The Bleeding Heart by Marilyn French

was only delusion. A delusion we’d invented, the way we invented the gods, to make things seem bearable. So as the torturer turns the rack that final screw and the body screams in agony, you can die with a smile on your face, dying for the glory of God. And, in truth, if you could do that, maybe you really didn’t feel it, weren’t aware of the pain.
    Transcendence. Invulnerability.
    She unlocked her bike and wheeled it to the Broad Street gate. And only then did she remember her plan: to stay out late. But it was only five. The pubs around here weren’t open yet. It was far too early to go to dinner. She was tired. And besides, she had her bike.
    Christ, what did it matter? She could go home, she could answer the telephone, he’d come or he wouldn’t, what did it matter? She wasn’t going to see him again, that was that.
    No. It didn’t matter.

7
    S HE WAS IN HER warm robe, sitting at the table in the living room, collating her notes, when the phone rang.
    And she leaped up, her body did it, her mind wasn’t functioning.
    When she heard Victor’s voice, her heart started to pound, further impeding her thinking processes. She realized she’d managed to forget about him, which was good, but also that his mere voice was capable of doing something curious to the hairs along her arms and back, which wasn’t so good. And to her head. He had to repeat himself twice before she took in what he was saying.
    Had to have dinner with the automobile people, had called earlier, had called on and off all day, had been thinking of her all day, but she was a gadabout it seemed, never home, and now it was late, he’d just got in, but he yearned to see her, was she tired?
    “How did you get my number?” Her voice sounded cold, strange in her ears.
    He was silent for an instant. “I took it from your phone when I was there. You said it wasn’t listed. Why?”
    “I just wondered.”
    His voice became more formal. “I suppose you’re tired.”
    “What time is it?”
    “After ten.” Apologetic.
    Late. Too late. He’s tired, I’m tired. Not a good time for me to get my wits in order enough to explain to him why I can’t see him again. Not a good time for him to understand what I’m saying. No. Won’t see him. Besides, he’s expecting me to say no.
    “It’s all right. You can come if you like,” she said.
    “You sure?”
    She wasn’t imagining the joy, was she? “Sure.”
    “Great. I’ll take a cab. I’ll be right there.”
    Oh boy. She went back to the sitting room and let herself down gingerly into a chair. I’ve lost control. I’ve given him entirely the wrong idea. All my body’s fault. Damned thing insisted on having its own way.
    Ever since puberty when she had first felt sexual longing, and sensed it as a surrender of the transcendent mind to the base body (so her philosophers taught her), she had resented sexuality as slavery to the body.
    On the other hand, she had learned over the years of her life to trust her body. It was the only thing that always told you the truth. The mind lied; the body did not.
    Sitting on a ladder, painting Tony’s ceiling one summer Sunday, ten years into her marriage, a hundred years ago, when I was a young girl courting the boys, oh, a different person anyway, still sweet and soft about the edges. Hot day: sweat and paint dripping down her face, she rolled the nylon sponge over the stuccoed surface. Anthony suddenly appeared in the doorway: must be half time, or whatever they call it. When the commercials appear. He stood there for a minute, then said: “You’re doing it all wrong!” His voice grew to outrage. “Jesus, you’re leaving streaks!”
    She turned to him coldly. “If you don’t like the way I’m doing it, why don’t you do it? I’d be glad of a break.”
    “Idiot! Look at that patch!”
    “It’s fine, Anthony, what are you talking about? It’s perfectly all right.”
    He entered the room then, and walked around it, pointing wildly. “Look at