made up my mind, doesn’t it?

But do I really want to do this? Diana and I, we’ve built a life together. We’ve got interests in common, share the same friends. Barney, Pamela, Vincent, I-Shin. What are they going to think?

Fuck them. It’s none of their damned business. This is between me and Diana. And Kirsten. Besides, I can be discreet. Hell, if that goddamned JASON can’t read me, I’m sure nobody else can—not even Diana. She’ll never know.

TWENTY-FIVE