by Finny (v5)
At the restaurant, Brad was already seated at their table. He was wearing a suit, without a tie. Like in Westhampton, Brad had the appearance of just having come from work. He looked a little pale and worn-out, and Finny figured it had been a long week for him. His forehead reflected the overhead lights as he studied the wine list, not seeing Finny as she approached the table. The top buttons of his shirt were undone once again, revealing a nest of chest hair. Finny couldn’t help feeling a pulse of excitement—or was it anxiety?—at the sight of him.
When she was next to the table, she said hello. He got up and kissed her, then looked her up and down in the approving way he had that night on Long Island, like she was a car he was planning to purchase.
“I love your hair,” he said as they were getting seated.
“Oh,” Finny said. “Thanks. Actually, it was giving me all kinds of problems tonight. I’m sorry I’m late.” She wondered if she’d given away too much by saying all this. Would he expect more if he knew she’d taken time to get ready for him?
But Brad simply smiled at Finny—he had a wide, pleasant smile that showed some teeth—and said, “If we were in New York, you’d be early. Don’t worry about it. I just figured I’d get our table. This place is so popular.”
Finny looked around at the restaurant. It was a cute place. The dining room, where they were sitting, was designed simply, with wood paneling and floors made of some kind of varnished stone. The tables were packed tightly together, but Brad had gotten a booth near the back of the room, which gave them a bit more privacy. A long window to Finny’s right offered a view of Hampshire Street, a quiet, mostly residential street. Only a few cars passed at this hour, and once in a while a couple or a small group on their way to a neighborhood bar. From the menu, it seemed the food was Middle Eastern, though the prices were much higher than what Finny would have expected for that type of food.
“Why don’t we make things easy?” Brad said. “We can get the tasting menu and a nice bottle of wine. Then we don’t have to make any decisions and we can enjoy each other’s company.”
“Or sit in agonizing silence,” Finny said.
“Or that.” Brad smiled.
In truth, she wouldn’t have minded looking over the menu, which seemed interesting to her—cinnamon-scented pork, scallops wrapped in phyllo dough—but she agreed it was nice not to have to make decisions. She glanced at the price of the tasting menu—eighty-five dollars—and said a silent prayer that Brad had a generous expense account.
When the waitress arrived, Brad ordered for them. He then deliberated over the wine, whether to start with a Viognier or a Grüner Veltliner, two names Finny had never heard and that sounded vaguely like the names of exotic dancers.
Finny said, “I only usually have a glass, so get whatever you’d like. I’ll have a lamp shade on my head in ten minutes either way.”
“I don’t see any lamp shades around,” Brad said.
“I brought one.”
Brad laughed. He settled on the Grüner, thanking the waitress for her help.
“So, what made you pick up the phone and call me all of a sudden?” Brad asked.
“Drugs,” Finny said, and for a second Brad looked alarmed. “No. Actually, I’d been meaning to, but it’s been a busy time.” She didn’t want to explain about Mr. Henckel, her trip to Baltimore, catching up at work. She figured Prince wouldn’t have mentioned it. And furthermore, Finny felt detached from all that history tonight. Part of why she was interested in Brad was that she could be someone else, play a new role.
“Well, either way,” Brad said, “I’m really excited to get to spend the evening with you.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand the way he had that night on Long Island, before he got into his car. They smiled at each other, and Finny felt again the flutter of anticipation Brad seemed to awaken in her.
The waitress came and poured their wine. Brad swirled it and sniffed it and tasted it. Then nodded his approval. Before the waitress left, he asked her, “Is this real bluestone?” pointing at the floor.
“Yeah, they spent a fortune on it,” she said.
“I had a feeling,” Brad said. He had a way of letting conversations hang like that, never stating his purpose, and the waitress hesitated a moment before leaving the table.
The food runner brought their first course, which was a miniature falafel made with spinach. Finny wrapped hers in the homemade pita bread and took a bite.
“Definitely better than Mamoun’s,” she joked.
“I should hope so,” Brad said. “I’ve been reading such great reviews about this place.”
She assured him it was a wonderful choice. They moved through a couple more tasty dishes: a salad with garlicky dressing, a peasant casserole with scalloped potatoes and spicy ground lamb, everything like miniature versions of less expensive dishes Finny had tried in other restaurants. They talked about their jobs and how nice Prince and Judith’s place on Long Island was. Soon they’d finished the first bottle of wine. Brad ordered a second, with less discussion this time, then excused himself to use the bathroom.
When he came back, he looked refreshed. He seemed to have splashed cold water on his face, since his forehead was damp again. He still had the silvery half-moons under his eyes, but they were fainter. Finny admired his muscular arms, and the confident way he pushed his chest out when he walked.
“So,” Brad said, “the important question is what we’re going to do after this.”
“I don’t know,” Finny said. “We could find an old lady to stick up. Or steal a car and go for a joy ride. Or just go for a walk or something. Your call.”
“Let’s keep thinking about it,” Brad said. He’d nudged up closer to her under the table, and now she could feel his knee against hers. Suddenly his hand was there, too, and she felt him massaging her leg.
“Do you like that?” he said.
