The Seven Year Bitch Read Online Free Page B

Byrne served by Moby, and a scarf knitted for you by Uma Thurman.
    â€œHere’s mine,” I said. “’Asset allocation analysis by a chartered financial analyst. Are all your eggs in one basket? Let Isolde Brilliant help you to attain your dreams.’”
    They had punched up my copy with the “eggs in one basket” and “attain your dreams” part.
    The benefit was for the private school that I hoped Duncan would go to in four years when he was ready to start kindergarten, even though I had been rejected from it myself when I was four. When Russell told me on an early date that his aunt was actually the head of admissions at that very school, my heart almost stopped. I knew it was the closest you could come in New York to dating royalty. And to my utmost joy, on the day Duncan was born, she’d come to the hospital with a tiny school T-shirt and proclaimed him accepted.
    In a moment of madness, to show my enthusiasm, I’d called the benefit committee chair and offered my services. I’d thought of donating a week or two at our country house but when I started to think about its selling points—inflatable kiddie pool, wind chimes, tire swing—it didn’t seem like it would compete with the other houses that were being auctioned off with their twelve bedrooms, ocean views, and vineyard. I’d also thought of offering myself as a lactation consultant but then I couldn’t imagine putting another woman’s tit in another baby’s mouth or slathering lanolin on someone else’s nipple.
    The prizes were grouped in categories, and mine was on a table with a placard that said “Death and Taxes” with a little drawing of a coffin on it.
    Whenever I saw a coffin, I always thought about the Grim Reaper. I thought about the Grim Reaper a lot actually—black cloak, curved scythe, the whole nine yards. And whenever I thought about the Grim Reaper, for some inexplicable reason, I thought about fucking him.
    In a certain way it would be like fucking a cartoon character. I thought about the Grim Reaper like some men thought about Jessica Rabbit. I supposed Jessica Rabbit symbolized physical perfection that no real-life woman could come close to, but the Grim Reaper symbolized a kind of perfection too. Death was my idea of the most romantic love. He came to you, he chose you, and, no matter what the circumstances, you had to go with him, like being pulled down a wedding aisle on a black conveyer belt. There was no fighting him. It was what I always thought love would be, a man would know I was the one and prove it to me, until I had no choice but to love him back. He would fuck me from behind on the way to wherever it was he was taking me and I would grab his balls to see what he really had under the cloak.
    The printed card next to my prize stated there was a $150 minimum opening bid. The bid sheet attached to the clipboard on the table was blank.
    â€œYou have to bid on me,” I told my husband.
    â€œWhat? Absolutely not. I’m not paying a hundred fifty dollars to have you manage your own portfolio. We should bid on that.”
    He pointed to a prize to have your last will and testament written. We had been putting that off because we couldn’t agree on who would take Duncan. “I don’t even know why you donated something,” Russell said. “I didn’t want to come here in the first place.”
    â€œYou should have donated something,” I said. “You should have donated your filmmaking expertise. A unique video of your child’s birthday party slash suicide note by an amateur filmmaker.”
    â€œWill you drop that already, it was a joke. At least I remembered to charge the batteries, you didn’t even give me any credit for that.”
    I wrote Russell’s name and phone number on the first line of my bid sheet and listed his bid as $150.
    For the rest of the evening I checked back to see if anyone else had