Love Is Red (10 page)

She'll get there sooner than she knows.

My mother calls.

“How are you?” she asks.

When I was ten my mother met a well-known heart surgeon thirty years her senior, and when I was eleven she married him. His name was Richard but everyone called him Dick. He was a widower with silver hair. He had an expensive house in a swanky suburb of Washington, DC, and two children, but not really children because they were six and four years older than me and didn't take much interest in a gawky eleven-year-old. My stepfather never told me to call him Dad, and I never did. I didn't call him Dick either. I called him Richard.

“So, what's new?”

My mother has silvery blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a tight smile. She smells bright and clean and efficient, like the inside of an expensive bag. Like winter. After her second husband, Richard “call me Dick,” died, my mother found happiness in dogs and real estate. She'll call occasionally, or I will. Just to “check in.” It's more like stocktaking. Alive? Solvent?

My mother and I are not close. We treat each other like tourists who find each other in a foreign place. We come from the same country, but not the same part of the country. We might have unexpected things in common, but our lives are different, separate, and “other.” We are polite and friendly. We stick to neutral topics and are relieved when the time for talking is over.

But now there's panic in the city. People are frightened. Even my mother is calling more often.

“I'm good. And you?”

“How's your roommate?” My mother's manner is like a folding chair. Theoretically you can sit on it, but it will offer you the minimum of comfort or support. She disapproves of Andrea's single-mother status.

“Andrea's fine, Mom.”

“And her son? Is it Luther?”

She's proud she's making the effort.
“Lucas is fine too.”

I think of telling her about the pennies. There were seven today. I'm torn. It reminds me of Secret Santa, which we used to have at my school. I always hoped Amir, my long-term crush, would pick my name out of the hat. I guess that's why I haven't stopped this, picked the pennies up.

I decide not to tell my mother. She would be horrified that Lucas would be allowed into my room at all.

My mother does not ask about my love life. This is good. I wouldn't know what to tell her if she did. I'll never tell anyone. It's better this way.

I haven't heard from Sael. I'm not exactly glad but I'm relieved. Without the rules, the framework of five dinners,
there was nothing. We were so brutally honest; where could we go from there? Still, to be so right is a little disappointing.

But something good has come from it. I've started to see David again. During the phase with Sael I hardly saw or spoke to him. He asked me out twice but I found reasons to be busy. I felt too guilty. And after that he kept away too, sensing my uncertain, unhappy signal. However, this past Monday the guilt had faded enough and I reached out and called and now we're going on a date.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll get away with it. I wonder if this could be easier than I ever considered. Maybe no one has to get hurt—really hurt, that is. Sael fades away and David comes back, and technically I haven't done anything wrong.

Technically.

David and I are at the movies tonight.

The movies are public. The movies are safe. No one wants to be too isolated these days. He buys the tickets and I buy the popcorn and a Cherry Coke for myself and a Coke for him. You must eat popcorn when watching a movie.

We split up, him to find seats, me to go to the bathroom. When I walk into the theater, he waves to me. He's sitting up high near the back, the seats I like the best.

“Here you go.” I hand him his Coke. The popcorn is to share.

“Ah.” He settles back. “Popcorn, a Coke, and thou, not a bad combo.”

“Not bad at all.”

“It's been a while,” he says.

“I know,” I say.

He takes a swig. “When all is said and done, when the battle's lost and won, Coke cannot be beaten. It's the drink of champions. And you're drinking?”

“Cherry Coke. I'm not a purist like some people.”

“No ginger ale, right? It reminds you of being ill.”

I think of my dating profile; I flush, ashamed. He remembered. He cares. Then the previews start and we both fall silent.

It's a good film, a thriller. A woman detective pursues a killer, and it gets a little scary. People have questioned it; given what's happening in the city right now, it's not in the best taste. The theater is pretty empty, but we are not alone. For a few of us it's finally an excuse to say,
It's only a movie.

David's arm and my arm are very close. I feel the warmth of his skin next to mine. Closer.

Then he takes my hand. He hasn't touched me since he walked me home about a month ago. It seems like an eternity. His fingers thread easily through mine. His hand is warm and smooth and large. I didn't remember but now it floods back. His hand over mine. He holds it for a while; then he places it against his chest. It's a strange move, an intimate one, more intimate than many sexual things I have done. I look at the movie screen again. I try and concentrate. I can't. There's a new sensation: his lips are on the back of each finger; soft, firm, soft, he kisses them separately. My insides weaken, melt, and run together. I sneak a glance at him but he doesn't take his eyes from the screen. I look back at the screen, heart thudding. It is endless and not endless and I wish it would never stop. I stare at the screen. I don't see a thing. A breath in my ear, he whispers:

“I love this movie.”

It's hard to breathe; the skin of my arms breaks out in goose bumps. Gently his fingers stroke the backs of my fingers. All over, I want to feel this all over and over and over and over.
It's a serious hand job
, I think. I get the giggles. Hysterical laughter rises up in me, but I can't laugh. It would sound crazy. I don't
want this movie to end, I don't want this movie to end, I don't want this movie to end.

When the movie ends I go quickly to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Pat it dry with a towel. Try to stop grinning like an idiot. It's always the quiet ones, I guess.

He's waiting for me next to a cardboard cutout of some long-ago hero. He takes my hand again and we walk hand in hand and it's lovely, easy, natural. “That was a great movie,” he says.

