the food courses, the talk progressively looser and looser, with more and more laughter, with touching on the forearm and the wrist, two hands brushing. Elle glances down at the incidental contact, which was maybe not so incidental. “You have nice hands,” she says, staring down at them. “Like a pianist. Or a pickpocket.”
The already-thin ice, Will knows, is cracking.
—
Dinner is breaking up. People are exchanging business cards, shaking hands, promising to follow up about something or other, that lodge in Chile’s Lake District, the winemaker who’s doing interesting things in Extremadura.
Elle arches her eyebrow at Will. Damn that sexy eyebrow. “Won’t you join me for the superfluous drink you know you want?”
Will can pretend to himself whatever the hell he wants to pretend, but he knows what she’s asking. And he knows what his answer should be. But instead “Yes” is what he says.
They perch on plush seats in the lobby bar, consume I-don’t-want-this-night-to-end drinks, accompanied by an unburdening of her past romances and disappointments, a conversation that’s an unabashed invitation to intimacy, a second-date conversation and all that accompanies it—the flush, the butterflies, just like when he was fifteen years old, or twenty-five, but now at thirty-five he hasn’t been on a second date in a long time, and he’d forgotten this part of it. Maybe he’ll still feel this way at eighty-five? Or is this the last time he’ll ever feel this way? Last times are obvious only in hindsight.
One A.M. sneaks up. The lobby is deserted now except for the night manager at the desk, who’s looking down at something, probably his phone. The front doors are still open, the armed security guard leaning against a pillar out there.
“So,” Elle says, but there’s suddenly nothing left to say, now that they’ve shed the bartender’s distant company, his implicit chaperoning. The talking portion of the night is finished. What remains to be seen is if there will be another portion of the night.
“Well,” he says. “I guess this is good night.” He can’t bring himself to meet her eye.
“I’m down this corridor,” she says. “You?”
Will reaches into his pocket, removes the big leather fob. Number 32. “I don’t know.” The number doesn’t explain enough, and he can’t remember, and he’s confused.
“You are too,” she says.
Has he ever done anything this hard? What has been more difficult than standing in this empty secluded corridor, late at night, alone with this beautiful woman who wants him—who has already invited him to bed—and not kissing her?
I am not a cheater, he thinks. I’m
not
.
But Will can feel the pull of her, gravitational, and the pre-kiss buzz in his head is deafening. He tries but fails to think of something that’s not her, and the more he tries, the more insistent the images become, rapidly escalating from romantic to pornographic, the shape of her breasts, the scent of her, the feel as he slides—
Will turns halfway to Elle as she’s already turning to him, both of them having made the same decision at the same moment, and neither needs to move feet to lean in, mouth on mouth, but bodies not touching.
Elle disengages her lips. She walks away, down the carpeted hall, without saying anything, leaving him standing there alone, arguing with himself…
CAPRI
The man is approaching slowly, cupping his postprandial cigarette at an upward angle, sheltering it from the wind, maybe a bit overprotective, or self-conscious. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” The trace of a Midwestern accent, but hard to place.
“Oh,” she says, “I guess so.” She’s a dejected woman, not contemplating beauty. She’s out here wallowing, is what she’s doing.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
She opens her mouth but hesitates visibly before saying, “Sure.”
He extends his hand, says, “My name is Sean.” She knows this is not true. Sean Cullen is
The already-thin ice, Will knows, is cracking.
—
Dinner is breaking up. People are exchanging business cards, shaking hands, promising to follow up about something or other, that lodge in Chile’s Lake District, the winemaker who’s doing interesting things in Extremadura.
Elle arches her eyebrow at Will. Damn that sexy eyebrow. “Won’t you join me for the superfluous drink you know you want?”
Will can pretend to himself whatever the hell he wants to pretend, but he knows what she’s asking. And he knows what his answer should be. But instead “Yes” is what he says.
They perch on plush seats in the lobby bar, consume I-don’t-want-this-night-to-end drinks, accompanied by an unburdening of her past romances and disappointments, a conversation that’s an unabashed invitation to intimacy, a second-date conversation and all that accompanies it—the flush, the butterflies, just like when he was fifteen years old, or twenty-five, but now at thirty-five he hasn’t been on a second date in a long time, and he’d forgotten this part of it. Maybe he’ll still feel this way at eighty-five? Or is this the last time he’ll ever feel this way? Last times are obvious only in hindsight.
One A.M. sneaks up. The lobby is deserted now except for the night manager at the desk, who’s looking down at something, probably his phone. The front doors are still open, the armed security guard leaning against a pillar out there.
“So,” Elle says, but there’s suddenly nothing left to say, now that they’ve shed the bartender’s distant company, his implicit chaperoning. The talking portion of the night is finished. What remains to be seen is if there will be another portion of the night.
“Well,” he says. “I guess this is good night.” He can’t bring himself to meet her eye.
“I’m down this corridor,” she says. “You?”
Will reaches into his pocket, removes the big leather fob. Number 32. “I don’t know.” The number doesn’t explain enough, and he can’t remember, and he’s confused.
“You are too,” she says.
Has he ever done anything this hard? What has been more difficult than standing in this empty secluded corridor, late at night, alone with this beautiful woman who wants him—who has already invited him to bed—and not kissing her?
I am not a cheater, he thinks. I’m
not
.
But Will can feel the pull of her, gravitational, and the pre-kiss buzz in his head is deafening. He tries but fails to think of something that’s not her, and the more he tries, the more insistent the images become, rapidly escalating from romantic to pornographic, the shape of her breasts, the scent of her, the feel as he slides—
Will turns halfway to Elle as she’s already turning to him, both of them having made the same decision at the same moment, and neither needs to move feet to lean in, mouth on mouth, but bodies not touching.
Elle disengages her lips. She walks away, down the carpeted hall, without saying anything, leaving him standing there alone, arguing with himself…
CAPRI
The man is approaching slowly, cupping his postprandial cigarette at an upward angle, sheltering it from the wind, maybe a bit overprotective, or self-conscious. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” The trace of a Midwestern accent, but hard to place.
“Oh,” she says, “I guess so.” She’s a dejected woman, not contemplating beauty. She’s out here wallowing, is what she’s doing.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
She opens her mouth but hesitates visibly before saying, “Sure.”
He extends his hand, says, “My name is Sean.” She knows this is not true. Sean Cullen is
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