then you’re sitting at the next table over. Tell me your name. And your number. Thirty seconds.”
Arianna stared at him, openmouthed.
“Twenty,” he said. “Come on. She pees quick.”
Arianna broke into laughter and began clapping. “You can pick me up any time,” she said. She curled her tongue in a funny way when she sipped from her drink.
He didn’t want to let go of the feeling he’d had a moment before, him advancing on her instead of vice versa. Music clamored from a wheelbarrow-sized speaker directly above them, so it was difficult to think clearly. But he didn’t have to think. Everything that had happened at the office was pleasantly falling away—only for the evening, he knew, but good enough.
“Take me to another bar,” she said. “I can’t hear myself think here.”
They took a meandering route through the neighborhood, louche and gentrified all at once. Slava had come here only once or twice, each time in connection with a story he was researching. They kept stopping because she was pointing out landmarks. She volunteered in this garden. Some music club of renown had been located here. Here—she announced overdemonstratively—she’d had a dark-alley liaison. Purposefully, he didn’t say anything. “So you’re not the only one picking up tail in a bar,” she added unnecessarily, and he relished his victory.
He asked about her outfit, in hopes that she would notice his with greater fascination. These were ponte-knit pants, she said. Supposed to be slimming. “‘You can hold up a bank with those hips, Arianna,’ as my dear mother used to say,” she said. They swerved to avoid a phalanx of nearly undressed women eating the sidewalk.
“She’s not around anymore?” Slava said cautiously.
“My mother?” Arianna said. “Oh, she’s around. Very around.” She ran her arm through Slava’s, and he tried to fall into step with her. “Brentwood,” she said. “Mother Bock had to work out for herself the joy of having a daughter with childbearing hips versus a daughter with wider hips than every girl at the synagogue.” She waited. “This is the part where you say it doesn’t show.”
Slava smiled. “And your father?”
“Spandex factory. Half my yoga class is dressed by the Eagle.”
“Why the Eagle?”
“El Aguila,” she said in a cute Spanish accent. “That’s what the Nicaraguan ladies on the floor call him.” She touched her nose with the tip of the dead finger. “He’s got an amazing escarpment.”
“Not you, though,” Slava said.
“Nose job, sweetheart.”
“It doesn’t show,” he said.
“There you go.”
“You’re close to them,” he said.
“My mother called me a dilettante the other day because I’m not kosher out. I’m like, Ma, that’s a big word! Apparently, the rabbi had a whole sermon on dilettantes.” She pushed her arm farther into Slava’s. “But I like poems, thanks to my dad. Robert Frost was his favorite. ‘Frost is like life, Arianna—as deep as you want to look.’ Then my mother beat it out of him.” They neared a crosswalk and stopped even though the light was theirs. Slava didn’t mind. “They moved to a more religious neighborhood. They don’t talk about Frost at those tables. The Eagle’s an enforcer now.”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” Slava said.
“I don’t mind,” she said, turning toward him. “I don’t mind telling you.”
“I want to hear a poem of yours,” he said.
“Negative,” she said. “I don’t write poems.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
He withdrew his arm and placed it on the cup of her shoulder, turning it toward him. Beneath his fingers, her skin felt taut and giving at once. It was thick, as if the skin descended deep down into her, her center buried somewhere far beneath.
She rolled her eyes. “You have no class. Zero class. You insist on embarrassing me.”
“Sorry,” he said. “You don’t own embarrassment today.”
She
Arianna stared at him, openmouthed.
“Twenty,” he said. “Come on. She pees quick.”
Arianna broke into laughter and began clapping. “You can pick me up any time,” she said. She curled her tongue in a funny way when she sipped from her drink.
He didn’t want to let go of the feeling he’d had a moment before, him advancing on her instead of vice versa. Music clamored from a wheelbarrow-sized speaker directly above them, so it was difficult to think clearly. But he didn’t have to think. Everything that had happened at the office was pleasantly falling away—only for the evening, he knew, but good enough.
“Take me to another bar,” she said. “I can’t hear myself think here.”
They took a meandering route through the neighborhood, louche and gentrified all at once. Slava had come here only once or twice, each time in connection with a story he was researching. They kept stopping because she was pointing out landmarks. She volunteered in this garden. Some music club of renown had been located here. Here—she announced overdemonstratively—she’d had a dark-alley liaison. Purposefully, he didn’t say anything. “So you’re not the only one picking up tail in a bar,” she added unnecessarily, and he relished his victory.
He asked about her outfit, in hopes that she would notice his with greater fascination. These were ponte-knit pants, she said. Supposed to be slimming. “‘You can hold up a bank with those hips, Arianna,’ as my dear mother used to say,” she said. They swerved to avoid a phalanx of nearly undressed women eating the sidewalk.
“She’s not around anymore?” Slava said cautiously.
“My mother?” Arianna said. “Oh, she’s around. Very around.” She ran her arm through Slava’s, and he tried to fall into step with her. “Brentwood,” she said. “Mother Bock had to work out for herself the joy of having a daughter with childbearing hips versus a daughter with wider hips than every girl at the synagogue.” She waited. “This is the part where you say it doesn’t show.”
Slava smiled. “And your father?”
“Spandex factory. Half my yoga class is dressed by the Eagle.”
“Why the Eagle?”
“El Aguila,” she said in a cute Spanish accent. “That’s what the Nicaraguan ladies on the floor call him.” She touched her nose with the tip of the dead finger. “He’s got an amazing escarpment.”
“Not you, though,” Slava said.
“Nose job, sweetheart.”
“It doesn’t show,” he said.
“There you go.”
“You’re close to them,” he said.
“My mother called me a dilettante the other day because I’m not kosher out. I’m like, Ma, that’s a big word! Apparently, the rabbi had a whole sermon on dilettantes.” She pushed her arm farther into Slava’s. “But I like poems, thanks to my dad. Robert Frost was his favorite. ‘Frost is like life, Arianna—as deep as you want to look.’ Then my mother beat it out of him.” They neared a crosswalk and stopped even though the light was theirs. Slava didn’t mind. “They moved to a more religious neighborhood. They don’t talk about Frost at those tables. The Eagle’s an enforcer now.”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” Slava said.
“I don’t mind,” she said, turning toward him. “I don’t mind telling you.”
“I want to hear a poem of yours,” he said.
“Negative,” she said. “I don’t write poems.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
He withdrew his arm and placed it on the cup of her shoulder, turning it toward him. Beneath his fingers, her skin felt taut and giving at once. It was thick, as if the skin descended deep down into her, her center buried somewhere far beneath.
She rolled her eyes. “You have no class. Zero class. You insist on embarrassing me.”
“Sorry,” he said. “You don’t own embarrassment today.”
She
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