Authors: Don Lee
She was from Washington, D.C., Cleveland Park. Her parents, who were divorced, both worked in international trade, specializing in the Far East, her father a lobbyist, her mother an economic policy analyst.
Mirielle had gone to Walden College and had just graduated this past spring with a BS in political sciencesidetracked in her studies somewhere along the line, apparently, since she was already twenty-six. She had taken a few creative writing and literature courses as electives, including one with Paviromo, and she wanted to be a poet.
I thought back to my class assignments at Walden. I could have been your teacher for Intro, I said.
Like Jessica, she was currently working as a waitress in Harvard Square, at Casablanca. In three days she would be moving from the Brookline apartment she had shared with her boyfriend to a place in Somerville, Winter Hill. She was crashing temporarily on a friends couch in Beacon Hill.
Let me walk you home, I said as the wedding wound down.
As I was getting my coat, Jessica, whod seen me with Mirielle, told me, Shes pretty. Shes your type.
Whats my type?
Skinny. Wounded.
We walked through downtown and across the Common to Pinckney Street, a nice night, not too cold out. In the vestibule, I asked, Can I come up?
My friend goes to bed early.
I kissed her. I was a bit drunk. I didnt expect her to respond with much enthusiasm, but she did, and we made out rapaciously in the vestibule. I took off my gloves, opened our coats, pressed against her.
Can I come up? I asked again.
No, Mirielle said. Youre just taking advantage of me because you know I havent had sex in two months.
The next night, I went to Casablanca. There were two sections in the restaurant, a bar/café and a more formal dining area. Mirielle worked in the latter, but she had to get her drink orders from the bar, where I sat, drinking beers, throughout her entire shift.
Still here? Mirielle kept saying.
After she cashed out, I asked, Want to stay here for a drink?
No, lets go somewhere else.
Each place I suggested, she vetoed. You know, I said, we could just go to the house, hang out there, talk.
Can you behave this time? Last night was a mistake. We cant do that again. You got me when I was weak.
The house was empty, Jessica at Esthers, Joshua who knew where. Do you want a glass of wine? I asked Mirielle. I have a good bottle of Sangiovese.
Waters fine.
I fetched a beer for myself and took her upstairs for a tour, and, in my room, I lit candles and put on All the Way by Jimmy Scott, a CD I had bought that afternoon. We slow-danced, began kissing.
Youre a pretty good kisser, she said. Whered you learn to kiss like this?
We ended up on the floor, where I gradually disrobed hereverything except her panties.
Theres something very premeditated, almost professional about this seduction, she said. The candles, the music, the slow-dancing. Have you ever been a gigolo? Did you ask Jimmy for tips?
Jimmys a gigolo?
I wouldnt put it past him.
Lets move to the bed. Well be more comfortable.
We crawled onto my futon. Oof, she said. You call this more comfortable? This mattress is a lumpy abomination. No ones going to do you in this bed, honey.
I think you should spend the night, Mirielle. Its too late to go back to Beacon Hill.
Reluctantly, she agreed. I cant believe Im doing this, she said. You havent even taken me out to dinner yet.
As much as I tried, I couldnt convince her to have sex with me that night. I think my libidos taken a vacation, she said.
To where?
To Tahiti. She giggled. Its gone to Tahiti. Wouldnt it be wonderful to go somewhere tropical right now?
In the morning, I made her coffee and an omelette. She was anxious. She needed to finish packing, the movers coming early tomorrow.
I could take the day off and help you, I said.
Her hair was in a tussle. She was wearing one of my flannel shirts, the tails down to her thighs, and a pair of my thick woolen socks. She looked adorable. I can tell already, she said, your kindness is going to give me nightmares.
The apartment was near Coolidge Corner, a spacious one-bedroom. Her boyfriend had cleared out most of the furniture from the living room, but there were books and tchotchkes and lamps on the floor to pack, and neither the kitchen nor the bedroom nor the bathroom had been addressed at all. Mirielle had done nothing thus far. You havent even gotten boxes? I said.
