ANDREA BEST's self-imposed labels and/or self-styled definitions include everything from "micro-fiction writer" to "just like her mother, only worse..."

                                                                                      tiles


Henry's alabaster ass bobs up and down between the v-shape of my upraised legs as he furiously works that hollow, frictional niche. I stare up at my bedroom ceiling, wishing that I had tiles to count and wondering about my penchant for adorable middle-aged men who take forever to "complete the act." Henry has been going at it for nearly half an hour, with intermittent stops to gasp for breath.

What if he has a heart attack? I think to myself.

Not to worry. I feel the tell-tale signs of his impending release. He makes that little guttural sound of his and it's finally over. Thank God.

"Jesus, Beth," Henry manages to croak. "Jesus."

I look up at him and smile. Sweat is pouring off of his forehead, dripping onto my face and pillow. I pull his face down to mine and kiss him hard and quick.

"Happy birthday, cowboy," I say. "Time to go home and tend the ranch."

He smiles at me and rolls off of my body. I can breathe a little easier now.

Today is Henry's 50th birthday. His wife has a magnificent party planned for him - all of Henry's law partners, associates, assistants, and staff will be there, along with their significant others. I'll be going, too, but not with Henry - that would be crass. I'll be attending the gala event with Jonathan, who's like the big brother I never had even though we're the same age (twenty-six).

In case you haven't guessed by now, I work for Henry as one of his paralegals. He hired me eight months ago, and I've been sleeping with him for six. These relationships take time to develop, you know.

Henry gathers up his clothes from the floor and scurries into the bathroom to shower and dress. I remain in my bed and try to imagine how my ceiling would look with tiles - nice, even geometric shapes that fit together so nicely, forming patterns that have meaning and purpose and structure.

I crave meaning and purpose and structure.

Jonathan tells me that I date older married men because I'm trying to recapture what I've lost in childhood, which means that Jonathan thinks that I'm trying to recapture my father, who ditched me and my mother when I was six years old. I tell Jonathan that everyone is trying to recapture something that they've lost in childhood, and that sex is just one way to do that. I also tell Jonathan that Freud is passe, and that it really doesn't matter to me if a cigar is something more than just a cigar.

Jonathan just looks at me and shakes his head.

I have to get ready for the party, which is a mere three hours a way. Yet, all I want to do is lie here in my bed, with my dancing images of perfect, interconnected squares.

I smell smoke from the cigar that Henry just lit in the bathroom. It makes me sick to my stomach.

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© 2002 Andrea Best