by Hope Irving
At first, I stand with my mouth gaping in front of the odd couple that’s clearly leaving the cafe.
“Hello, Rose. Nice to see you here,” I mumble to the woman that I occasionally meet either here or at the gym with her fitness addict of a boyfriend. Her face drops as she glances at the impossibly tall guy to her right and freezes. I gawk at the sick joke that the universe is playing on me the night that Alie and I are finally together.
I would recognize this guy anywhere. Virgil Blake. I can tell that he reads my recognition before Rose introduces him. I can tell that he doesn’t place me, despite the permanent marker we share. I can tell that he would be pleased to see his work of art proudly displayed in Green-Wood Cemetery. He did a beautiful job engraving Delia’s tombstone with the most delicate calligraphy; this guy is freaking talented, even though I wish that I’d never come to know it. He’s from New Jersey but came highly recommended by Drake, a long-time friend from my apprenticeship days, who somehow befriended Claire, who hired him when things went downhill for me. Small world.
The strawberry blond guy nods, extends his arm for a handshake, and as his pale blue eyes bore into my brown ones, he says, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. de Luca.” Without another word, I realize that he remembers, but his kind words wound deeply. Fucking drunk driver, who ripped my heart out and ended my life the day my wife died. My rib cage constricts, and my breath catches in my chest; my thank you comes out in a sputter. Rose shoots him a glance and winces at me.
To chase the sensation away, I start making small talk in rushed words. Our last gym session. Their delicious dinner. The perfect neighborhood. We’re about to part ways, and after I mindlessly conclude with, “Tell Bruce I said ‘hi’!” the strangest thing happens.
In the blink of an eye, the restaurant turns pitch black and stone-cold silent. No lights. No music. No conversations.
What the actual fuck?
By the time I finish this profound thought, everything goes back to normal. I take a quick gander at the other customers, and nobody but me seems to have taken notice of that…what was it exactly? Maybe I imagined it or I blanked out for a moment.
Man, I need to pace myself.
“I think we’d better get going, right?” His head swivels towards Rose, they say goodbye, and I watch them go, transfixed; they’re holding hands.
They are curiously ill-fitted because he’s so tall and so pale, yet there’s something about them that radiates unconditional love. It sends a cold sweat down my spine that has nothing to do with the fact that I might be witnessing Rose cheating on Bruce. Frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck about what’s going on between those two. My sickening sensation comes from deep within my tortured soul. Because I remember how unconditional love felt. Because I remember how I foolishly believed it was eternal. Because I remember how I lost it in a heartbeat nonetheless. My lonely heart aches, and I decide that rushing things with Alie would be wrong. It crosses my mind that she mentioned purchasing a one-way ticket, and the last thing I want to do is scare her off. She took this trip to meet me, so it must mean something to her.
I eventually return to the table with a clearer head but remain troubled by the incident; let’s see what she says.
She leans across the table as soon as I reappear, concern written all over her face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I have… sort of.” I give her a heavily edited Cliff-Notes version of my encounter, ignoring the part where everything went dead: one of my gym buddies is cheating on her boyfriend, and it’ll be awkward the next time I see him. “I don’t get why people cheat. Not that it’s any of my business, but…” I shake my head to force myself to forget about the whole thing. “Well, I shouldn’t have kept you waiting... I’m so—” I stop in my tracks and chuckle when our previous conversation comes to mind. She joins me when I add, “Sorry, not sorry!”
“I knew you were a fast learner! And there’s no need to worry anyway. The food just got here.” We eat in silence for a couple of minutes, as if she senses that I need some time to recover from this experience. My uneasiness slowly lessens as my concentration drifts from my past to our present. “How was your bathroom break anyway?” Concern morphs into a mischievous grin that threatens to make me hard again too soon. I make a mental note to consult a doctor, since being hard 24/7 can’t be safe; I haven’t had trouble getting it up after emerging from my slump, but this isn’t healthy.
