Perfect Strangers

12

“Sorry, big guy. You already marked it on your calendar.”

I say it lightly, careful not to let the tremor in my hands leak into my voice. Even over the phone, his desire is palpable.

I’ve been around long enough to know that things like this aren’t made to last. This kind of instant, thermonuclear attraction inevitably flames out as quickly as it appears, leaving broken hearts and bewilderment in its wake. It could never withstand the day-to-day drudgery of marriage, child-rearing, and real life.

But in our case—with our real lives thousands of miles apart—it’s perfect.

We’ll be perfect.

Perfect strangers, unencumbered by all the bullshit that poisons desire.

“Speaking of calendars,” says James, “what’s on yours for tonight?”

“You’re taking me to dinner. Just not Café Blanc, please.”

“Not up for more verbal sparring with Jean-Luc? You seemed to handle yourself well.”

“Condescending waiters make me feel stabby. That reminds me: did you know Edmond was once stabbed in the neck with a fountain pen by one of his mistresses?”

“Oh yeah. He loves to tell that story. Has he told you the one about the beautiful Asian woman he fell in love with who turned out to be a man?”

I gasp, thrilled at the drama of it. “No! Tell me right now how it ends!”

James chuckles. “I see you haven’t yet met his current wife.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Really. They’ve been married nearly twenty years and have never spent a night apart.”

I take a moment to reorient this new information in my brain. “That’s possibly the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Do you think they’d let me interview them about it?”

“You mean as the basis for a book?”

“Not a biography, per se, but maybe just as inspiration for a story.”

“I think Edmond would pay you a gigantic sum of money if you wanted to create a fictional character based on his life.”

I think of the obvious delight with which Edmond shared the story of the passionate Italian and her sister. “You know, I think you’re right.”

He gently teases, “Not everyone would rather contract the Ebola virus than be immortalized.”

Wow, he really was paying attention to everything.

“So this dinner you’re taking me to,” I say, smiling. “Make it somewhere casual, please, because all I brought with me are jeans and T-shirts.”

His tone goes rough. “Which you make look spectacular, by the way. When you walked away from the table at the café, I thought I’d fall off the chair. Your ass should be put on display in the Louvre.”

That makes me laugh out loud. “Now who’s the one exaggerating?”

“I’m not exaggerating.”

“I know what my butt looks like, Romeo.”

“You don’t know what it looks like to a man.”

I don’t have a smart comeback to that. The hunger in his voice leaves me momentarily speechless, though I know for a fact there were dozens of far perkier asses than mine in attendance at the café.

“Okay. I’ll play your game. What does it look like to a man?”

“Before I tell you—and I will tell you, this is just a side note—I want to mention that not even three minutes ago you ragged on me for fishing for compliments. And now you want me to describe your derriere.”

“This is completely different.”

“How so?”

“For starters, you’re gorgeous. Everyone stares at you, even men.”

“Thank you, but I don’t see the difference.”

“Okay, I’m not trying to be coy now, this isn’t like when someone tells a supermodel she’s beautiful and she goes all bashful and says something outrageously false like, ‘Oh, I’m just an average girl. I’m totally plain without all this makeup.’ I have no illusions about my looks. I’ve got a great head of hair, my teeth are good, my figure is generally in proportion, but—”

“I think you’re stunning,” James interrupts. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the first time I saw you. In fact, I’ve never been as attracted to a woman before.”

I allow that to wash over me for a moment. I let the sheer pleasure of those words to settle over my shoulders and wake up a sleeping swarm of butterflies in my stomach who flit ecstatically all around.

Here’s the thing: if he’d said, “You’re stunning,” as a statement of fact, I could refute it with facts, like the list I was about to give him of all my physical shortcomings.

But you can’t argue with “I think you’re stunning,” because then it’s a matter of personal taste.

After a rough throat clearing, I offer a weak protest. Because maybe I am fishing for compliments, just a little bit.

“I’m almost old.”

He shoots back with an irritated, “The finest bottle of wine is almost old. And by the way, that age bullshit is an American thing. In Europe, women are considered sexy at all ages. For that matter, in all shapes and sizes, too. Beauty and desirability have nothing to do with the number on your birth certificate or scale. The United States of Advertising has made everybody insecure about their looks.”

It’s very possible I’m going to swoon like I’m a heroine in a bodice ripper. Instead I reply, “The United States of Advertising. I like that.”

“I like it, too. Anne Lamott coined the phrase in her book, Bird by Bird.”

My shock is so great, I have to restrain myself from falling face first onto the floor. “You’ve read Anne Lamott?”