Magazines
"I'm going out," he tells his daughter. She lounges by the pool, sunbathing. Bikini. Glistening oil. Ice cubes clinking.
"Fine," she says. "Have fun."
They get along. His daughter visits, and he can see her muscles relax. It's no wonder. Alice never was a soothing presence. She would grate anybody. She is not an easy woman to be with. His daughter on the other hand—she has simple needs. Very laissez-faire.
He drives to the library. He still feels a sense of guilt. Why? He doesn't know. There's nothing wrong with magazines. He goes to the periodical section, and finds his favorites: People, Us, Entertainment Weekly, Vanity Fair, Cosmo. He looks at the celebrities, the ones in skimpy dresses, bikinis. Breasts. Legs. Hair. Exposed backs and necks. There is nothing wrong with this. If there was, why are the magazines in the library? If there was, why do magazines fill their pages with these pictures? He even likes the smell of perfume samples that emanate from these magazines. He can hardly think of the word library without becoming aroused.
Walking to the bathroom, he takes a long drink from the fountain. He has to work tomorrow. Another year. Another year. Wise investments pay off, he thinks. Sink or swim. He catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the fountain. A dot of spittle is in the corner of his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, and walks quickly back to the periodicals. His shoes thrum loudly against the industrial carpeting.
After half an hour he is done. He will take her out to dinner. Wherever she wants, he thinks. She can order dessert. Appetizer. A beer if they don't I.D. Rent a movie afterwards. A cartoon or Disney movie. Something from the family section.