“My quads are a little tight since I played basketball the other day,” Finny began, before realizing she didn’t know what she was saying. “So it feels good.”
“Good,” Brad said, and flashed his wide smile. It was a corny gesture—the thought struck her that he was a silly man—but still, she couldn’t help those tingly rushes of excitement rippling through her body when he touched her. She could feel herself getting warm, and the dampness between her legs. It was as if what she’d told Earl about her relationship with Brad were a kind of pact, and now it was simply a matter of going through with it.
Soon Brad excused himself again. He came back excited and bright-eyed, asking Finny if she’d thought more about what they’d do afterward. She said she hadn’t. So they kept eating. And drinking. Brad went through more wine than she did, though Finny drank plenty. Maybe all the wine was the reason Brad kept getting up to use the bathroom. Finny counted that it was close to half a dozen trips by the time the shared dessert arrived—an enormous baked Alaska, its snowy peaks singed by a blowtorch. It was beautiful, but Finny was full.
“I think I’d have to sign a waiver to eat that,” she told Brad.
“Then we’ll just look at it,” he said, and did that for a moment. Finny could tell he was drunk. He’d worked his hand farther up Finny’s leg, even brushing his fingers along the zipper of her pants, testing. They’d turned down the lights in the restaurant, and since Finny and Brad were tucked so far back in the crowd, Finny knew no one was observing them. She put her hand on the inside of his leg, and felt that he had an erection.
He smiled at her and said, “Your place is close to here, right? What do you think about walking in that direction?”
“I might consider it,” Finny said coyly. She felt like an actress reading a script.
It was just then that the waitress brought the check. Brad handed her his card without even looking at the bill.
“Well, keep considering,” he said, and gave Finny’s leg another squeeze. He got up from the table, straightening his pants to hide his excitement, then went to the bathroom.
When he got back, Finny said, “If you’re doing anything interesting in there, let me know.” She knew she was drunk, too, since normally she would never have made a comment like that.
“Maybe I will,” Brad said. “Once we get to your place.”
The waitress returned with the receipt for Brad to sign. She’d been quiet and somewhat cold the entire evening, but with the prospect of Brad adding a generous tip to the bill, she seemed to perk up.
“How did you all enjoy your flavors this evening?” she asked Finny and Brad.
It was an odd way to phrase the question, but they both answered that everything was great. Phenomenal even.
Back at Finny’s apartment she barely got the door closed behind them before Brad had her against the wall, his hand on her breast, his erection poking her leg like an accusing finger. He’d dropped his messenger bag next to where they stood, on top of the row of shoes Finny kept by the door. As they kissed, he worked his other hand over her body, feeling her belly, her ass, her legs. He seemed warm from their walk outside, his forehead glistening. Finally, he inserted his hand into the waist of her pants, his fingers smoothing over the unmistakably wet patch on her underwear.
“I’m really turned on by you,” he said.
Finny nodded. She felt his hand working into her underwear, then one of his fingers slipping inside her. She moaned. She couldn’t help it. A flood of warmth rushed to her groin. She felt her hips begin to move with his in a gyrating motion, like an imitation of sex. His finger was gliding in and out, in and out.
“Where’s your bed?” he said.
She tilted her head in the direction of her bedroom. She wasn’t sure if she could speak, she was so turned on. She felt feverish. Buds of sweat had begun to bloom on her forehead. She put both her hands around his neck and let his finger thrust inside her.
“I want you so bad, Finny,” he said. “It’s painful.”
She grabbed his shirt collar and gave it a tug. “Let’s go,” she said.
They slipped off their shoes, and she took him by the hand down the hallway. Their palms were hot and moist against each other. Finny could hear footsteps in the hallway above them, the Almeidas getting ready for bed. She snapped the light on in the kitchen so they wouldn’t trip, and something about the sudden brightness, the cold linoleum on the pads of her bare feet, made her feel as if the act were already done, as if she were leading Brad to the front door, saying good night. She flipped off the light.
The bedroom was dim. Finny turned on some music she liked—Elliott Smith playing a solo concert with his acoustic guitar. The lights of the stereo cast the room in an electric blue glow. Brad pulled Finny to him, and for a minute they swayed together to the music like old lovers. She closed her eyes and imagined herself dancing in faraway places: Tokyo, Mexico, Paris.
Then Brad was laying her down on the beige comforter, his hands working over her, undressing her. He pulled her blouse over her head. He unfastened the clasp of her bra. He unbuttoned her pants and tugged them over her hips, revealing the small pair of black panties Finny had chosen for the occasion. He grinned at the sight of them. With one finger, he tugged on the lip of her panties, releasing the marshy scent of her arousal. He pulled the underwear down and pressed his nose into the thatch of her pubic hair.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said, just before she felt the tip of his tongue inserting itself where his finger had been. She shivered, convulsed. He was unbuttoning his own shirt, removing it. She heard the buttons tick against the floor when he tossed it off.
In a minute he was standing in his underwear, his chest shining in the blue light from her stereo. He had a nicely muscled body, some faint ridges along his abdomen, which was slightly bulged from all the food. The hair on his chest, which Finny noticed also grew more thinly on his upper arms and the top of his back, was the color of sawdust, and it looked softer than it had through the V of his open-necked shirt.
