Hot Properties by Rafael Yglesias Read Free Book Online Page A

desire for each other, they squabbled constantly, the entire relationship was joyless.
    Or was it? Outside, he crossed the street along with a mass of people leaving the Beekman movie theater, and remembered last Saturday when they had stayed home and read and played a few hands of gin. That had been fun. He cheered up, entered the stationery store, and stood behind a few people lining up for tomorrow’s Times. Next to him, hanging by large metal clips, were copies of magazines. Many were pornographic. Fred leafed through one, pausing momentarily at a picture of a young, thin, tanned blond with her legs spread, and nothing on but black stockings. My God, is that what a woman looks like! he thought. What possible kinship could that creature have with Marion? Marion: her mousy hair, her round, sad face, her small breasts already sagging, her toneless stomach, her lumpy buttocks. And the dull look: what did Marion’s blank judgmental eyes have in common with the sparkling blue gems that laughed at him off the page of this seedy magazine?
    His turn at the counter allowed him only a fleeting look at the page, but he carried the contrast with him back to the apartment.
    Marion was in bed. Her hair had been flattened by washing. This made her face look even rounder and more expressionless.
    “Hello,” she said cheerfully.
    “You cooked a great meal,” Fred said, undressing at the closet. He tossed the clothes on its floor. Marion watched each item: she wanted them hung up or neatly folded.
    “I got it from an author. The Fat and Happy Italian Cookbook.”
    Fred laughed. This meant he was about to say something funny. He turned to Marion, his pants in his hands. “Maybe you should convince Goodson to market the book with food samples.”
    “I wish we could.” Her eyes stayed on the pants.
    Fred, rather than using a hanger, absently hooked the pants by one of their loops on a wall bracket meant for ties.
    “Fred!” Marion sat up. “What are you doing! That’ll ruin them.”
    “Huh?” He stared at her.
    “Your pants. Hang them up.”
    Fred obeyed. He was as thoughtless and as stupid as a child, Marion thought. “I think Bart really knows what he’s doing. You know? He’s psyched out what’s going on.” Fred finished hanging up his pants and walked to the window, opening it slightly.
    “No,” Marion protested. “It’s too cold.”
    “They send up heat all night, you know.”
    “My hair’s wet. Wait until it’s dry.”
    He shut the window, went to the bed, took off his underpants, and got under the covers.
    Marion knew, because he had taken off his shorts, that he planned to make love to her. Otherwise he slept in them.
    “Why don’t you do something different with your hair?” Fred said. “Maybe you should get a perm.” He was proud of himself for suggesting she change her hairstyle. If he found her unattractive, wasn’t the healthy reaction a frank attempt to discuss the problem?
    “A perm!” She frowned.
    That was her frown of intense disapproval. It infuriated him. “You don’t care enough about your appearance,” he said. “We both take the way we look for granted.”
    “Speak for yourself, buster.” Marion turned on her side, pulling up the covers to her ear. “Turn out the light, okay? I’m going to sleep.”
    Fred felt the disappointment of this statement keenly. He had his hand on his penis—it was already swelling. He had assumed they would screw. “Honey,” he said in a small voice.
    Silence.
    He breathed slowly, feeling the flutter of emotion as he inhaled. He knew, or part of him knew (the tiny, huddled creature inside who was frightened by people: terrified of their judgments), that to push her would mean an argument. But nevertheless, he repeated his plea. “Honey?”
    “What?” This simple question was said in a tone so harsh that a man less committed to truth would have shrunk from answering.
    Fred pressed on. “Are you angry at me?”
    “I’m tired.”
    He waited for