“You have a problem with women?”
Michael’s therapist tapped his pen against his knee, his eyes casting feigned interest towards the empty notepad on his lap.
Michael lounged on the couch, the sleeves of his loosely belted robe pulled back to his elbows. A single sock dipped like an elf’s hat over the ends of his toes.
“No, not at all,” said Michael. “I mean, yeah, I have problems with dating. They usually end pretty bad, which is weird because they usually start off pretty good. The conversation is never the problem. We usually talk about the workplace. Gossiping about the firm. I’m always there you know? Writing cheques, signing bills, making sure Chet isn’t slacking and keeps the water cooler stocked.” He sighed, as though remembering a fond childhood memory. “I actually really like the water cooler water. It might be my favorite kind. That’s crazy, right? A little bit quirky? Sometimes people call me that. But that’s a compliment, no? In this day and age?”
A rat scurried across the carpet in a frenzy, startling Michael’s therapist. A strange sight for an otherwise pristine apartment. He dropped his pen, thought about picking it up, then realized he didn’t care. A profound breakthrough in his own mental health journey. Michael continued.
“Anyways, the dating. The conversation. It depends on what they do. Maybe she works at an ice cream stand or something. So we’ll talk about that, and I’ll show an interest in her career path. ‘Ice cream? Yeah, I know ice cream! Isn’t it that hot juice with the ironic name? like Iceland?'”
Michael paused, waiting for the wit to sink in. His therapist looked longingly at his pen, wondering if it would be a sign of weakness if he picked it up now.
“Okay, you’re not getting it. I know what ice cream is, but I don’t want to be a know-it-all. The last thing I want to do is patronize her. Okay, so we go out for ice-cream. Maybe head to the park. And then I’ll accidentally spill a little on my shirt, but I won’t make a big deal about it. I’ll make a joke. Something like, oh I don’t know, I’d just improvise. I’d wing it.”
Michael’s therapist nodded professionally.
—
“Oh, this is fucking ruined.”
“I’m sorry,” said Stacey, huddled in a cashmere cardigan and holding a vanilla cone. Wind rustled the leaves that still clung to their branches, rustic brown survivors of autumn’s first culling.
“It’s not your fault,” said Michael tersely. “Forget it.”
“Do you want some of mine?” offered Stacey, successfully hiding how little she wanted to keep eating ice cream.
“I said forget it.”
“Fine.”
“Hey,” Michael said, a glint in his eye. “We’ve been hitting it off right?”
Though she didn’t know what he meant, she figured it was worth seeing where it led. It couldn’t be worse than last time. “We have a lot in common, I guess.”
“Do you want to come back to my apartment? It’s getting a little cold for ice cream.”
“I said it was a bad idea,” she smiled.
“I should have listened. I don’t really ‘get’ ice cream,” he lied glumly.
“That’s okay. And you’re right, we do have some things in common. We both have high-end water filters, and, uh,”
She paused.
“Do you like movies?”
“What did you think we were going to do at my apartment?” said Michael, looking confused.
“Can’t wait.”
—
“How would you describe your personality?” asked Michael’s therapist, wondering, if the technology were right, whether man might one day learn to speak with dogs.
“My personality?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a simple guy. Meat and potatoes. Tax payer just like you. I don’t mismatch my socks. And I always flush the toilet. Even if I don’t have to. Sometimes I think I have to go but nothing comes out and I’ll give a courtesy flush just in case someone’s listening. I know that the day I don’t I’ll open the stall and see Chet with his arms crossed, looking at me like I was the one who put Christ on the cross. It would be just like him.”
“Our time’s up,” said Michael’s therapist, not even pretending to look at his watch this time. “I think we made some real progress today.”
“Wait, c’mon doc. At least tell me what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing,” said the therapist, zipping up his bag. “You’re perfect.”
—
The elevator at Michael’s apartment building was closed for maintenance, forcing Stacey and Michael to take the arduous and vermin-laden journey to Michael’s twelfth floor apartment by staircase. By the time they had reached the apartment, Stacey was keeled over, gasping for breath. Michael, who never knew a time when the elevator wasn’t closed for maintenance, took it like a champ.
“Well, here we are,” he said, taking out his keys and sliding them into the door.
“You’ve…got a lot of rats in your building,” panted Stacey, leaning forward with one hand resting on the wall.
“Yeah,” said Michael as he reached for keys. He opened the door then turned to Stacey, extending his arms towards a pristine living room.
“It’s nice though, right?”
It was. Everything about his apartment was immaculate. There couldn’t have been a strand of a hair nor a speck of dust anywhere in the place. The floor glowed with a well-polished sheen. Outside his wall-sized window, the cityscape twinkled below a starless sky.
“It’s very big!” said Stacey. “How did you afford this place?”
“I work at the firm,” said Michael.
“So you’ve said,” Stacey paused. She looked out the window and then at Michael.
“I have to honest Michael, I don’t think I know a single thing about you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Michael. “We’ve been talking for hours.”
“About work. Not about you.”
“Okay, alright,” said Michael. He stretched his neck and then began bobbing as though going for another round in the ring. “Let me start at the top. My name is Michael. I work at the fir-“
Stacey interrupted him, “Yes, I know you work at the firm, Michael. What else do you do?”
