Janice
In the loose-limbed, warm moments after sex
it first occurred to me that if I were a woman I think my name would be Janice.
It’s not like I think I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body, or
anything like that. It’s not even like I’m getting in touch with my feminine
side, or that, in a past life, I was a Janice.
It’s just that sometimes, when I’m on the street, and somebody yells,
“Hey, Janice,” I turn and say, “What?”
And at that same moment it occurred to me
that I really wanted to share this with somebody, I really wanted to unburden
myself. I felt like I had hit on
something deep, something integral, something very basic about my place in the
universe. I needed to connect this
feeling with something outside myself and justify it or reject it or whatever
but just deal with it. The feeling needed to be classified somehow.
I felt like if I didn’t share it, right away, I would lose it and would
forget. And if I forgot, something very important would slip away and part of
myself would be gone.
Patricia stirred, warm and smooth across my
thigh. She lightly traced a finger
on my chest.
“Steve,” she said quietly, “what are
you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I said.