“What’s Nick’s speed-dial number?”
Twenty-three
Fashion is as profound and critical a part of the social life of man as sex, and is made up of the same ambivalent mixture of irresistible urges and inevitable taboos.
—RENÉ KÖNIG
Werner looked stoned as he woke with a snort and sat up like his hair was on fire. He also looked like he’d been beaten and left for dead.
Then there was his reaction to finding me in his bed. It was a mix of gladness, shock, and embarrassment.
Wooly knobby knits, were that man’s pupils dilated or what? I might as well be a two-headed sasquatch the way he was looking at me.
His suit of gray pinstripes, now a wrinkled shambles, gave him the look of a homeless off-duty detective. Given the confusion written on his bloody brow, his brain appeared to be working in the way his suit fit, both him and it, off the rack, barely on a hanger, aka hanging by a thread.
The way he regarded Eve and I, he didn’t know his own name, never mind ours.
“What I wouldn’t give to have planted a camera in this room last night,” Eve said, laughing like she’d been chasing a rainbow and caught it. “Seriously, where’s the fed? Did you trade him in, finally? Thank God.”
“Can it,” Werner and I said, both with a wince because of our bruises. He scrubbed his face with both hands, sighed, and looked at me. “Please tell me that we did not sleep together.”
“We did not sleep together,” I said, trying to convince myself while examining the robe of the peignoir set. Two diaphanous layers did not a covering make. Afraid to grab a wrap or coat from Dom’s closet, lest I be given an unwanted vision, I chose a crocheted throw, made of roses in pinks and greens, from the foot of the bed and used it as a shawl. There, now I felt more in charge.
Werner gazed up and down my body, looking rather affronted.
“Well,” I said, “your pupils may be dilated, but your eyes can still twinkle.”
“You’re sure we didn’t sleep together?” he asked.
“You so did.” Eve, the Cheshire Cat, sat at the foot of the bed, her back against the footboard, ankles crossed, as if she were settling in for a juicy chat.
“We apparently slept in the same bed,” I said, mostly to myself, “but I have no memory of how we got there. Werner? Do you?”
He opened his hands, regarded his palms, and his eye twinkle returned. “I have tactile memories.”
I resented the traitorous thrill that skittered up my spine. Oh goodie. Not.
“Give that man a lottery ticket,” Eve said. “It’s his lucky day.”
I closed the crocheted throw tighter over my breasts as I paced, until I saw the crack in my cell phone, which bothered me, a lot.
Werner raised himself on an elbow. “Mad, Madeira, did I, I mean, did we . . . ?”
“He means,” Eve said, tongue in cheek. “Was it as good for you as it was for him?”
“Eve, you’re not helping at all,” I said, taking pity on Werner. “I wish I could remember.”
Broken cell phone case—stepped on, thrown, dropped?
“Let’s just forget whatever it was that happened,” Werner said, as if that could be the end of it.
Eve rose to the occasion. “Unless Mad got pregnant.”
Werner and I whipped our gazes her way like we were fine brass gears moving as one, hungry attack gears, and Eve was dinner.
“Not funny, Meyers,” I said, but that didn’t mean my heart wasn’t playing jump rope. Hippity hickety hop; How many months before I pop? Cinderella slept with a fella, made a mistake and kissed a snake; How many doctors did it take?
Ack, even an old jump-rope rhyme was working against me. “I just wish I could remember what happened,” I muttered.
Eve raised a brow. “Whose nightgown are you wearing?”
“I don’t even care,” Werner said. “I’m just so glad she’s wearing it.”
“Because it’s see-through?” Eve asked.
“Because she’s not naked,” Werner snapped.
I sighed. “It’s Dom’s peignoir set,” I said, giving Eve a
Twenty-three
Fashion is as profound and critical a part of the social life of man as sex, and is made up of the same ambivalent mixture of irresistible urges and inevitable taboos.
—RENÉ KÖNIG
Werner looked stoned as he woke with a snort and sat up like his hair was on fire. He also looked like he’d been beaten and left for dead.
Then there was his reaction to finding me in his bed. It was a mix of gladness, shock, and embarrassment.
Wooly knobby knits, were that man’s pupils dilated or what? I might as well be a two-headed sasquatch the way he was looking at me.
His suit of gray pinstripes, now a wrinkled shambles, gave him the look of a homeless off-duty detective. Given the confusion written on his bloody brow, his brain appeared to be working in the way his suit fit, both him and it, off the rack, barely on a hanger, aka hanging by a thread.
The way he regarded Eve and I, he didn’t know his own name, never mind ours.
“What I wouldn’t give to have planted a camera in this room last night,” Eve said, laughing like she’d been chasing a rainbow and caught it. “Seriously, where’s the fed? Did you trade him in, finally? Thank God.”
“Can it,” Werner and I said, both with a wince because of our bruises. He scrubbed his face with both hands, sighed, and looked at me. “Please tell me that we did not sleep together.”
“We did not sleep together,” I said, trying to convince myself while examining the robe of the peignoir set. Two diaphanous layers did not a covering make. Afraid to grab a wrap or coat from Dom’s closet, lest I be given an unwanted vision, I chose a crocheted throw, made of roses in pinks and greens, from the foot of the bed and used it as a shawl. There, now I felt more in charge.
Werner gazed up and down my body, looking rather affronted.
“Well,” I said, “your pupils may be dilated, but your eyes can still twinkle.”
“You’re sure we didn’t sleep together?” he asked.
“You so did.” Eve, the Cheshire Cat, sat at the foot of the bed, her back against the footboard, ankles crossed, as if she were settling in for a juicy chat.
“We apparently slept in the same bed,” I said, mostly to myself, “but I have no memory of how we got there. Werner? Do you?”
He opened his hands, regarded his palms, and his eye twinkle returned. “I have tactile memories.”
I resented the traitorous thrill that skittered up my spine. Oh goodie. Not.
“Give that man a lottery ticket,” Eve said. “It’s his lucky day.”
I closed the crocheted throw tighter over my breasts as I paced, until I saw the crack in my cell phone, which bothered me, a lot.
Werner raised himself on an elbow. “Mad, Madeira, did I, I mean, did we . . . ?”
“He means,” Eve said, tongue in cheek. “Was it as good for you as it was for him?”
“Eve, you’re not helping at all,” I said, taking pity on Werner. “I wish I could remember.”
Broken cell phone case—stepped on, thrown, dropped?
“Let’s just forget whatever it was that happened,” Werner said, as if that could be the end of it.
Eve rose to the occasion. “Unless Mad got pregnant.”
Werner and I whipped our gazes her way like we were fine brass gears moving as one, hungry attack gears, and Eve was dinner.
“Not funny, Meyers,” I said, but that didn’t mean my heart wasn’t playing jump rope. Hippity hickety hop; How many months before I pop? Cinderella slept with a fella, made a mistake and kissed a snake; How many doctors did it take?
Ack, even an old jump-rope rhyme was working against me. “I just wish I could remember what happened,” I muttered.
Eve raised a brow. “Whose nightgown are you wearing?”
“I don’t even care,” Werner said. “I’m just so glad she’s wearing it.”
“Because it’s see-through?” Eve asked.
“Because she’s not naked,” Werner snapped.
I sighed. “It’s Dom’s peignoir set,” I said, giving Eve a
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