not susceptible to flattery; I am, at least to the right sort of flattery, and this was very much the right sort. But because, precompliment—very precompliment, in fact—as soon as Martin had asked me to dinner at his apartment three days prior to the night in question, the going-to-bed part felt inevitable. We both knew it would happen, and we both knew that we both knew it would happen, but we didn’t mention or even hint at the possibility of its happening, which we both appreciated.
His apartment was perfection—no surprise there. “A bachelor pad,” he’d warned me, but its only bachelor-pad quality was its complete consistency. Every piece of furniture from the chaise to the sofa to the dining room chairs, and every other item in it—lamps, plates, martini shaker, pepper grinder—was clean, curvaceous, ingeniously put-together. My own apartment was uneven, overfull, raggedy in patches, but it grew around me organically, by accretion, like the shell of a chambered nautilus. I loved it and everything in it—loved every specific item with a specific love. But nine-and-a-half people out of ten would certainly prefer Martin’s ripped-from-a-magazine décor, its having so obviously lived as a vision in some visionary designer’s head before it became an actual living environ. And even I, tiny half-person clinging stubbornly to my funny, messy, personal idea of home, enjoyed the sensation of being a tiny, half movie-star on Martin’s elegant set.
Martin made drinks while I stood by a long window overlooking Rittenhouse Square, now aglimmer with Christmas lights, distance turning it into an underwater city. On a table next to the window, an orchid plant with a single white flower glowed.
“I bought the view, really,” said Martin. He handed me a cold shimmering martini in a cool shimmering glass. I looked at him as he looked out the window.
“The agent was waxing poetic about moldings and noiseless dishwashers in one of the most amazing displays of eloquence I’d ever heard. Scripted, probably, but it seemed completely extemporaneous. There was a whole stanza, I think, on the parquet floor, beautifully delivered. Hand gestures and everything. But all I did was go from window to window, looking out.” His voice was like music, low and warm. An oboe, maybe, or a French horn.
He turned to me. “She hates me, that agent. I’ve seen her around town a few times over the years, and she snubs me cruelly. You know what I love best about you?” Just like that.
It took a minute for me to say “What?” because that word love was flying around the room like a bird, flashing its wings. I looked at the small luminous face of the orchid for help but, like all orchids, she was entirely self-involved, enwrapped in her own beauty.
“Your stillnesses. Those listening stillnesses. I don’t know anyone who keeps herself so still while other people are talking.”
The compliment, the view, the lights, the orchid, the drinks in our hands, Chet Baker quietly singing “Time After Time.” It was one of those dropped-from-the-sky silvery moments when you stand there believing that every last thing in the world is delicate, lovely, and precise, including and especially you. I set down my drink and gave the mouth that had just bestowed such fine words upon me a truly sterling kiss.
Almost Rear Window : Grace Kelly can be a lot like an orchid herself, gazing at the world from several gold-and-white removes away. But she can smolder, too; she can flirt like nobody’s business. That’s what I like best about Rear Window, how flesh-and-blood she gets when she comes on to Jimmy Stewart, the gleam in her eyes when she opens the secret compartment of her Mark Cross bag to reveal the peignoir set and slippers she’s brought with her. Does she ever have plans for you, mister, say the peignoir set and slippers, with delicious frankness.
As I leaned into Martin with my sterling kiss, we bumped into the orchid’s
His apartment was perfection—no surprise there. “A bachelor pad,” he’d warned me, but its only bachelor-pad quality was its complete consistency. Every piece of furniture from the chaise to the sofa to the dining room chairs, and every other item in it—lamps, plates, martini shaker, pepper grinder—was clean, curvaceous, ingeniously put-together. My own apartment was uneven, overfull, raggedy in patches, but it grew around me organically, by accretion, like the shell of a chambered nautilus. I loved it and everything in it—loved every specific item with a specific love. But nine-and-a-half people out of ten would certainly prefer Martin’s ripped-from-a-magazine décor, its having so obviously lived as a vision in some visionary designer’s head before it became an actual living environ. And even I, tiny half-person clinging stubbornly to my funny, messy, personal idea of home, enjoyed the sensation of being a tiny, half movie-star on Martin’s elegant set.
Martin made drinks while I stood by a long window overlooking Rittenhouse Square, now aglimmer with Christmas lights, distance turning it into an underwater city. On a table next to the window, an orchid plant with a single white flower glowed.
“I bought the view, really,” said Martin. He handed me a cold shimmering martini in a cool shimmering glass. I looked at him as he looked out the window.
“The agent was waxing poetic about moldings and noiseless dishwashers in one of the most amazing displays of eloquence I’d ever heard. Scripted, probably, but it seemed completely extemporaneous. There was a whole stanza, I think, on the parquet floor, beautifully delivered. Hand gestures and everything. But all I did was go from window to window, looking out.” His voice was like music, low and warm. An oboe, maybe, or a French horn.
He turned to me. “She hates me, that agent. I’ve seen her around town a few times over the years, and she snubs me cruelly. You know what I love best about you?” Just like that.
It took a minute for me to say “What?” because that word love was flying around the room like a bird, flashing its wings. I looked at the small luminous face of the orchid for help but, like all orchids, she was entirely self-involved, enwrapped in her own beauty.
“Your stillnesses. Those listening stillnesses. I don’t know anyone who keeps herself so still while other people are talking.”
The compliment, the view, the lights, the orchid, the drinks in our hands, Chet Baker quietly singing “Time After Time.” It was one of those dropped-from-the-sky silvery moments when you stand there believing that every last thing in the world is delicate, lovely, and precise, including and especially you. I set down my drink and gave the mouth that had just bestowed such fine words upon me a truly sterling kiss.
Almost Rear Window : Grace Kelly can be a lot like an orchid herself, gazing at the world from several gold-and-white removes away. But she can smolder, too; she can flirt like nobody’s business. That’s what I like best about Rear Window, how flesh-and-blood she gets when she comes on to Jimmy Stewart, the gleam in her eyes when she opens the secret compartment of her Mark Cross bag to reveal the peignoir set and slippers she’s brought with her. Does she ever have plans for you, mister, say the peignoir set and slippers, with delicious frankness.
As I leaned into Martin with my sterling kiss, we bumped into the orchid’s
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