“We go there.”
“You’re taking the long way. I want the short way. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m paying the scenic route fare.”
“What is scenic route?”
“Unbelievable,” Dawn mutters. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. We aren’t fucking tourists here!”
Heather places her right hand on my cheek and turns my face toward hers. Of the two, she has sweeter eyes.
“Baby, why can’t we stay at your pad tonight? I know you must be shacked-up in some killer suite.”
“I’d love to,” I say. “I really would. But I’m here with my girlfriend. Now she expects me not to come home. That’s all right. But showing up with two buxom ladies like yourselves would get me thrown out on my ass. You understand.”
“Shit, I’d sleep in Central Park if it was with you.”
Heather and Dawn live in a two bedroom apartment in Murray Hill. I have a hunch they’re models, but I don’t ask. I mean, they have to be, right? How do two twenty-year-olds afford a place in Manhattan?
It’s 1:15 in the morning when we step out of the elevator onto their floor. The building is dead silent. I’m walking behind them, and they keep looking back at me with these wicked grins. I know it should’ve occurred to me long before now, but it hits me suddenly that we’re probably going into their apartment to be naughty. And my head’s spinning so much from this wonderful, inconceivable day which began more than eighteen hours ago, that I can’t even assess whether or not I’m ready to live out this fantasy. I’m not a terribly sexual person in real life. There are guys out there, who I’m sure think about it much more than me. I don’t even look at that much porn. I’ve only slept with one person in my entire life—this nice girl I dated my freshman year in college, when it still looked like I might turn out like everyone else.
So as Heather unlocks the door to their apartment and we stroll inside, I’m kind of wondering whether I’m up to this.
Man, these women must be in love with themselves. When the lights flick on, I notice that the living room walls are adorned with enlarged photographs of Heather and Dawn. The one over the couch is a photo of one of them (can’t tell which), in a cowboy hat, sitting bareback on a very lucky horse, and looking sultrily into the camera. Over the flatscreen, they’ve hung a collage of all the magazine covers they’ve appeared on.
“Thought I recognized you two,” I say as my eyes pass over the collage. I don’t really recognize them. Just being nice. “Been in the city long?” I ask, moving through the living room and to the window which peers out over the fire escape and into another apartment building. Through an open window, I see the red digits of an alarm clock in a bedroom. I’m sure a couple sleeps somewhere in that blue darkness, and for some reason, the thought of this makes my chest ache for half a second.
“Nine months,” one of them says, answering my question. They’ve disappeared into the kitchen, and I hear ice cubes dropping into glassware.
When they return to the living room, Dawn takes my jacket and Heather hands me a glass of bronze liquor.
“Hope you like scotch,” she says. “Best thing we got.”
I sip it. Tastes rotten and fiery, in a good way.
“It’s fine.” When you’re famous, people open the good stuff.
“You’ve got a nice place here,” I say.
Heather walks over to the window and takes my hand. She leads me back to the couch, and the three of us sit down with our drinks. I’m nervous, but the scotch is helping. These girls are so gorgeous. Almost too gorgeous. If you saw them from a distance, you’d think they were sophisticated, too, but sitting here beside them, I see they aren’t. I’m not saying they’re stupid or anything. Just not as deep as I first thought. Maybe because they’re young. I guess everybody you meet is eventually a letdown.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty,” Heather says. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.” Shit. Jansen’s thirty-nine. But I don’t think they know that.
Heather begins to run her fingers through my hair. They’re both looking at me sort of funny, and you can tell they don’t really want to talk.
My scotch is gone.
“How does it feel?” Dawn asks me while Heather touches the cool tip of her nose against my cheek.
“How does what feel?”
“Out of that entire crowd of scrumptious men, we picked you.” She brushes her hair behind her shoulders and tilts her head, waiting my reply. Her dress glitters, rose and gold.
“You do this often? Is this your thing? Finding guys at parties and bringing them home with you?”
“It’s not like we’re whores,” Dawn says.
“I don’t think he means that,” Heather defends. “Jim, when we see a guy we both like, we bring them home and make them feel good and let them make us feel good and make each other feel good. It’s a triangle of goodness. You see anything wrong with that?”
“No.” Feeling pretty aroused now.
Heather nibbles my ear and stands. “Come on.”
I follow the twins into their bedroom. Feel like I’m straddling this fence, and on one side is fear, on the other, pure sensuality. They sort of go hand in hand I think.
“Ladies,” I say as we enter the dark bedroom, and Dawn lights three candles on a dresser and turns on a lava lamp. “I know you probably think I do this all the time, but I’ve never had two. I just don’t—”
“We’ll take care of you, baby,” Heather says as the bite of the struck match fills the room, and I kind of love her for saying that.
They step out of their glittery dresses and climb onto the bed. They’re naked in the candlelight, on their knees facing each other. Long hair. Short hair. Miles of smooth skin. Like one creature. More beauty than I have ever seen. They hold hands. The comforter is black silk. They begin to kiss, and then wave me over to join them.
This moment, this night is so much more than Lance deserves. As I undress, I can feel him beginning to fade. I won’t fight it. I think I’m beginning to understand now.
Some things, you just let die.
In the morning, I climb out of bed before they wake and walk into the kitchen, fully intending to prepare a breakfast of historic proportions. But when I open the fridge, I see that this is not in the cards. There’s a bag of lettuce, several dozen bottled waters, and more Yoplait than any human being should ever see at one time.
I open the freezer, praying for a bag of bagels, something, but it houses only trays of ice and frozen dinners. Low-fat, no salt, low-calorie, cholesterol-free, organic, soy, vegan meals, to be specific.
My head feels like a bowling ball on my shoulders, and yogurt isn’t going to remedy this hangover. I walk back into the twins’ bedroom. They look lovely curled up back-to-back, and I stand there for a moment, just taking them in. I couldn’t do this if they were awake, because last night is over. Last night wasn’t about a connection, or liking, or loving. It’s awfully sad, and I’m doing all I can not to give a shit, but that’s difficult for me. So I stand at the foot of their bed for five minutes, watching them sleep, loving them as much as one can when under the gun of these callous rules.
Then I take my horribly wrinkled clothes out into the living room and dress. I’ll need to get my suit pressed before I go anywhere important. It’s 8:10, and I’ve got to have some coffee, something greasy.
I don’t even leave a note.
So it’s 8:30 and I’m strolling down the sidewalk, and I’ll bet everyone who walks past me is thinking, man that guy had a big night. And I did. It’s true. My suit looks like shit, and I’ve got these dark sunglasses on, a script under my arm, and even though I feel pretty rundown, I’m floating.
I cross E. 40th Street, and there’s a diner on the corner called DINER, so I step inside and claim a stool. I go ahead and take the sunglasses off so people don’t think I’m an asshole. It’s okay to wear them outside at this hour of the morning if you’re a Star, but inside might be pushing it.
I order so much damn food it takes up more than my allotment of counter space, but who gives a fuck, you know? I’m just in that kind of a mood this morning, and that’s pretty rare for me. Normally, I’m highly concerned about what people think. Even strangers.