Perfect Strangers

11

“Bingo.”

“You want to get to know me better first.”

I think about that. What is it, exactly, that I want? I’m here for three months, then I’ll go back to real life in the States. This can only be a temporary thing, a brief affair with a beautiful stranger to be remembered fondly when I’m sitting in my rocking chair on the front porch of the old folks’ home.

So why waste any time?

I’m hardly a virgin. We’re both adults, we’re both single, and we both know what we want. Aside from a nod to “morality,” what’s the point of delay?

Anticipation, whispers my brain.

The point of delay is to build desire.

I take a moment to marvel at this thirsty new version of myself. Perhaps it’s the influence of my exhibitionist neighbors, but whatever it is, I’m going with it.

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but…no. I don’t need to get to know you better first. Everything I need to know is what happens to me when I look into your eyes.”

He waits, his silence bristling with heat.

“I’m not in Paris for long. If this gets personal, if we get too close and share all our sad stories, it will be much harder when I leave. I’d rather keep things light.” I close my eyes, ashamed by how mercenary that sounded. “Forgive me if that’s crass or insulting. It’s just the way I feel.”

“So you only want me for my body,” he says in a throaty, teasing drawl. “Well, I never.”

I whisper, “It is a pretty good body.”

He sounds insulted. “Pretty good? Oh, stop, you’ll spoil me.”

“Okay, fine, egomaniac, it’s an amazing body. Satisfied?”

He sniffs. “No.”

Smiling, still with my eyes closed, I say, “It’s hands down the best body I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying a lot since I haven’t even seen you naked.”

Yet.

“What about the face?”

“Oh my God! You’re totally fishing for compliments!”

“It’s a small price to pay for using me for my many charms, don’t you think?”

I start to laugh and can’t stop. “Okay, fine. Your face. Your face is…well, it’s pretty good, too.”

“I’m going to hang up on you.”

“No, you’re not.”

It’s his turn to laugh. “You’re right. I’m not. Now give me another compliment before my ego deflates and I go off and cry in a corner.”

“Fine. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

I picture his face, all those perfect angles and lines. “Your face is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Surprisingly, I actually mean it.

“Go on…”

I shake my head, trying not to laugh. Adopting a theatrical breathy voice, I say, “And your eyes…your eyes are like two limpid pools. Your voice is the honey-smoke croon of a blues singer, setting all my nerves aflutter. And your lips—oh! Your lips are like strawberry wine!”

He mutters, “Oh, for f**k’s sake.”

My tone turns practical. “Hey, you started it.”

“You must’ve grown up with very annoying siblings.”

I start to make a joke about how annoying my older brothers actually were, but stop myself.

My hesitation isn’t lost on James. “Right. We’re not getting personal.”

I make a face. “Is that weird? Will it get too awkward and weird if we can’t talk to each other?”

“I’m sure we’ll find plenty of things to talk about.”

Heat has crept back into his voice. It causes a vivid flashback of my fantasy of him thrusting into me from behind as I’m on my knees, my face buried in a pillow.

“You’re quiet again.”

I fan my face with my hand. “Just trying to manage this hot flash. It’s a doozy.”

“I’ll give you a minute.”

In his pause, I hear stifled laughter. Then he comes back on the line, all business. “All right, let’s agree on terms.”

“That sounds depressingly practical.”

“It is practical, but it doesn’t have to be depressing. This way, we both know what to expect. It will cut down on the weirdness.”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“You mentioned you’re not in Paris for long. When do you leave?”

“The first day of fall. September twenty-third.”

“I’m marking it on my calendar. What do you have planned while you’re here? Visiting with friends? Sightseeing?”

“You sound like a customs officer. Do you want to stamp my Visa?”

“I want to know what your schedule looks like, smartass.”

I can tell by the abrupt following pause that he didn’t mean to call me that. I find it oddly endearing that he did.

I say, “Normally I’d object to a man calling me names before we’ve even had our first date, but considering the timetable we’re working with, I’ll let it slide. Also, it’s apropos: I am a smartass. And I like that you’re comfortable enough with me to call me out on it.”

“Still. It was rude. I apologize.”

He sounds satisfyingly contrite. “Apology accepted. When you’re not demanding compliments or ignoring people’s wishes that you not sit at their bistro table, you have very charming manners, you know that? Thank you for the flowers, by the way. White tulips were a classy touch. Sophisticated, but not trying too hard. If you’d sent red roses, I would’ve been forced to downgrade my opinion of you.”

“What’s wrong with red roses? Aren’t they romantic?”

“Only to people lacking imagination. Real romantics never go for the cliché because passion is so utterly individual.”

After a moment, he groans softly. “You’re adorable. Three months won’t be long enough.”