I drop my fork beside my half-eaten steak and stare at her. “Excuse me?” I create some distance by straightening my back against the chair. My hand lands on my stomach, feigning dismay.
She takes another bite of her burger, then places her hands on the table, bridging the gap that I established. Leaning her upper body over the table, she whispers in my ear, “Oh, please! You and I both know what went on in there.” Her breath tickles my ear, initiating all kinds of depraved thoughts, but nothing can prepare me for what comes next. “Masturbation is totally natural…” She resumes her position, her eyes caging mine. “Well, maybe not in a restaurant.” My eyes widen. “You know, if you’d asked nicely, I could’ve given you a hand.” She clears her throat and strips me bare with such a raunchy gaze that I blush. I’m wavering between utter embarrassment and total amusement at how ballsy she is. And here I thought she was innocent. I should have known better. After all, she followed me here willingly.
Why deny it, right? “Are you serious right now?” To escape divulging more, I stuff a piece of steak in my mouth.
And while my question was rhetorical, she speaks her mind anyway. “There’s that expression again! And of course, I’m very serious.” Her tone is slightly offended which I find humorous, considering what she’s discussing.
My expression dares her to falter as do my words. “You would’ve followed me into the bathroom and helped me out?” I wrongly thought that muttering it aloud would unsettle her.
Instead, she leans my way again and murmurs, “Why would I say I would if I wouldn’t?”
Good question, young lady.
“I can think of several reasons…” Debating on how to phrase it, my thumb and index finger mindlessly stroke my chin. “Let’s see. You don’t know me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Come on, Tig de Luca! After everything…” She wiggles in her seat, sipping some water before adding in a grave tone, “I know you better than you think. You don’t need to be shy all of a sudden because we’re face-to-face. Honesty is all I ask of you.”
“Oh, Alie, you have no idea how much I’m myself around you. And that’s a rare occurrence. I’m just… Thank you.”
It’s her turn to ask, “Excuse me?”
“Thank you for traveling this far so that we could meet. Thank you for following me here tonight. Thank you for letting me be myself.”
The side of her foot brushes against mine during dessert and coffee, spurring a myriad of long-forgotten but welcome sensations that course through my body, mind, and soul. Her eyes lazily and brazenly linger on me… until the moment’s ruined when I snatch the bill and declare, “It’s on me.”
“What? No!” The outrage that contorts her lovely face almost scares me and the volume of her voice arouses Hugh’s suspicion, but she makes a gesture to send him away before lowering her voice. “I can pay for my own dinner, thank you very much.” Her fair brows are scrunched together.
“I’m well aware of that, Alie.” My gleeful voice seems to irritate her further.
“I hate it when guys assume they have to pay. Why can’t I buy you dinner for a change?” She’s completely blowing this out of proportion.
“You need to chill out, Alie. Maybe you should practice more of the breathing exercises we’ve chatted about.” I sigh, mustering the courage to speak my mind.
I like this girl. Her looks. (I’d love to see that red mouth wrapped around my dick.) I really like this girl. Her chutzpah (as Ethel Katz, my eighty-year-old Jewish neighbor, would say). I truly like this girl. Her appeal. (Other than my
late wife, I’ve never been attracted to someone on so many levels.) In truth, the age difference is an excuse my dead heart mustered to flee whatever it is we are building.
I roll back my shoulders and deliver my speech between clenched teeth; I need to set things straight. “I know it might come as a shock, but I’m not treating you tonight because I’m trying to get into your pants. Finding a free fuck isn’t that complicated, you know. I’m treating you because I want to thank you for making this trip and taking a chance to meet in person. I’m treating you because I had a lovely evening, and it’s been so long since that happened. I would have done the same if you were a dude, and not because I was hoping to top later. Are we clear?” I’m amazed that I’m not shaking when I stand up, get my wallet from my coat pocket, and leave a wad of cash on the table. I’ve never felt so right.
“Fine, fine, pay the bill.” Her voice is laced with the same annoyance as before. “And thank you for dinner. Really.” It turns softer. “I mean it.” Her tone grows warmer as she follows me outside after wishing Hugh a good evening.
