They don’t feel right to me. I’ve never liked huge bathtubs either.
Don’t know what that’s all about.
If I ever got around to having the luxury of confronting my secondary demons, it’s something I’d consider working out with a shrink.
A bowl of fruit, a bottle of Badoit, and an ice bucket with a tall bottle of Yebisu — nice touch, I admit — awaited me when I walked into the hotel room. I hadn’t told anyone but LaBelle and Thea where I was staying in New York, so the fact that the Death Angel had tracked me to the Four Seasons was the real message. It wasn’t super-spy stuff, but it was a message nonetheless.
The presence of the Badoit was the exclamation point, however. Badoit is mineral water from France — think Pellegrino, but France, not Italy.
Maybe five or six people in the world knew that Badoit was my preferred sparkling water; to my knowledge I’d never made a big deal of that predilection with anyone. If you hadn’t had dinner with me in Paris or Nice, you wouldn’t know I had a thing for Badoit.
But the Death Angel knew.
The note on the silver tray with the fruit and water wasn’t signed. The neat, androgynous script welcomed me to New York and suggested — ha! — an eleven A.M. rendezvous in the main lobby at MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. I hadn’t been back to MOMA since Taniguchi’s overhaul had begun, so I planned to walk over early and check out the progress that had been made to the building before I made my way back to the street-level lobby.
They’re too infrequent, but New York City sometimes has days that are as crystalline as anything I get to experience four days out of five in Ridgway. What’s different in the city is that the inhabitants recognize how special those days are and they all come out to celebrate. On glorious days in Manhattan the sidewalks come alive, the plazas and parks fill with people, and cafés and restaurants push tables out into the sunshine. On those days a descent into the dreary subway feels like torture, and for a few fleeting hours visitors and tourists have no trouble believing that there really are so many people squeezed onto that little island.
I woke to one of those days in Manhattan, and — like a few hundred thousand other people who decided to skip school, or work, or whatever to enjoy the weather — I gave up on my plan to spend the morning inside the usually irresistible galleries of MOMA.
She caught me on the sidewalk just outside the entrance to the museum on 53rd Street. I wondered if I was under surveillance.
Did it matter?
Nah.
She wasn’t the elegant and sophisticated Park Avenue lady this time; she wore denim jeans that celebrated her ass and a supple leather jacket that was layered over a thin sweater that scooped down to reveal the swell at the top of her breasts. This was the costume of an Upper West Side wife heading out for lunch and some minor-league shopping with her girlfriends. Not Bergdorf shopping, or Henri Bendel shopping, or Jimmy Choo shopping. Not even Madison Avenue boutique shopping. Something slightly downscale and funky.
I wasn’t surprised by the exuberance of her greeting this time around; I was actually looking forward to it. I’d already removed my jacket to make the initial body search easier for her, and more fun for me.
“Hi,” I said into her ear as she pressed herself against me and her hands rubbed up and down my back. “If we’re going to pretend to be so closely acquainted, I should probably know what to call you.”
“Call me Lizzie,” she whispered back. “Nobody else does. It can be our special thing.”
She pulled away from me and took my jacket from my hands. For the next few moments, as she absently palpated its seams and folds without appearing to be doing anything at all, I felt an incongruous pang of envy for my sport coat.
“I was just heading inside,” I said, pointing toward the museum, playing along. “Are you free to join me?”
“I wish I could,
Don’t know what that’s all about.
If I ever got around to having the luxury of confronting my secondary demons, it’s something I’d consider working out with a shrink.
A bowl of fruit, a bottle of Badoit, and an ice bucket with a tall bottle of Yebisu — nice touch, I admit — awaited me when I walked into the hotel room. I hadn’t told anyone but LaBelle and Thea where I was staying in New York, so the fact that the Death Angel had tracked me to the Four Seasons was the real message. It wasn’t super-spy stuff, but it was a message nonetheless.
The presence of the Badoit was the exclamation point, however. Badoit is mineral water from France — think Pellegrino, but France, not Italy.
Maybe five or six people in the world knew that Badoit was my preferred sparkling water; to my knowledge I’d never made a big deal of that predilection with anyone. If you hadn’t had dinner with me in Paris or Nice, you wouldn’t know I had a thing for Badoit.
But the Death Angel knew.
The note on the silver tray with the fruit and water wasn’t signed. The neat, androgynous script welcomed me to New York and suggested — ha! — an eleven A.M. rendezvous in the main lobby at MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. I hadn’t been back to MOMA since Taniguchi’s overhaul had begun, so I planned to walk over early and check out the progress that had been made to the building before I made my way back to the street-level lobby.
They’re too infrequent, but New York City sometimes has days that are as crystalline as anything I get to experience four days out of five in Ridgway. What’s different in the city is that the inhabitants recognize how special those days are and they all come out to celebrate. On glorious days in Manhattan the sidewalks come alive, the plazas and parks fill with people, and cafés and restaurants push tables out into the sunshine. On those days a descent into the dreary subway feels like torture, and for a few fleeting hours visitors and tourists have no trouble believing that there really are so many people squeezed onto that little island.
I woke to one of those days in Manhattan, and — like a few hundred thousand other people who decided to skip school, or work, or whatever to enjoy the weather — I gave up on my plan to spend the morning inside the usually irresistible galleries of MOMA.
She caught me on the sidewalk just outside the entrance to the museum on 53rd Street. I wondered if I was under surveillance.
Did it matter?
Nah.
She wasn’t the elegant and sophisticated Park Avenue lady this time; she wore denim jeans that celebrated her ass and a supple leather jacket that was layered over a thin sweater that scooped down to reveal the swell at the top of her breasts. This was the costume of an Upper West Side wife heading out for lunch and some minor-league shopping with her girlfriends. Not Bergdorf shopping, or Henri Bendel shopping, or Jimmy Choo shopping. Not even Madison Avenue boutique shopping. Something slightly downscale and funky.
I wasn’t surprised by the exuberance of her greeting this time around; I was actually looking forward to it. I’d already removed my jacket to make the initial body search easier for her, and more fun for me.
“Hi,” I said into her ear as she pressed herself against me and her hands rubbed up and down my back. “If we’re going to pretend to be so closely acquainted, I should probably know what to call you.”
“Call me Lizzie,” she whispered back. “Nobody else does. It can be our special thing.”
She pulled away from me and took my jacket from my hands. For the next few moments, as she absently palpated its seams and folds without appearing to be doing anything at all, I felt an incongruous pang of envy for my sport coat.
“I was just heading inside,” I said, pointing toward the museum, playing along. “Are you free to join me?”
“I wish I could,
Similar Books