I made several trips to Coolidge Corner, collecting boxes from the liquor store and Brookline Booksmith, foraging recycle bins for old newspapers, buying markers and rolls of tape from CVS. We worked all day, breaking only for takeout burritos from Annas Taqueria. At one point, while Mirielle was in the kitchen and I was clearing out the hallway closet, I came across a shoe box of photographs of Mirielle and her boyfriend. Cranes Beach, Mad River Glen, Ghirardelli Square, the Golden Gate Bridge. She had told me the relationship had lasted a little over a year. They had rushed into it, moved in together after a few weekstoo impulsive. He was handsome. White.
We finished everything by evening. I dont know what I would have done without you, Mirielle said.
We took a cab back to Cambridge and showered, then I treated her to dinner at Chez Henri, the Franco-Cuban bistro a few blocks away on Shepard Street. Lets celebrate with mojitos, I said. Theyre famous for them here. Its a nice tropical drink.
Im not really in the mood for a mojito, she said.
How about the pinot noir?
She shrugged, noncommittal.
When the waitress brought the bottle and tipped it toward Mirielles wineglass, she put her hand over it and asked, Can I get a Diet Coke instead?
We ravished our meals, both starving. As we waited for our desserts, I said, Are you sure you dont want any of this? In my nervousness, I had almost finished the entire bottle of pinot noir.
I dont really drink, Mirielle said. I quit drinking when I was twenty-one.
She had been out of control as a teenager, she told me. Booze, coke. She had, at one time or another, flunked or dropped out of Sidwell, National Cathedral, and Maret, then Bowdoin College, Oberlin, and Waldenthe latter because she had been institutionalized for three weeks. I tried to kill myself with a razor, she said matter-of-factly. After the nuthouse, as she called it, she went to a halfway house in Northern Virginia, and, once released, moved back to Boston. She lived in a rooming house in the Fenway and worked as a receptionist for a year, then reenrolled in Walden College, waiting tables to support herself. She attended AA meetings at least three times a week.
I recalled when wed walked into her apartment earlier that morning. She had run over to the stacks of books on the floor, embarrassed, turning the covers over and the spines away. I had glimpsed a few titles. They had been mostly self-help books. Reclaim Your Life. The Narcissist Within You. Be Happy to Be You.
Im flabbergasted with myself, I said. Ive gotten a little soused every time Ive seen you.
I was beginning to take note of that, Mirielle said.
Did you suspect I had a drinking problem?
I thought maybe you might, she said, butI dont know, you dont seem tortured enough, to be frank. Sobrietys not much fun, either, you know. Now that Ive been sober five years, I get depressed a lot more.
I glanced down at her wrists. I could see a faint scar on one of thema tiny keloid shaped like a comma, trailed by a thin whisper of discoloration.
I was surprised by her disclosures, but they didnt scare me. If anything, they made me respect Mirielle even more. I had never known anyone with a history of substance abuse of such magnitude, nor anyone who had tried to commit suicide and been institutionalized. Suddenly my problemsmy entire lifefelt, in comparison, benign. She seemed so strong and self-possessed now. I admired the fortitude it must have taken for her to piece her life back together, and the fact that she was comfortable enough with me to make these admissions drew us, in that moment, immeasurably closer, I thought.
We walked back to the house and decided to turn in early. Itd been a long day. In my bedroom, I undressed hercompletely this time.
Whats going to happen now, Eric? Mirielle said, smiling impishly.
We made love.
Dont look so proud of yourself, she said afterward. Its just sex.
No, its not just that, I said. I have a confession to make.
What?
Youre the first Asian woman Ive ever slept with.
Really? Thats surprising. Why havent you before?
Maybe I was a Twinkie, I dont know. But sometimes it seems Asian women arent, in general, very interested in Asian men. Sometimes it seems they prefer going out with white men. Is that true?
I dont know about that.
Is it because theyve bought into all those clichés about Asian guys?
Well, Id never say this to the 3AC, but some of those clichés have a basis in reality. A lot of Asian men are kind of nerdy and wimpy and boring. They can be very traditional.
Youve dated a lot of Asians?
Not many, Mirielle said, then allowed, Okay, Ive gone on a few dates with Asians, but I never fucked any. Youre my first. You popped my Asian-boy cherry.
Im honored.
