Until I Saw Your Smile by J.J. Murray Page A

Pomeranians.
    And I’m watching an all-white musical first performed for all-white audiences in 1930. And what’s the musical about? A wealthy New York socialite hooking up with a bootlegger. Maybe the fourth ticket was for their purses.
    Can this date get any better?
    Please?
    By the fourth song (“Say It with Gin”), Matthew focused on Victoria’s legs and didn’t see a single hair on them. Not one. That can’t be possible. Does she wax? I can’t see her physically doing anything. She probably has her leg hairs removed individually at $100 an amazing and iconic pluck.
    â€œLove for Sale,” the show’s only truly “iconic” song, sent Matthew into a deep depression. You said it, sister. That’s all this date is. He looked at Victoria and Debbie singing along with the prostitute on stage.
    During the intermission, Victoria and Debbie three-way-called Freddie to tell Freddie how “amazing” and “iconic” and “wonderful” the show was. While Matthew wanted to tell Freddie the truth and was glad the women had discovered a new word (“wonderful”), he kept his silence, unhappy that his buzz was quickly wearing off.
    During the second act, the utterly forgettable “Sing Sing for Sing Sing” made Victoria’s toes tap along all the way to the last song: “Take Me Back to Manhattan.”
    Please, take me back to Brooklyn.
    After the show, they took a cab to Azure, Victoria and Debbie’s building on East 91st t Street and First Avenue, a tower held together by thousands of windows. Victoria introduced Matthew to the doorman, who looked like a lost airline pilot, and the concierge, who looked like a lost Charlie Chaplin. When Debbie drifted to the elevator without so much as a “thanks,” Matthew wanted to scream.
    But he didn’t. He was in Azure, home of million-dollar one-bedroom apartments, in a well-lit lobby with a still well-lit date.
    Victoria seemed to be looking toward the elevator, too, as if she missed her friend already.
    â€œQuite a lobby,” Matthew said absently.
    â€œIsn’t it?” Victoria said. “Weil Studio did all the glass artwork on the walls. Isn’t it amazing?”
    No. “It’s nice.”
    â€œAnd we’re standing on tundra gray marble.” Victoria pointed at the floor for good measure.
    I didn’t need you to point. I know where the floor is.
    Victoria pointed at the wall. “That’s American walnut wood paneling.”
    I still didn’t need you to point.
    â€œWhere do you live, Matthew?” Victoria asked.
    Hey, she’s trying to engage me in conversation. I feel so privileged. “Williamsburg.”
    â€œVirginia? Oh, I love the South.”
    I can’t believe I wanted to touch this out-of-touch woman. “Williamsburg, Brooklyn. On Havemeyer Street.”
    â€œOh,” Victoria said.
    I’ve heard that kind of “oh” before. Joy used to say “oh” like that when her stomach was giving her fits.
    â€œI hear Williamsburg is becoming more and more iconic,” Victoria said.
    If I had a dollar for every time she said—
    â€œWhat are your common charges?” Victoria asked.
    Ah, common charges, those uncommon monthly “charges” for the “right” to live in opulence, charges like insurance for common grounds, the pool, the clubhouse, landscaping, garbage removal, snow removal, the doorman’s jacket and white gloves, the concierge’s sneer . . .
    â€œI don’t have any common charges,” Matthew said. I only have something called “rent.”
    â€œ Our common charges are over two thousand dollars a month,” Victoria said, smiling broadly.
    And she said it with pride, and those common charges don’t include her lease payment, utilities, hair-plucking, dog walking . . .
    â€œWow, that’s . . . something,” Matthew said. “What floor do