“Hey, relax,” he said, wiping at his forehead. He had started to sweat profusely. “Let’s not take things so fast. Isn’t that what you said you were scared of? Taking things too fast?” He went over to the couch, sat down, then patted the cushion beside himself to offer Stacey a seat.
“Sure. Whatever. Did you want to pick the movie?” she asked, suddenly feeling glad that they probably wouldn’t be talking through the film.
“No, I’m not picky. They’re all over there on the bookshelf,” said Michael.
Approaching the bookshelf, she noticed there were hardly any books. Or movies for that matter. On the bottom-most shelf was a slim selection of maybe four or five DVDs. She took one out and frowned. Then she took another. And another. She turned around to look at Michael.
“They’re all,” she began. “These are all Spider-Man.”
“Yeah. They’re the Spider-Man movies.”
“Do you have any movies that aren’t Spider-Man?”
“No.”
“But,” said Stacey. “But why?”
“Those are the movies I like,” said Michael, crossing his arms. “Sorry I know what I like.”
“That’s not what this is!” yelled Stacey.
“Well then, what is it?” said Michael coldly.
“It’s, well,” said Stacey, looking about the apartment to try and find the right words. “It’s kind of weird.”
“Oh, it’s weird?” exploded Michael, standing up to vent his fury. “You think me watching Spider-Man is weirder than you falling asleep to a different movie every night? Did you even remember the last movie you saw? Are you that hard up for novelty? Should I buy you a pez dispenser? They make all kinds of them you know. Jesus, Stacy, I don’t even know if I want to watch Spider-Man with someone who’s already seen so many movies.”
He let go of a deep breath, then closed his eyes and put his hands up to his face. It looked like he was about to cry.
“What are you talking about?!” said Stacey.
“Hey, I get it.” Michael sat down again. “You’re better than me. You’re so experienced. But I’m not looking for just another movie. I know what I like, and what I like is Spider-Man.”
“What is wrong with you?!”
She wanted to rip out her hair. Why was it always like this? Everything always fine until it wasn’t. She knelt on the carpet in front of Michael until she met his eyes. “I’ll watch Spider-Man. Just, please, Michael, shut up. Don’t say anything. We were doing so well until you brought up Spider-Man. I get it. I like him too. He’s great. He climbs walls and shoots webs out of his fingertips and–“
“Out of his wrists,” said Michael coldly. “Spider-Man shoots webs out of a mechanical web-shooter he has attached to his wrists.”
“Of course,” said Stacey. “It’s one of my favorite things about him. But let’s find a movie first. You can tell me all about Spider-Man later.”
“I…can?” Michael’s eyes softened. He began to relax.
“Mhm,” said Stacey. She went back to the shelf and picked up the DVDs to sort through. “Here, how about this one?” She held up a copy of The Amazing Spider-Man 2.
“Oh no. Put that back please.”
“This one?” she said, holding up a copy of Spider-Man 3.
“Not that one either.”
She put it down. “This one?”
“Definitely not.”
“This one?” she said, defeated, hoping that simply Spider-Man would pass muster.
“Yeah, that one’s alright,” said Michael.
Stacey’s patience began to crack
“You seriously only watch movies with Spider-Man in them?”
“Yes!”
She said nothing. She had resolved beforehand that this date would go well, no matter what. She had to perceiver. Push through. Was it so bad that he was happy with what he already had?
“Just checking.”
“I’m really excited,” said Michael, grinning from ear to ear. He got up and started walking towards the bathroom. “I’m just going to go freshen up first. Just stay out of the bedroom please. It’s not ready.”
“Ready?” Stacey mouthed to herself as she heard the light click of the bathroom door.What had he meant by ‘it’s not ready’?
Throwing caution to the wind, she crept towards the bedroom door. Inside was a room as meticulously scrubbed and tidied as the rest of the apartment. Then, she noticed the Spider-Man pez dispenser on the side table. Tiny Spider-Men peeped at her from behind the curtain. Then the clock. The Spider-Man clock.
As though anticipating her arrival, Michael’s computer monitor flashed on, the speakers blasting cacophonous eurotrash, the wet sounds of the bass sliding across the floor and crawling up her spine. On the screen were two men, each in a Spider-Man outfit. One was bent over, with the other furiously spanking his spandexed bottom, the loud smacks congruous with the beat.
Horrified, she turned to leave. But there was Michael, standing in the frame of his bedroom door, red, white and black makeup smeared across his face and tank top.
“I told you to say out.”
—
The mood of the cafe was mellow, warm and sociable. It was a dark and dreary Sunday afternoon, but no one seemed to mind. A light drizzle of rain could be heard just barely over the gypsy jazz and the sounds of fashionable spoons against clean, ceramic cups.
“How’s it going with that guy you were seeing?” asked Caroline. “You like him?”
“He’s got a job,” said Stacey, giving a bored shrug.
“Where does he work?” she asked.
“The firm.”
Caroline nodded, “That’s nice. Does he have any hobbies?”
Unsure of what to say, Stacey tapped her spoon against the side of her cappuccino. She looked at the window and watched the mosaic of rain droplet slide across her washed out reflection.
“Stamps,” she finally said. “He collects stamps.”