An excerpt from the story:
She is so clever, the Patton to my Rommel, but I always have a counterattack, which this time was “So what? Come see me. I’m lonely. You’re my wife,” to which she replied, “No, I’m not. Role-play’s an extra 50 an hour you don’t have.” As always, she insists upon technical accuracy to the detriment of greater truth and I meant to tell her this and to explain carefully and compassionately all the many ways in which she is wrong (reassuring her of course that my love and respect for her remain undiminished), but what I actually said was “Creature, don’t be a dumb shit,” and then she hung up on me, damn it.
I gave her an hour to make coffee and I called back, humbled. “I was wrong,” I said. “So wrong. Unforgivable. Forgive me?” I was still on the kitchen floor; some bizarre and unheralded power rendered it plusher, cozier the longer I lay on it, and also there were still a few beers within reach. “Transubstantiation,” I whispered to the dog as he slithered his tongue in a bottle.“Don’t call so early,” said Lucy. “You know I need my beauty sleep.” She’s right, I know better.
Lucy’s beauty is a business matter; her face is her moneymaker as much as her breasts or her legs or her fine ass, maybe more so, because while a fine ass is fine, for most men any ass is fine if it’s an available ass, an ass they can access, but a pretty girl on his arm makes a man happy in a way that a truckload of asses never could. That is why Lucy can charge so much for her services, more than colleagues who’ve not been entirely snipped even, and I would say (though of course I am biased) that she is worth every penny.
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