Play Dates by Leslie Carroll

self-medicating.
    I sent my assistants home, and was the last to leave Luca’s studio after the shoot. Deliberately, I was taking forever to pack up my stuff, when he touched my arm and said one word to me—
    aspetto . Since his eyes had a pleading look in them, I figured he meant “stay.” Somehow he rigged his lights and filters so we could watch ourselves make love, like we were shadow puppets on the filmy white screens. It was wildly erotic, but now I know why some celebs hate seeing themselves on film. I could stand to lose a pound or two or I’ll be wearing Lucky’s duds before I know it.
    We smoked a joint and after some gentle but insistent persuasion (did he not know he was shooting fish in a barrel?) Luca cranked up the stereo—Italian pop superstar Michele Zarrillo—
    and convinced me to pose for some photos, using only a filmy scarf as a prop. I pranced, danced, and twirled like Salome near-ing her finale as Luca kept up a stream of chatter. He used the word bellissima a lot. I felt like Marilyn Monroe.
    And I couldn’t wait to tell Claire about my new conquest.
    “You did what ?” she said. She was all but clucking her tongue.
    “Don’t be so fucking judgmental.”
    “Do you have to curse?”
    Her reaction surprised and disappointed me. Since when is Claire Marsh a prude? “What happened to the kid sister who took as many risks as I do?”
    “She had a kid of her own almost seven years ago. Then her husband walked out on her. Risks are a luxury she can’t afford to take.”

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    Leslie Carroll
    “Risks are a luxury she can’t afford not to take.”
    Claire didn’t respond to that. She returned to the subject of Luca and the photos. “How do you know what he’s planning to do with them? For all the Italian he was spouting away, he could have told you in chapter and verse exactly where he was going to post them on the Internet. Mia, you were doing soft-core.”
    “Oh, please! Art shots. Purely for our mutual amusement. It’s just me in the pictures. And about three feet of blue silk.”
    “For a woman on the verge of thirty, you can be appallingly naïve.”
    “Hey!”
    “ Selectively naïve, then. You believe what you want to believe.
    Particularly when it comes to men.”
    “Ouch. Are you sure you’re not really talking about Claire , Claire?”
    “Double ouch, okay? It’s like you’re a perennial child.”
    “And you’re becoming a perennial mother. Claire, listen to yourself. I don’t need ‘stop, wait, don’ts’ from you. Save it for Zoë.” I’d snapped at her, without meaning to, but somehow I’d felt baited. There was a terrible silence from the other end of the line. I didn’t want to apologize. There was nothing to be sorry for.
    Not as far as my baby sister was concerned, anyway. “I think . . .”
    I said, weighing my words to make sure I sounded kinder about it, “that if you had stuff of your own to focus on, you wouldn’t feel compelled . . . wouldn’t have the time . . . to . . . to meddle.”
    “Meddle?” I could hear that Claire was pissed. “You think I’m meddling?”
    Okay, so maybe it didn’t come out as kind as I’d meant. “I phoned you to tell you about Luca. To share. Girl stuff. Because you’re my sister, so, silly me, I thought you’d be happy for me—
    or at least entertained by my latest guy exploit—as you like to put it.” My words began to pick up steam. “I didn’t ask for your knee-jerk view. Or request a seal of approval from Miss Perfect, former trophy wife. I think you spend so much of your life these days in PLAY DATES
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    conversations with a second grader that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to talk to an adult.”
    Cradle phones convey what a cordless never can. I heard a deliberate click and the line went dead.
    I made a list of what I think I’m good at. Retail. Design. History of art. Not much call for that one, unless you’ve got a masters or a Ph.D. And I’ve gone on a few job interviews that I