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Show see, there is this lettering which says 'Saving Myself for You.' He pointed. "But not anymore, huh?" I had to laugh. His face dropped. "No, not anymore." Then he said, "It's kind of sad, you know. When I made this muscle I could make her dance, just like she was alive." Dublonsky is sure to ask me what I've been writing about when I see him at our next meeting. "Well, how's it going, Love?" he'll say and give me one of his special conspiratorial smiles. "It's not," I suppose I could tell him. "It's not going at all. I started out writing about myself in the garden and ended up writing about that j erk Owen in the hall." But then, of course, he would want to investigate my feelings for the man. "What about his interest in you do you find most upsetting?" Or, "Why haven't you just come out and asked him why he looks at you the way he does?" Dublonsky enjoys his work, that's obvious. Six short hours a day, four days a week, a fat salary talking to people he thinks should have problems. Asking clever questions. Studying reactions he himself has forced. An ideal job for someone who so enjoys his time off, playing tennis, skiing, sailing; each Wednesday I find myself staring at all the photographs of him which hang on his office wall. Most of all I find myself staring at the picture of him standing |
