Kissing in Manhattan by David Schickler

dressing room,” ordered Patrick. “They’ll be disposed of.”
    Rally drew in a breath. For the first time she sensed that Patrick was ushering her into a new country, a realm where objects, probably even humans, could be purchased and discarded easily. She felt a thrill in her loins.
    “I’ll need shoes,” she said firmly.
    Patrick bought Rally a pair of heels as black, unadorned, and indulgent as her dress. He paid for her makeover at the Glorybrook cosmetic counter, which was run, as far as Rally could tell, by well-dressed, well-paid witches. These women put fine shadows over Rally’s eyes, drew bloodred lipstick across her mouth, misted her with a perfume called Serendipity. Rally endured all of this quietly, like a child being bathed. She kept her eyes on Patrick, who stood at the end of the Glorybrook counter, staring at her. His eyes, Rally saw, had a proprietary cast to them, a pitched look of want.
    He’s going to devour me, thought Rally.
    The witches kept scratching and rubbing Rally. When they finished, Patrick tipped them each one hundred dollars, which only made Rally hornier.
    He’s going to devour me, she thought, and I’m going to let him.
    They dined that night in the upstairs room at Duranigan’s, which Rally had heard was the exclusive haunt of mobsters and beautiful people. Patrick and Rally ate quail, and arugula basil salad, and Patrick ordered Rally champagne made by monks. Patrick himself drank what he always drank, an old-fashioned with Old Grand-dad whiskey and sugar. Rally noticed again the discreet bulge close to Patrick’s heart. It made her ask questions.
    “Tell me about your work,” she said.
    “No,” said Patrick.
    “Your family, then.”
    Patrick’s teeth were busy with quail, but he looked at Rally as if she were insane.
    Rally frowned. “How about college? I mean, you went to college, didn’t you?”
    “Stop it,” said Patrick.
    Rally swallowed hard. She crossed and uncrossed her legs beneath the table.
    “Stop asking about stupid things,” said Patrick.
    Rally glanced around. There were several burly Italian men eating pasta at a corner table, but they didn’t have bulges in their coats.
    “Well.” Rally looked back at Patrick, blinked her blackened lashes. “We have to talk about something, don’t we?”
    Patrick’s lips curled. His suit fit him perfectly, he had broad shoulders, and he seemed to Rally absolutely content to reveal nothing about himself.
    “Tell me something crucial, then,” she told him. “Say something crucial.”
    Patrick sipped his whiskey. His eyes scanned the ceiling.
    “Once,” he said, “when I was five, I jabbed a shish kebab skewer through my brother Francis’s hand.”
    “On purpose?” gasped Rally.
    “We were playing acupuncture. Francis told me to do it. He was older. He said it would heal him.”
    Rally thought about that. “Straight through the hand?”
    “Straight through. You could see the skewer on both sides. Like in a film where a cowboy gets an arrow through the leg.”
    “Jesus,” whispered Rally. She was done eating now. A waiter took her plate.
    “Was there much blood?” asked Rally.
    “There really wasn’t,” said Patrick.
    Who is this guy? Rally thought.
    After dinner they went to Patrick’s apartment. He lived on the Upper West Side, in a tall, looming brownstone called the Preemption apartment building. The Preemption had a splendid, ancient elevator, with mahogany doors, but Patrick didn’t kiss Rally inside this elevator as she thought he might. He got her to his home, gave her a glass of water.
    “Do you have a housemate?” asked Rally.
    “Yes,” said Patrick. “He works with me. His name is James Branch. Come see my bedroom.”
    Patrick’s bedroom featured a queen-size bed and a full-length oval dressing mirror with an ornate wooden border. The wood of the border was fashioned into overlapping vines with thorns on them. Patrick took Rally by the shoulders, turned her body to the