I am, too, she said. Although Im Japanese, youre Korean. If I had any ethnic pride, I wouldnt be consorting with you at all. God, this futon. I swear, Im not coming over here again until you get a new bed, an actual bed. Having a mattress on the floor is bad feng shui. And sheets. You need better sheets.
They were cheap knockoffs from Filenes Basementso cheap, they hadnt advertised a thread count on the package, just that they were one hundred percent cotton. Any other complaints? I asked.
No, Im pretty impressed with you, she said. You can make perfect omelettes, and youre a hell of a kisser.
Theres something else I can do pretty well, I told her, and slipped down the futon.
Later, she said, Do you have this effect on all women? Make them crumble?
I think your libidos back from Tahiti.
You may be right, she said.
The next day, I went to Big Johns Mattress Factory in Lechmere and ordered a new mattress, box spring, and frame for delivery.
Joshua, never one to be outdone by me, had started his own romance the night of Leon and Cindys wedding. He had gone home with Lily Bai, another new 3AC member who was a ceramic artist.
I tell you, he said in his attic room, this chick, shes a little pistol. She gives unbelievable head. She could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.
Isnt that a line from an old movie? I asked, but laughed nevertheless.
He had been spending the past few days at the Ritz-Carlton. Lily was from Ann Arbor, her father a geneticist whod developed several patents that had made him a fortune.
Room service! Joshua said. Lily lived in a two-bedroom condo attached to the Ritz, and the hotels services were fully available to the condo residents. Ive been fucking this hot little kumquat and eating room service the entire time! You cant ask for much more in life. He was going back; hed just come home for some clothes.
Youre able to write there? I asked.
Sure. Shes at her studio most of the day. Joshua had long ago abandoned his Murakami regimen, and ever since the 3AC had formed, he had become more susceptible to distractions, far less disciplined.
I told him about Mirielle, about her going to AA.
Fuck, man, he said, that pious, sanctimonious twelve-step shit bores me to tears. Its just an excuse for self-absorption. Oh, poor me, poor me. Whatever you do, dont fall in love with this girl. I know you. Youre a complete sap when it comes to women. Will you promise me you wont fall in love with her?
I broke my promise to Joshua almost immediately. For the next two weeks, I helped Mirielle unpack and set up in her new apartment in Winter Hill. She was sharing it with two PhD students at Tufts who were a couple, and her room was small, without much closet space. We went to hardware and furniture stores. I installed shelves for her, and miniblinds. I hung up photos. I assembled bookshelves and storage carts. I bought her a garment rack on wheels.
Still, we spent nearly every night back in Harvard Square. She liked my new bed. Id pick her up after one of her AA meetings or from Casablanca, and Id walk her back to the house. Are you living with that Chinese guy now? a fellow waitress asked Mirielle.
I made breakfast for her every morningomelettes, poached eggs, French toast, pancakes. I gave her massages. We went to movies and poetry readings at the Blacksmith House and the Lamont Library. We ate in the Porter Square Exchange, where she ordered food in Japanese. We stopped by Toscaninis each night for ice cream, a weakness of hers. We ran on the Esplanade together. That path at sunset, coming down Memorial Drive toward townthe water on the Charles blustery and whitecapped, the gold dome of the State House gleaming above Beacon Hill, the skyscrapers in the Financial District orange-litwas glorious. With Mirielle running beside me, my chest would squeeze, and Id love the city.
The 3AC kept meeting on Sundays. The glassblower Jay ChiMing Lai had just returned from giving a lecture at a university in butt-fuck rural Missouri. He hadnt wanted to go, but they had persisted, saying they had found more money for him from the minority scholars initiative. He had pictured this group of minority scholarship kids marooned in the Midwest, and thought theyd appreciate having an artist of color visit. At the lecture, there was not a single nonwhite student in attendance. It turned out he was the minority scholar. Insult to injury, for dinner the hosts drove him deeper into the country to a restaurant called Jasmine Cuisine, where the menu was not Thai or Chinese or Japanese, just generically Asian. The food was terrible.
Why do they always assume if youre Asian, youll want Asian food? Jay said. Id really been looking forward to some barbecue.