Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [46]
“That is such bullshit,” she said, laughing.
“Look, I’m trying to trigger a sexual response in you, so why aren’t you convulsing with pleasure?”
She relaxed as I stood up, and we kissed again. I became lost in her once more. “God, what are you wearing?” I murmured. “That smell, it takes me back.”
“To where?”
I was licking her mouth. “Just, like, back. The past. I’m reexperiencing my whole adolescence.”
“Just with this lip gloss?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “It’s like those little tangerines in Proust.”
“You mean madeleines.”
“Yeah, like those little tangerines.”
“How . . . did you get this job?”
“Shapely legs.” I was feeling her stomach again, pulling gently on the ring piercing her navel. “Can I get one of those too? We can have matching navel rings. Wouldn’t that be cool?”
“Yeah, it would really set off those abs of yours.”
“Are you talking about my six-pack?”
“I think I’m talking about your, um, keg.”
“You’re very sexy, baby, but I’m equally hot.”
And then, as usual, it stopped. This time it was mutual. She had places to go, and I had to print out a dream and head over to Dr. Kim’s.
While we were getting ready to leave the office, Aimee said something.
“That boy who was in here earlier . . .”
“Yeah. Do you know him?”
She paused. “No, but he looked familiar.”
“Yeah, I thought so too. Did you see him at the party last night?” I asked, while the printer started cranking out my assignment.
“I’m not sure, but he reminded me of someone.”
“Yeah, he went as Patrick Bateman. He was the guy in the Armani suit. Very creepy.”
“Um, Bret, I have news for you: you were so wasted I don’t think you could have recognized anybody by the time that party hit full force.”
I shrugged, slipped the dream into my jacket and picked up a few stories students had left in the bin by my door. It was quiet. Aimee was thinking about something else while she lit a cigarette.
“Yeah? What is it?” I asked. “I’m gonna be late.”
“It’s weird you said Patrick Bateman,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I thought he looked a little like Christian Bale.”
We were both silent for a long time, because Christian Bale was the actor who had played Patrick Bateman in the film version of American Psycho.
“But he also looked like you,” Aimee said. “Give or take twenty years.”
I started shivering again.
Back in the parking lot, the cream-colored 450 SL was no longer there.
I noticed.
6. the shrinks
Since I was late I drove instead of walking over to the building housing the practices of Dr. Kim and our couples counselor, Dr. Faheida. Unfolding my dream I raced into the lobby and bumped into a woman exiting the elevator. I was staring at my dream, feeling like a child about to be tested, when she stepped aside and said, “Hello, Bret.” I looked up and stared into the woman’s face: gaunt, midforties, vaguely Spanish, dark wispy hair, a crooked smile. Holding an armful of folders and books, she stood there patiently as I squinted at her, assessing who she was.
It took a moment before I realized.
“Ah, Dr. Fajita. How are you?” I said, relieved.
She paused slightly. “It’s Dr. Fe-hay-da.”
“Dr. Fe-hay-da,” I mimicked. “Yes, and how are you?”
“I’m fine. Will I be seeing you and your wife next week?”
“Yes, and this time we’ll both be there,” I promised.
“That’s good. See you then.” She slowly shuffled