The Edible Woman by Margaret Atwood

on very well. Of course I had to adjust to his moods, but that’s true of any man, and his were too obvious to cause much difficulty. Over the summer he had become a pleasant habit, and as we had been seeing each other only on weekends the veneer hadn’t had a chance to wear off.
    However the first time I had gone to his apartment had almost been the last. He had plied me with hi-fi music and brandy, thinking he was crafty and suave, and I had allowed myself to be manipulated into the bedroom. We had set our brandy snifters down on the desk, when Peter, being acrobatic, had knocked one of the glasses to the floor where it smashed.
    “Oh leave the damn thing,” I said, perhaps undiplomatically; but Peter had turned on the light, gone for the broom and dustpan, and swept up all the bits of glass, picking the larger ones up carefully and accurately like a pigeon pecking crumbs. The mood had been shattered. We had said goodnight soon afterwards, rather snappishly, and I hadn’t heard from him after that for over a week. Of course things were much better now.
    Peter stretched and yawned beside me, grinding my arm against the porcelain. I winced and withdrew it gently from beneath him.
    “How was it for you?” he asked casually, his mouth against my shoulder. He always asked me that.
    “Marvellous,” I murmured; why couldn’t he tell? One of these days I should say “Rotten,” just to see what he would do; but I knew in advance he wouldn’t believe me. I reached up and stroked his damp hair, scratching the back of his neck; he liked that, in moderation.
    Maybe he had intended the bathtub as an expression of his personality. I tried thinking of ways to make that fit. Asceticism? A modern version of hair shirts or sitting on spikes? Mortification of the flesh? But surely nothing about Peter suggested that; he liked his comforts, and besides it wasn’t his flesh that was being mortified: he had been on top. Or maybe it had been a reckless young-man gesture, like jumping into the swimming pool with your clothes on, or putting things on your head at parties. But this image didn’t suit Peter either. I was glad there were no more of his group of old friends left to be married: next time he might have tried cramming us into a clothes closet, or an exotic posture in the kitchen sink.
    Or maybe – and the thought was chilling – he had intended it as an expression of
my
personality. A new corridor of possibilities extended itself before me: did he really think of me as a lavatory fixture? What kind of a girl did he think I was?
    He was twining his fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck. “I bet you’d look great in a kimono,” he whispered. He bit my shoulder, and I recognized this as a signal for irresponsible gaiety: Peter doesn’t usually bite.
    I bit his shoulder in return, then, making sure the shower lever was still up, I reached out my right foot – I have agile feet – and turned on the COLD tap.

8
    B y eight-thirty we were on our way to meet Len. Peter’s mood, whatever it had been, had changed to one which I hadn’t yet interpreted, so I didn’t attempt conversation as we drove along. Peter kept his eyes on the road, turning corners too quickly and muttering under his breath at the other drivers. He hadn’t fastened his seat belt.
    He had not been pleased at first when I told him about the arrangements I’d made with Len, even when I said, “I’m sure you’ll like him.”
    “Who is he?” he had asked suspiciously. If it wasn’t Peter I would have suspected jealousy. Peter isn’t the jealous type.
    “He’s an old friend,” I said, “from college. He’s just got back from England; I think he’s a T. V . producer or something.” I knew Len wasn’t that high on the scale, but Peter is impressed by people’s jobs. Since I had intended Len as a distraction for Peter I wanted the evening to be pleasant.
    “Oh,” said Peter, “one of those arts-crafts types. Probably queer.”We were