Let's Do

The Assignment

the assignment
“Ineed you to attack me.” Carter’s girlfriend Jen said this as she was warming up for aerobics. She sat on the floor with her legs splayed in a way that looked both hot and impossible, stretching over one leg, then the other. At the moment, she was talking to her ankle. Carter wasn’t sure he’d heard right. It was a lot to take in at once. Jen raised her head and slowed it down. “Attack me. Unexpectedly . On the street. Like a bad guy.” Carter looked out the window. They were at her apartment, and over the rooftops, he could see the antennae of the T.V. station where he freelanced camerawork. In a few minutes, he would walk Jen down to the city Y for her class. Jen always seemed to be in motion. She ran five marathons a year, all over the country, in places like Hawaii, New York City, even Disneyworld . That was how they met. He was assigned to film their 88 the assignment 89 city’s inaugural marathon, and she was the hometown favorite, and as she bounced past each checkpoint—tiny, freckled, sinewy but not stringy, wearing an orange sports bra and her hair in a ponytail—he could focus only on her. So much so that his producer wondered, watching the tape, if any other runners had shown up that day. She had placed second, but told everyone, as she winked at Carter—a woman who winked—that she’d gone home with the real prize. Lately, she was running twenty miles on Saturdays. But last weekend, she had been spooked on a long run through the park. She had been dwelling on it. For his part, Carter was keeping an eye out, escorting her nearly everywhere, installing chains on her doors, staying over. Still, attacking his girlfriend was a whole other matter. He said, “Jen, haven’t you had enough of that already?” “That’s why I want you to do this, Carter. To condition me. In case I need to defend myself, again.” She put her legs together and reached over her toes. The other night, he had painted her toenails, the only part of her that seemed to get kind of ugly. “Can’t you take a class or something? I mean, isn’t that better ?” he asked. “I’ll take a class, sure. They’ll tell me how to yell ‘No!’ really loud. How to carry my keys. Maybe, for the final exam, I’ll get to knee someone in the nads.” Her bluntness could surprise him. “They teach you more than that, don’t they?” he asked. “Like karate chops or jujitsu?” He did a bad imitation of someone whipping nunchuks. She shook her head. “The classes around here don’t train you in street fighting. They don’t ambush you. I need to be ready for something more realistic.” “And it’s more realistic for your boyfriend to act like a criminal ?” “I think so.” “You want me to grab you. On the street.” 90 let’s do “Yes.” “So you can fight me off.” “Right.” “I can’t do that.” “Why not?” He sat on her couch and tapped his feet on the floor. He tried to imagine sneaking up on her, pouncing. It seemed ridiculous and kinky, like some sex game middle-aged people played with trench coats and handcuffs. “I just can’t,” he said. “It’s like a porno.” She motioned for him to push on her back to intensify the stretch, as she put it, and so he did. “Carter, not everything is about sex. That’s the last thing I’m thinking about. It’s the exact opposite.” He stroked her back. “But isn’t it weird? To have your own boyfriend attacking you?” “I don’t think so.” “Why not?” he asked. “Because I trust you. If I make a mistake, it’s still okay. And as much as I fight, I know you won’t hurt me.” She stood up. He was a whole foot taller, and he secretly thrilled whenever she looked up at him. Her cheeks were ruddy. Her neck and shoulders glistened with sweat, and she smelled musky, heated. Carter leaned low and tasted salt on her ears. Her top was snug as a scuba suit. She stopped his working fingers. “Carter. Will you help me?” “I’ll think...