Dear God, he finally said. It was your husband, wasn’t it?
She kept tapping the spoon. Your name is an anagram of anal, she said.
Oh lord. There are some words it’s simply too much to hear a beautiful woman speak aloud, you know.
It’s funny, she said. Every British guy I’ve ever known. All of them, what’s the word. Cads.
No no.
That’s it. Cads.
No no. I’m no cad.
No?
A cad, he said, is a man who propositions women fully expecting to be turned down.
Alan. Dearest.
But you haven’t even heard the best part, he said.
The best part? Is it when we fit my husband with horns? After the photo shoot is through?
A pained smile. He looked wounded. Or did a good job pretending. Now Meg, he said. You know I respect the institution of marriage much too much for that.
Har har har.
The best part, he said, is that we could actually publish the pictures.
She gave him a blank look again. An expression effectively communicating that she was staring into a vacuum where a human being used to be.
Your face won’t be in them, of course. Which I admit is regrettable, because, you know. But it just isn’t possible, is it?
She was smiling again. It’s really rather funny, she said, we should be having this conversation today of all days. She noticed how she slipped into Britishisms – rather, quite – whenever she conversed with him. Like that. Conversed instead of talked.
Why’s that?
This naked but faceless business.
Haven’t you come across _______.com yet? he asked. In your what you cultural-studies people pass off as research?
She became hysterical then, bending over laughing, taking care not to spit out her mouthful of Diet Coke, taking care to keep her knees together, since she was wearing a skirt and he was right opposite her, sitting a little lower than her on her tired old Ikea couch, a grad-school leftover, this British cad who spoke every desire that came into his grimy head and was no doubt hoping for a nice up-skirt sitting where he was.
What? he said, grinning. What?
I think I can guess what _______.com is, she said, recovering. All asses, no faces.
Well you needn’t make it sound crass. The genius of it is anyone can post pictures there. These aren’t models. They aren’t prostitutes. No one’s making money. These are possibly your own mates’ wives. Or your own dental hygienist.
Your own dental hygienist? She was doubled over again, nearly crying now.
All right, then. Maybe the cute sophomore in your 11:00 modernism seminar.
Or her professor.
Ah. See? You’re catching the tune.
Oh please God, she said, wiping her eyes, don’t tell me you’ve posted naked pictures of yourself on this website.
What? Are you joking? There are no men on it. No one wants to look at anonymous naked men.
