Mimi Read Online Free

La Bohème again and again, as a kind of cardiovascular workout (a reminder of that dimly remembered thing: romance). So now I had a sore ankle and a sore spot for MimÌ, a real hankering for the flower-girl to come warm her little cold hands at my artificial log fire, which couldn’t be much worse than Rodolfo’s fire (all he had was paper!). . . But what was I thinking?! Not another bohemian! I’d barely rid myself of the last one yet: Gertrude’s phone calls had gone down, post-break-up, to two or three a day, as opposed to six or more, but it still wasn’t the decisive split I’d had in mind. And now she wanted Explanations. To be kind, I didn’t give her any.
    â€œIs it somebody else?” she asked. “You’ve found somebody else!”
    â€œI found my senses, Gertrude.”
    Some of her bewilderment was understandable. Nobody usually ends an affair in this town without snagging a replacement first. The fact that I hadn’t indulged in the conventional two-timing stage was an indication of just how intolerable Gertrude was . I’d ditched her for her own deficiencies, not because I was cunt-struck on somebody else.
    Gertrude was like one of those boa constrictors, those beautiful creatures people in Florida keep as pets until the thing gets too big and uncontrollable—whereupon they let it loose outside to terrorize the neighborhood, until some jerk finally comes along and shoots it. The snake was set up for a fall from the start! You take a wild animal into your home and then blame it for being wild. It was Gertrude’s nature , for chrissake, to be obnoxious, and my mistake to have had anything to do with her, no matter how appealingly she sauntered up 42nd Street. I chose the woman, I ushered her into my building and made what I considered a suave pass at her in the elevator, the actions of a supposedly grown man. And she could still slither into my life and undermine me, even from the snowbound wastes of Connecticut.
    â€œDid I say something wrong? Did I do something horrible?” (Yes, and yes.)“Didn’t I try to please you? I took you into my home, my family , Harrison. I gave you everything. . . !”
    â€œI’m no family man, Gertrude. I told you that from the beginning.”
    And yet, my biggest regret in breaking up with her was the loss of Claude. I would really miss that kid, and I’d worry about him too, stuck over there all alone with Gertrude (and the army of au pairs). But what could I do? He wasn’t my son—Gertrude was already pregnant when I met her, having had herself artificially inseminated on a whim, some months before. When we broke up, I thought of asking for visiting rights but didn’t, for fear that she’d use my fondness for Claude as some sort of weapon.
    I once asked him, “How was the playground today?” and he answered, “Homoerotic.” What a guy! And what a vocabulary—Gertrude must’ve read Webster’s to him when he was still in the womb.
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    The sprained ankle had given me an unforeseen vacation from work, and after some initial shock at the extent of my solitude and spare time, I discovered: my apartment! Always scooting between New York and Long Island and Gertrude’s various approximations of bohemia in Manhattan, Connecticut, and Hilton Head, I never had time to enjoy it, and it’s a great apartment! Neither bohemian nor po-mo metro minimalist chic: my place was “modern” in about 1920. It’s a converted penthouse loft at the top of the century fabric design co. building in the Garment District (36th, between 7th and 8th), a business long defunct but still proudly commemorated in gold lettering over the front entrance. It’s now mixed-use, with about a million mysterious enterprises going on below me: hats, buttons, hooks, eyes, feathers, SM gear, rubber nurse uniforms, transgender lingerie, godknowswhat. I sometimes study the