Perfect Strangers

5

Kelly would be so proud.

As great as my impromptu little porno was, it did contain one glaring flaw: if a man ever slapped me on the ass, I’d whirl around and punch him in the face.

I mean, I think I would. I’m pretty sure. I’ve never had anyone attempt it, but ass slapping during s*x strikes me as borderline abusive. Or just silly, I can’t decide which. In any case, I seriously doubt I’ll ever be forced to choose because my chances of a future s****l encounter with a man who’d be into that sort of thing can be classified as slim to none.

No alpha wolf ass slappers need apply, thank you very much.

Interesting that you’re fantasizing about it, then, notes the Kelly that lives inside my head while calmly filing her nails.

To which I answer, “Shut up,” and rise from bed, avoiding my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I head to the shower.

It’s too early in the morning to see what a voyeur with haunted eyes and conflicted feelings about rough s*x looks like.

Later that afternoon, I’m sitting at the huge roll top desk in Estelle’s stuffed-with-first-edition-classics library staring at a lined yellow pad of paper, pen poised in hand, filled to the gills with every bit of the fear, conceit, and existential anguish every writer feels when faced with a blank page, when the doorbell rings.

“Thank God!” I shout, wilting with relief. I throw the pen down and heave a sigh.

It’s moments like these that affirm to me the existence and merciful nature of a supreme being. I’d been sitting in the same spot, staring at the same blank page, for going on an hour.

I was just about to c***k open the bourbon again.

Springing from the chair as if launched, I hustle through the apartment to the front door, which I throw open with an overabundance of exuberance. It slams against the wall. To the small elderly man standing there, I boom with a theatrical flourish of my hands, “Hello! How may I help you?”

For a moment, he’s a deer in headlights, his eyes wide and unblinking. The black beret tilted at a rakish angle on his bald head seems to quiver in fear.

Poor man. I really shouldn’t be allowed to interact with the rest of the human race.

But then he recovers, straightening his bowtie and offering me a tentative smile. “Er…bonjour, mademoiselle.”

Mademoiselle, not madame. I am in love with him.

“Bonjour.” So grateful for the interruption and the polite flattery, I beam at him like a maniac. “Joues-tu au tennis?”

He blinks once, slowly. “No, mademoiselle. I do not play tennis.”

“Oh s**t. Sorry. I don’t actually speak French. That’s all I remember from the one class I took in high school a hundred years ago. I thought I was saying, ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’”

“I give you points for the effort.” He pauses. “What would you have done if I’d answered back in French?”

I casually lift a shoulder. “Probably tried out some Italian on you. But hopefully you don’t speak it because all I know are the curses my grandmother used to shout at my brothers when they came home drunk.”

His smile deepens. “Ah yes. The Italians. Très passionnant. I once had an Italian mistress named Sophia who stabbed me six times in the neck with a fountain pen when she caught me looking at another woman.”

I arch my brows. “Seems like a bit of an overreaction.”

“The other woman was her sister.”

When I don’t say anything, he adds, “With whom I was also having an affair.”

I make a face at him. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way since we only just met, but now I’m thinking you deserved it.”

“Oh, indeed I did,” he says with zero remorse. “I also deserved it when my wife set my car on fire when she found out about Sophia and her sister.” He exhales a wistful sigh. “I really loved that car.”

Men.

Normally, I’d judge his character as sadly flawed based on this anecdote, but he’s just given me a wonderful idea for a plot for a novel, so instead I cut him some slack and smile. “It sounds like you’ve lived an interesting life, monsieur…”

“Edmond Chevalier. The building manager, at your service.” Sweeping off his beret, he bows. When he straightens, he’s smiling. The beret he claps back onto his bald head. “And oui, I have lived a very interesting life. Ah, the stories I could tell you, mademoiselle, they would curl your hair!”

I’m totally getting this talkative old geezer drunk and pilfering every plot idea I can.

Estelle’s been patient, but I’m afraid if I don’t come up with a new story by the end of the summer, she’ll give up on me altogether. Edmond here could be just the inspiration I need.

Trying not to wring my hands and cackle like some crazed comic book villain , I say, “I’d love to hear your stories. Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you for the kind invitation, but I’m on my way to lunch. I only stopped by to introduce myself and invite you to the cocktail party this evening in the grand salon. Estelle was most insistent that I make you feel welcome and introduce you to the other neighbors so you’d feel right at home. And I know they’re all very eager to meet you. A writer in our midst! How exciting!”

As my stomach sinks, he claps, hopping a little in glee.

It would be adorable except I’m too busy planning my imminent bout of infectious colitis to notice.

I don’t do parties. Especially parties where I’m trotted around like the prize hog. People tend to think authors are magical unicorn creatures who lead interesting and glamorous lives, when really we’re a bunch of awkward nail-biting introverts who’d rather have our eyes put out with hot pokers than be forced into conversations with total strangers, which for an introvert is about as fun as bathing a cat.

Then there’s the inevitable, “Have I read anything of yours?” to which I always pray God, let’s hope not.

I live in terror of the person who’s read my work and would like to offer a helpful critique.

“I’m so sorry, Edmond, but I don’t think I’ll be able to—”

“Seven o’clock sharp, my dear!” He waves a hand briskly back and forth, as if erasing my refusal from existence. “Don’t be late. You won’t want to miss the introduction from our artist-in-residence to his new collection, a few pieces of which will be on display. He’s incredibly talented, just incredibly talented. The party is in honor of him, in case I didn’t mention it.”