I mean, I think I look good in this. I wouldn’t wear it if I didn’t. But this outfit doesn’t show off my legs, my ass, my cleavage, anything like that. This is the first night Jonah and I have ever spent together that isn’t totally about sex. Tonight we’ll . . . talk. Somehow that feels scarier than our role-playing.
For once I’m ready ahead of time, which means I have to find a way to wait that makes it seem like I’m not waiting. So I open Spotify and click on my contemporary jazz channel; Cassandra Wilson starts to croon, and her voice melts over me like caramel. I sink into my plush white sofa and take slow, deep breaths.
Just for tonight, I won’t ask where this is heading. I won’t try to reconcile our sexual fantasies with the kind of people we are. I won’t bring my enormous load of emotional baggage with me.
Tonight, I’m going to find out just what kind of person Jonah Marks really is.
The music keeps me from hearing the car’s approach, so I startle when I hear the bell. But the song and my new resolution calm me, and I smile as I open the door. “Hi.”
Jonah simply nods. This man isn’t big on hello. He doesn’t smile, either, but his voice is warm as he says, “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks.” So do you, I want to add, because he does. Simple black pants that nonetheless hug his taut waist and skim past muscular thighs—a midnight blue shirt turns his gray eyes the shade of a less stormy sky—and a heavy platinum watch around one wrist, the first sign of real wealth I’ve ever seen from him. But men never understand when you call them beautiful.
I see him glance past my shoulder, perhaps curious about the place where I live. Or maybe he’s figuring out how to get in, some night. He says only, “So—should we go?”
Jesus, he’s ripped the clothes off my body and we’ve fucked like animals, but suddenly neither of us knows what to say. I laugh a little, and when Jonah gives me a look, I explain, “I was smoother than this at my junior prom.”
“Same here.” A smile slowly dawns on his face. “Should I have brought a corsage?”
“Next time. Come on, let’s go.”
? ? ?
We go to a restaurant on Congress, not far from my place. Most Italian restaurants serve up the classic spaghetti and pizza, but here, the emphasis is on authentic northern Italian cuisine: roasted lemony chicken, pale white cheeses, and light, crisp Soave wine. Just inhaling the scent of the air is more delicious than most meals I’ve ever had.
That gives Jonah and me something to talk about for approximately twenty seconds. After that, we’re sitting across the table from each other, hardly knowing what to say.
What if I don’t like this guy at all? I wonder. What if we have nothing in common besides our kinky fantasies?
Just when the silence is about to go from awkward to pathetic, Jonah says, “What made you decide to draw that picture? The one in the print I bought. The man holding the dove.”
“I like to portray—contrasts. Duality. So I look for images that express two very different concepts at once.”
“The strength of the hands,” Jonah says. “And the fragility of the dove.”
“Exactly.” Should I ask this? Might as well. “You said you were drawn to the etching even before you knew I made it. Why?”
Jonah remains silent long enough that I wonder if he was lying about his interest in it. But then I realize he’s not stumped for an answer; he’s searching for the right words. “There’s so much tension there—you can sense the energy, even in the muscles. So I thought he’d imprisoned the dove in his hands. That he was on the verge of hurting it. But then I saw how careful he was—that his grasp is gentle. He wants to keep the bird alive. The drawing surprised me, and I liked that sense of surprise. A simple image turned out to mean more than I first thought.”
“Wow. Thanks.” Don’t get me wrong—it’s nice to be told that people think your work is beautiful, or lifelike, that kind of thing. But there’s no compliment an artist loves more than someone telling you your work made them think.
“When did you start drawing?”
“Well—first of all, I’ve always loved to draw. But the work you bought isn’t a drawing. It’s an etching.”
Jonah has relaxed slightly as we settle into conversation. So have I. He says, “What’s the difference?”
So I start explaining about etching—the processes, the materials, the history of it all. He’s genuinely interested, and every minute is easier than the last, and suddenly our evening together takes flight.
No, Jonah’s not hugely talkative. His explanation about why he liked my etching is the longest he talks about anything the entire dinner. But he listens well. Instead of planning the next anecdote he can share, he responds like someone who genuinely wants to know more about my work, and more about me.