“My pleasure.”
Chapter Fourteen
Titanium
Aliénor
My iPhone chimes, and I rummage through my purse to find it. Father made fun of Mother when she chose this particular birthday present. Too big. Too black. Too expensive. Birkin So Black is its name. So large is this Hermès purse. Sooo expensive is its price tag.
Despite our ample bank account, Mother shied away from ostentatious tastes and taught us well. From the day we were born with silver spoons in our mouths, my parents emphasized that life is never to be taken for granted; we are privileged, but that’s no reason to feel or act entitled. We don’t brag about the family money, status, or name because it doesn’t define us; it’s simply a part of who we are.
However, this special luxury accessory was the exception to the rule. From the moment she laid eyes upon it, this bag called to her. It had to be hers, at least once Father agreed to her whim and put her name on a waiting list, which was unthinkable for her. It was her guilty pleasure. A pleasure with a bitter taste, since I inherited it after her death. A pleasure with a sense of pride attached to it, since she’s always by my side, sort of. A pleasure with lots of hidden treasures… like my phone that I ultimately find buried under other vital items. Checking my missed calls, I see that one is from Father, which I’m not prepared to endure yet. The note that I left on the dining room table was self-explanatory.
In the middle of my tasty breakfast of avocado toast, I take a sip of my morning coffee and don’t bother listening to my cousin’s voicemail. I call her back instead of texting like we usually do, forgetting that it’s Wednesday morning and she’s at work. “I should have called you back sooner.”
“Don’t stress it, Aliénor. We all know how independent you are, but when my dad started to ask if we were in touch and was ready to call Uncle Charles, I warned him not to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. As for me, well, after your text on Sunday night, I figured you were... otherwise… occupied…” She trails off, and I know exactly what she’s implying; my reputation knows no bounds, not that I mind. I’m happy in my own cancer-free skin.
“Thanks, Greer. I owe you.” I take another bite of the delicious dish while gazing out the window in the vain hope that it’ll make the pouring rain stop. It’s a shame because the view is breathtaking. I’d love to wander around and discover the neighborhood.
“I’ve been patient… So, spit it out! I’m on a ten-minute break.”
I check my watch, realizing that it’s already past nine. Staring at my avocado toast, I mull over which details to give away. “Where should I start?” Splitting the yolk in two, I munch on my softened toast to buy some time. “For once, it’s actually not what you think, but I can tell you all about it when we meet after you’re done with work. Is seven okay or too early?” She’s learning the ropes at a fashionable PR company for red-carpet luxury style brands. It’s right up her alley, considering her connections to many of the happy few, and it also keeps her schedule full.
“Depends on where you are. Are you still in the country, or did you fly away in some handsome prince’s private jet?” Her breathing changes, and it dawns on me that she’s on a cigarette break despite multiple claims that she was going to quit her nasty habit. The last time was a few months ago when I dropped the C-bomb, not that my cancer had anything to do with smoking, though.
Her question is so ludicrous that I can’t help but laugh, attracting the attention of some fellow patrons. I ignore them and pour some more coffee into my empty cup, then gulp the warm beverage. “Good one, but you know that private jets are bad for the environment, and if I—”
She cuts me off. “Don’t start, okay. I know you aren’t waiting for Prince Charming to sweep you off your feet and escort you to his shiny stainless-steel jet.” Although we’re on the phone, in my mind, I can see the corners of her eyes crinkle into a smile at my never-ending rant—that women dare to call feminism when it is, in truth, a matter of equity.
At the thought, Sunday’s conversation with Tig comes to my mind. As peeved as I was by his argument over paying the bill, the asshole had a point.
Tig: 1 – Aliénor: 0
I awkwardly try to cut a piece of the egg-sodden homemade bread with my fork—a gesture that Father would disapprove of—and opt to toy with her some more. “You know, I’m pretty sure that planes aren’t made of stainless steel.”
