The Urban Primeval

From the book:

“We’ve known each other a long time, so I needn’t snow you with a cynicism routine, act like I’m immune to disorientation where women are concerned, always dictating the terms and triumphing,” he responded, regarding me with unaccustomed seriousness. “I’m hardly invulnerable—no man worth his salt will ever be. Fool around with a number of women and the law of averages will ensure one meets up with one who’ll thoroughly toss one off-balance, bring on previously unknown levels of stress. The shallow response is that it’s damaging to the ego—the healthy response is that it’s an opportunity to grow, of which there can never be enough. I was involved with a woman who flipped me inside out to the marrow of my bones, effectively altered reality, ego be damned. I’m not talking about a commonplace, purely situational and worldly, scare of the pregnancy or matrimonial variety—any readily comprehensible scare rooted in societal convention. I’m talking about being swept into blind panic, emotionally scattered to the winds, fearing for my sanity and life. I’m talking about a woman’s susceptibility to heightened distress, frightful tumult, lying dormant within her, zero indication of its presence behind the placidity of her demeanor, and then appearing from out of the blue for no ascertainable reason—leading me to wonder if my senses are deceiving me, perceptions a mirage—suddenly nothing I thought I knew seeming to be of any use, the emotional equivalent of being slammed against shoreline rocks by high surf. I don’t mean the typical antics of a woman who’s fighting for a lasting relationship, trying every which way to bring me to heel: such behavior’s to be expected, no big deal. I mean wild animals that lurk inside petite darlings and might be driven to knife me in my sleep!” He paused, took a deep breath, appeared to be gathering his thoughts; then, audibly exhaling and placing palms on the table, fingers spread, “Want to hear a story?”