“It was.”

“I mean, I have no idea what happened in it, but it was great.”

“Someday you'll have to tell me what it was about.”

“It might become one of my all-time favorite films.”

We go down the escalator and into the night.

“Drink?”

“Sure.”

Outside, the sidewalk is empty. David whistles softly through his teeth. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I always wanted to see what the zombie apocalypse would look like, but without those pesky zombies.”

I look around at the quiet summer street, so unlike the usual craziness of the East Village. No long lines for ice cream, or annoying teenagers hanging about, yelling at the top of their lungs. Not even a large tattooed man waiting patiently while his tiny schnoodle urinates on a fire hydrant. I never thought I would be longing for more people in my way. Now I almost even want a slow-moving tourist pausing just in front of me to take a picture of a building. Almost.

“Let's go to a place where they play cheap music and sell loud beer?” David suggests.

We end up at a dive bar on Avenue C. It's not the greatest, but it's nearby. And open. The first two we went to were closed. There seems to be an unofficial curfew. The city has grounded itself. Not that it will do much good. The dead women have taught us that much, at least. If he wants to enter your apartment, he will. Still, this bar has the requisite Fleetwood Mac on the juke, cheap beer. It will do. We talk; it's so easy to talk with him, about this movie, and other movies, and from there . . .

He turns to me. “I'm glad we did this.”

“Me too.”

“You know, for a while there I kind of felt that maybe you weren't that interested.”

“Oh?”
Tell him.

“I mean I just got that feeling.”

Now is your chance.
“No, it wasn't that . . .”
It was just that I was fucking your friend.
“I just . . .”

Tell him.
What would I say? What would be acceptable now that we've made it to this place after such a wonderful night? What wouldn't ruin everything?

He laughs. “You look kind of agonized.”

“I . . .”

“Well, the important thing is that we're here now.” He leans forward and gently but firmly kisses me.

I lean into his kiss.

He holds me tight and nothing exists but this moment. Eventually we both come up for air.

“Wow,” he says softly. “I've been wanting to do that forever.”

“What took you so long?”

“Well, the first time we had an audience, which somewhat put me off my game, and then, I don't know, work got crazy, you seemed sort of distant . . .”

“I'm sorry.”

He grins. “We'll have to work on it.”

I grin back.

He settles the tab, though I protest, and we stand outside.

He sighs. “Now I'm sorry we organized this on a Wednesday.”

“What would you be doing Friday or Saturday?”

“That depends.”

“Hmmm. Would you like to do something this weekend?”

“What do you have in mind?”

I think about the weekend. Restaurants and bars are closing early, clubs too, although we have no interest in them anyway. High, hysterical anxiety is exhaled like carbon dioxide.

It dawns on me.

“What about a home-cooked meal?”

“Cooked by you?”

“None other.”

He is delighted and touchingly surprised. “A home-cooked meal sounds amazing.”

I grow a little nervous. “Well, I mean, I'd like to check in with Andrea, see what she's up to, if she wants to join. And if so it will be us four. I hope that's not too domestic?”

“Sometimes domestic is awesome.”

“Then it's settled.”

He smiles. He kisses me again. It's wonderful, and after a long while we pull away, beam at each other.

“You'll tell me what I can bring?”

“Yourself.”

“Come on.”

“Maybe a bottle of wine.”

“Now you're talking.”

He puts his arm up and a cab materializes on an otherwise desolate street.

“I can take a subway.”

“Nah, take a cab.” He's worried about me. These days all news is bad news. “Here.” He folds some money into my hand.

I push it back. “I'm an independent woman, mister.”

“Okay, okay, duly noted,” he says, his tone solemn, his eyes shining.

He kisses me a final time, and I get in. Then he flings some money and something else in through the window and jumps back before I can fling it back at him. I pick up the money and a little bulletlike object, examine it. It couldn't be a sex toy, could it?

“It's pepper spray, not perfume,” he calls as we pull away. “Don't spray it on your neck!”

What?!

“Text me when you're home safe!”

And we're off into the night.

“Nice guy,” says my taxi driver. A small bearded guy, he looks Indian. “Your boyfriend?”

“Not yet.” He will be, though, if I have anything to do with it.

“Is not good for woman not to have boyfriend.”

I sigh. My feminist friends would kill me for not making this a teachable moment, but— “You're right,” I agree.

“Not with this craziness.”

“It's true.”

“They found another one.” He sounds grimly satisfied, as if this proves his point.

“Oh God.” It's like a physical blow.

“Yes, in her apartment.”

“Terrible.”

“You live alone?”

“No.”
Why is he asking me?
“I have some big strong guy roommates,” I ad-lib. “They work out all the time.”

“That's good,” he says grimly. “You a pretty woman. You don't wanna live alone right now.”

“You're right,” I say.

Then he turns on the radio and listens to some sports update while I look out the window for the rest of the ride home. Over the still-hot street the moon bobs in a lukewarm sky. Some NYU-student types brave the night despite the warnings. They're young and underdressed, the girls trilling and shrieking, the guys awkward in pale T-shirts, baseball caps. They are drunk enough not to care, loud and raucous, looking for a fight, brave in a group of friends, enough drinks between them, sweaty and lustful and secretly hopeful.

I conjure up all the good things about the night—the holding hands, his kiss,
I've been wanting to do that forever
—as I get ready for bed. I'm about to text when my phone lights up.