“If you say so.” But a bit of annoyance creeps into your previously buoyant mood.
And then it turns out you can’t make it because, of all things, you have a job interview, something your sister set up at her colleague’s husband’s law firm. So you text that to her: I have a job interview at nine, other side of the city. Don’t know how long it’s going to take. Will text you when I know.
You come out of your job interview, turn on your phone, and there’s a voicemail. “Oh, dear,” the voicemail says. “That is not the kind of text I want to get. I want to get texts that say how much you want to see me, not that you don’t want to see me at all. What is your problem anyway? Do you want to make this happen, or what?”
You do want to make this happen. Obediently, you text her right away: you really, really want to see her, and you’re sorry you missed her. And your phone rings moments later. You answer it with a little shudder of anticipation.
“That’s better,” she says. “Okay. I was very lonely when I came out of my photo shoot, but I’m better now, and I’m hungry.”
“Come over now,” you say, being ensconced in your new cat-free establishment. “I’ll make you lunch. I’ll cook.” Sid has a great kitchen with all the stuff. Stuff you don’t even know what it does.
“Just give me the address,” she says. “I’ll be there in about an hour.”
You half-believe she won’t show up. You race around getting items for a simple kind of lunch you think she’ll like. Heirloom tomatoes, French bread, mozzarella cheese, fresh basil. You’re almost in a frenzy.
Of course she’s late, but she does appear at the door, dolled up as usual. “I already ate,” she says (and what did you expect?). “But here,” she adds, “you can undress me.”
The shock nearly stops your heart. She doesn’t want to eat, but she wants you to undress her?
“I don’t really use my hands,” she says. “Because of my job, you know?”
You wonder who dressed her, then. Because buttons that are being undone — and yes, you’re doing it — had to first be done. So who did that? Then you don’t think of that, you’re removing all of her clothes, except the gloves, and all of yours as well. And you’re making love to her, and she’s lovely, soft in all the right places, creamy, fragrant, noisy, perfect. She doesn’t use her hands much, mainly just to position your head where she wants it, but it doesn’t matter. She uses everything else.
Afterward you lie there thinking that you still don’t know her name. You think of how strippers always take the gloves off first, not that you know this firsthand. You’ve seen damn few strip shows and none that featured gloves.
In afterglow, you wonder if it would be this good if she hadn’t played all those games. Then she tells you that she’s now hungry again. You have the first semblance of normalcy as you make the best tomato mozzarella sandwich in the history of the world while she talks to you, telling you about her job. And while she manages to get her clothes back on while wearing those gloves.
When she tastes what you made, she tells you you ought to be a chef.
Then she apologizes for not being able to help clean up and asks to borrow your phone. She doesn’t make any calls though, just presses some buttons. You see her, out of the corner of your eye, as you wash the dishes (you were going to wait until she was gone, but then you think it might be good if she sees how expert you are at keeping a kitchen clean; she might want to keep you around). And then she’s gone.
After the spell wears off you still feel pretty lighthearted. Okay, you’ve just had sex with a woman whose real name you don’t know, and whose hands you’ve never seen, and now you’re thinking, wondering if you can straighten it out. Learn her name, tell her who you really are and that this sleek, modern apartment is Sid’s, not yours. Maybe make something out of this after all. After more sexual encounters, obviously.
You text her right away saying that she’s wonderful, and you had a really good time, an understatement, and you hope she did too, and you can’t wait to see her again.
And from her? Nothing. Nothing for hours. Nothing for a whole day.
You send her a couple more texts, the kind she likes, about how you are dreaming of her creamy skin, and longing to see her, and in fact looking for her everywhere again.
Nothing.
You call her phone and get her voicemail, as she said you would, because she never answers the phone, but listening to her voice is enough. You leave a couple of tender messages. You try to make them full of innuendo and subtext without being actually dirty. Or sometimes you just listen to her voice.
Nothing from her. Nothing for two days.
You can feel your body language showing defeat as you walk through the city accompanied by four dogs. Your shoulders slump. You try to pump yourself up. You remember everything she said. None of it tells you why she isn’t calling you back.
And then, after two days of despair, she does call. It’s 11:32 on Saturday morning just as you’re dropping dog number four off with his doorman. She sounds slightly breathless, but warm. “So, hi there.”
You realize you ought to play it cool but there’s no way. “Hello!”
You can almost hear the smile in her voice (she knows she’s got you).
“Yeah, hello, you! Listen, sorry I’ve been so out of touch. I did get your messages.”
Before you can answer she goes on.
“I’m reciprocating, that is, can you come over for lunch? I know it’s short notice. My place. Well, actually, my parents’ place. They’re out of town this weekend.”
You’re shot in the head with glee. “Sure,” you say. Anything she wants, at this point, and she knows it.
She gives you an address on Riverside Drive and tells you to come right now, and text when you’re like a block away and she’ll leave the door open.
Riverside Drive and she doesn’t have a doorman? You ask about this.
“No, no, it’s a townhome,” she says. “A row house. Just come on in, when you get here, I mean, after you’ve texted me. I’ll be busy in the kitchen but I’ll come open the door, when you text.”
Hey, you’re on your way. With a couple of questions.
She said she didn’t cook, didn’t clean, didn’t type, didn’t text, and now she’s making lunch?
It’s not her place but her parents’?
But whatever. You get to her block. You’re impressed. You knew she was out of your league. This whole part of town is out of your league. You take a deep breath and text, I’m a block away, see you soon. Your heart hammers. She could probably hear it from where she is, if she opened the door. This is some expensive real estate. Sure, row houses, but these are practically historic landmarks. In fact some of them are historic landmarks. Narrow but tall. Another deep breath as you stand outside. Do you look presentable? The stairs look endless. The door is open a few inches, as she said it would be, and from your vantage point you can see part of a large entryway, with a chandelier.
You hear a scream. Definitely coming from inside.
You bolt up the stairs, following the scream, as another scream rends the air. You don’t have time to admire the entry, the oak staircase, the stained glass, because you’re following the sound of her voice. You burst into a room off the hallway and there she is, kneeling on the floor beside an old man who’s sprawled out flat. Old enough to be her father.
You recognize him immediately. Almost anyone would. He’s a rich and influential old man, prominent, socially and politically connected. Another minute and you’ll think of his name, or maybe not. Blood streams out of him, and his face is pale. His lips move. Her father?