“Can you give me just one minute?” he said. “I don’t know if you need to get ready or anything.”
She knew he meant birth control. “I have condoms,” she said.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
He walked out into the dark kitchen, and she heard him knock into a chair and curse to himself. She laughed. She began to masturbate lightly, so that she’d still be ready for him when he returned.
In five minutes, he hadn’t come back. She got up from the bed, put on her bra and underpants, and went into the kitchen, briefly flicking on the light so that she didn’t knock into anything. She had goose bumps on her arms and legs. It was cool for summer, and Finny was always sensitive to temperature. She heard some clicking and unzipping in the bathroom, and noticed the line of light under the door. She was worried he might have gotten sick from all the wine, and thought that maybe she should check on him.
When she got into the hall, she noticed his messenger bag was not where he’d placed it before, on top of her shoes. He must have taken it with him into the bathroom, which was a strange thing. She was just about to knock on the bathroom door when she heard a long, decisive sniffing sound, like someone with a very bad cold. Then she heard the sound again. It was unmistakable. And it came to her all of a sudden why Brad had been making so many trips to the bathroom, what he had in the messenger bag.
She hurried back to the bedroom, stepping silently on the cold floor so that he wouldn’t hear her, wouldn’t know she’d been listening to him. She got back in bed, under the comforter, feeling cold all over. She’d lost her buzz from the alcohol, and with her drunkenness her ardor had also fled. She felt a rush of shame for how she’d acted. Like a horny teenager, she thought. So frivolous. It wasn’t that Finny objected to sex, even casual sex; it was just the fact of getting it in this childish way, all the drinking and pawing at each other, the bribe of a fancy meal. And why Brad, who had probably snorted enough coke over the course of the evening to fund a Colombian cartel?
She got out of bed and started to dress. She no longer wanted to sleep with him, was even slightly repulsed by the idea. The springs had dried up. But how do you tell a man like Brad you’ve lost interest, once you’ve gone so far?
And the appearance of Brad at the bedroom door, his eyes glazed with lust and drugs, didn’t make things any easier. Finny had put her pants and blouse back on, and had turned up the lights.
“What’s the matter?” Brad said. His speech was rapid, quick as a drumroll.
“I just got cold,” Finny said.
“I think I can help with that,” he said, sitting down beside her, snuggling his hand into her crotch. “Can you get the lights, babe?” he asked, kissing her neck, swirling his tongue in her ear. It tickled, and she had to suppress the urge to laugh at him.
“Brad,” she said.
He didn’t respond.
“Brad.”
“These lights are killing me, babe,” he said.
“I’m not sure, Brad—”
But he pushed her back on the bed, straddling her. She knew that if she tried to wiggle free, his weight would keep her pinned to the mattress. Not that she tried. Not that she really meant to get him off her. He seemed encouraged by resistance anyway, and he smiled his wide smile at her. He planted a kiss on her lips. She could feel his nose pressing into her face, and when he pulled back, she saw blood in one of his nostrils. At first she had the irrational thought that it was hers, that he’d somehow cut her or bitten her. But then she realized it was his own blood, that nosebleeds were probably as common in his life as trips to the bathroom.
“You’re bleeding,” she told him weakly.
But he didn’t seem to care. He’d opened the button of her pants and was tugging them down along with her underwear. Finny didn’t even care anymore. She didn’t see the point in resisting. She just wanted to get it over with as soon as possible so she could have the apartment to herself.
“Just use a condom,” she told Brad.
While he was unbuckling his pants, she reached into a drawer by th
e bed and produced a condom for him. He tore the wrapper with his teeth and slid the rubber over his penis with remarkable swiftness. He was fairly large with an erection, and when he pushed into Finny, she gasped as if she’d been socked in the stomach. He began to move to the rhythm of the guitar music from the speakers, pushing in and pulling out of her. She felt a tingle at this familiar motion, and decided she would close her eyes. The bright light was bothering her anyway. But the spark never caught. She couldn’t bring herself to enjoy him.
Soon she felt hot raindrops on her face. At first she thought it was his saliva, like from a rabid animal. But then she realized it must have been the blood from Brad’s nose that was speckling her, and probably the comforter, too. She was thinking about how much a new comforter would cost, when he let out a long sigh, and she realized he’d finished. She heard applause from the CD.
“Oh,” Brad said, breathing heavily. “Damn, that was good.”
Finny pushed him off her, pulled up her pants, and went to the bathroom to pee. She wanted to get the feeling of his body out of her as soon as she could. And she wanted to get his actual body out of the apartment even sooner. When she was done peeing, she went to the sink and looked at her own face under the Hollywood bulbs of her bathroom mirror, her skin dotted with rust-colored beads of blood. She thought of the blissful expressions of couples in women’s magazines, next to articles about hookups and sex moves. She thought of the way she used to model her rat’s nest in front of the mirror when she was a child, and she laughed at herself—always her first reaction to pain—at how much had changed. She leaned down and turned on the faucet, splashing the blood off her face with water that was too hot and that ran in a pink stream into the drain.