A tsk noise comes across the line. “Who cares, Aliénor?” She inhales deeply, taking a drag from her cigarette no doubt, and it takes all the restraint I have to keep my mouth shut. “Stop skirting my questions. I don’t have all day, and there’s no way you’re going to leave me hanging after I saved your ass with my dad.” She pauses. “Now, spill!” I guess being bossy runs in the family, and here I thought that it came from my dad’s side. She sighs. “Where are you anyway?”
It’s my turn to giggle because I anticipate the reaction that will follow my revelation. “In Brooklyn Heights.” I wolf down the remainder of my lukewarm toast.
And here it comes. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she stutters in between chortles. A second later, she gets a hold of herself and uses her perfectly trained PR voice to ask, “Would you care to share how you got lost in the middle of nowhere?” And here I thought Brooklyn was a hip borough… silly me!
The phone no longer held against my ear, I stare at it for a moment, shocked that she can’t fathom the possibility of me staying at a hotel in Brooklyn. Once again, I quickly balance my options. I’m tempted to remind her that life exists outside of Central Park West, 5th Avenue, and Park Avenue; she’s not conceited, but she can come off as posh when she lets this side of her show. I play nice and opt for honesty; she’s on my side after all.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
I haven’t told my cousin about him yet… and start my story, with bits and pieces artfully missing. It doesn’t take long to register that my heart is ridiculously invested in my tale. Online guy from the U.S. Tattoo artist from Manhattan. Cool guy from Brooklyn Heights. Not a total lie. Not the total truth either. Not sure where I stand after we finally met. I had a good time with the despicable Tig de Luca. Soon after comes the plot twist. “I’m pretty sure that he’s super active online, if you know what I mean.”
“Let’s see…” She pauses, pretending to ponder what I said. “Between the sheets, right? Thanks to his potent presence online and offline.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself. Thoughtful, I finish my coffee and head towards the lobby. I clear my throat and resume my train of thought. “But yeah, I mean, we kind of hit it off online.” That’s not even a lie! “Despite my initial hesitation, a couple of months later, we were face-to-face… on Sunday evening.”
I’m feeling lazy after the wild night that I had, so I head for the elevator, press the button, and wait.
“Oh my God! French lovers aren’t enough anymore; you’re incorrigible
!” I bet the people passing me overheard that. Oh, well! French lovers are as good as any, but so far, I haven’t found a man to conquer my heart, body, and soul. Oblivious to my inner debate, I hear her filling in the blanks of my modern-day fairytale. “He brought you back to his place, you slept together, and now you’re calling me to avoid the walk of shame!” Her voice is more playful than judgmental.
“Calm your tits, Greer!” I reply in a low voice as I change my mind and pace the lobby while getting this conversation back on track. I cup my hand between the phone and the side of my mouth to keep as quiet as I can. “Should I remind you that you called first and I called you back? Should I remind you that there’s no such thing as the walk of shame because I’ve always embraced my sex life and I’m not ashamed of it? Should I remind you that I hate tats, so it’ll be a while before anything happens?” My final question that was intended to be witty rings so true that I shiver. Seducing him means having sex with him and dumping him at some point, but I’ve only slept with guys that I was attracted to. Tig isn’t one of them, or is he? He could have been if it weren’t for the atrocities he’s inflicted on his otherwise decent body.
“You said that Tig was a tattoo artist, not that he had tats,” she counters.
“Oh, come on! Those go together like David and Victoria Beckham.”
“Nice reference, Aliénor. Since when do you like soccer and old Brit pop?”
“It’s called football in any civilized country.”
“Fuck you!”
“Ohhh… curse words!” We burst into laughter, instantly remembering the countless summers in Martha’s Vineyard where our parents would go berserk at that. “Anyway, he has ink on his hands and neck. It’s gruesome.”
“O-kay… So, remind me why you’re even remotely interested in a guy who you consider to be gross?”
Fuck, I spoke too fast. Focus. Focus. Focus.
Blowing out a long breath, I do exactly that. “I’m not that shallow. I can see beyond the ink.”
