The Man Who Isn't There

They say he gives every woman the best S e x of her life. I went to find out what he takes in return. It all started at work, with Olena. End of the day, the office kitchen, unfinished coffee. I had just confessed that I couldn't remember the last time I wanted something so badly that I stopped watching myself from the outside. Olena looked at me with a faint smile and understanding in her eyes.

Then she pulled a napkin from the holder and wrote an address: street, building, seventh floor, door on the left, no name. - Three rules. Don't drink beforehand. Don't offer money. And don't promise him anything. - Why? - Because he isn't selling anything. Not another word. At home, before leaving, I was sewing a button on right on myself, thread between my teeth - my grandmother's teaching: you must never sew on yourself, you'll sew up your memory.

I stood like that, needle at my ribs, thinking how many rules had been handed down to me by women who themselves had no idea where those rules came from. An ordinary brick building. In the elevator, a yellow bulb and a panel: 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, and then straight to 8. No button 7 at all - solid molded plastic, as if it had been cast without a 7 back at the factory. The automatic doors closed. A relay clicked dryly overhead. I got out on the sixth.

One flight of stairs, a sensor switched on the light - and a landing with a 7 painted across the whole wall, the door on the left. I explained it to myself: a renovation, the floor had been bought out, the button removed. And he was a very rich man, the kind recommended in whispers. That explanation lasted exactly as far as the door.

The door gave at a light touch. A warm room: wood, a lamp, a glass of water on the table, white bedding by the open window. The city hummed below - too far below for a seventh floor. I caught myself noticing that my jaw had unclenched on its own and my shoulders had dropped. Somehow that frightened me more than any creak behind my back would have.

He came out of the kitchen. Hands, voice, gray at the temple. I am certain I had never met him - but my body recognized him. "Marta," he said. But I had never given my name. Still in my jacket, feeling the heat rising in me, I asked: - How much does this cost? - Nothing. - That's not how it works. - Then today is simply your lucky day. He came closer, carefully - at the exact moment I stopped clenching the keys in my pocket.

A warm palm froze a centimeter from my neck and waited. I leaned in myself. And then he suddenly stopped. - Why did you stop? - You wanted me to stop. I meant to object - and felt it: true. A second later I was craving more. He knew that too. My jacket was already hanging on the chair - I don't remember taking it off. I was watching myself from the outside: catching my reflection in the dark window, fixing my hair, pulling in my stomach.

His palm was warm and too pleasant. Every move of his began half a breath later than I wanted, and that made the wanting stronger. - What do you need? - I asked the ceiling. - For you to do nothing for me. He nodded at the lamp. I nodded, and he switched it off. What remained was the city's light from the window. Breath near my neck. A pause. Another one. I waited. He knew. It irritated me that he knew. I wanted him to know more.

The smell of his skin was simple, bodily - I couldn't find a name for it, and for the first time I didn't look for one. My fingers gripped the sheet at first, then loosened on their own. I stopped pulling in my stomach. My hair fell across my face - I didn't fix it. My breathing became audible, mine, real, and I didn't make it any quieter. I pressed closer myself - before I had time to think about it. My body answered faster than thought.

Move after move. In the moment, I realized I hadn't thought about my stomach for several minutes now. About my hair. About what my face looked like right then. There was no longer a woman in the room watching me from the outside. But I stayed. Time lost itself. I remember my fingers cramping on the sheet, my breath going short and so much mine that for a moment my body seemed bigger than the universe. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't remember a single word.

For a few minutes I didn't even have a name. Sadly, the city outside the window came back - now it hummed naturally, the way it should from a seventh floor. A strip of light from the hallway lay across the floor. He handed me the glass of water from the table. The water was ordinary. Somehow that was calming. - So what now? - I asked. - What should there be? - Payment. - For what? - Don't pretend you don't understand. He turned away.

- Money? - What for? - My body? - Already tasted it. - A year of my life? He almost laughed: "For some reason you all offer years." And added nothing. "You all." I'd known anyway that I was far from the first. I sat on the edge of the bed, twisting the button - the same one I'd sewn on myself before leaving. The thread held firm. - Then why do you do this? - It is the meaning of my existence. - Who are you?

He ignored that, only turned his palm upward, slowly, as if to show there was nothing in it. - Was it me who called you? - Not you. All of you. And he fell silent. He looked out the window. The curtain stirred in a draft, somewhere below a car went by. I sat there hearing my own pulse in my temples. My feet went cold. I decided not to ask again - that would have been more frightening than keeping silent. - How old are you? - I don't know. - Roughly, at least.

- The first to imagine me was a woman who did not yet have a language to explain what she was missing. - What's your name? - Whatever you like. - Everyone has a name. - And I have thousands of names. I put on my shoes; a warm lamp glowed in the entryway. He didn't say goodbye. One flight down; on the sixth I called the elevator - and looked back. The flight going up now ended in a blank wall. The napkin I left behind.

A few months later I remembered that uncomfortable thing - he had taken nothing. But something else did change: I no longer say "I don't care" - my throat seizes on the second word. The man I'd been seeing out of habit, I refused without explaining why. And the one time I stayed with him out of pity, I didn't close my eyes till morning.

I lay there, listening to someone else's breathing, and for the first time I didn't talk myself into believing I'd warm up to it any minute now. I simply wanted nothing. And I heard that clearly. Yesterday Iryna said: - It's like I don't want anything anymore. I wrote the address on a napkin. - What is this? - You need the man who demands nothing.