someone else’s burden.”
Didier switched on the lights as the daylight died, and before I knew it he was dragging over a second chair, clearing the island and setting dinner before me.
This was a date. A meal, drinks, the promise of foreplay if not sex. I didn’t let myself diminish it, knowing I was paying for his company as surely as I’d purchased the wine we were enjoying. He’s extraordinary, that way. He doesn’t trick you into believing this is something other than what it is. He merely makes what it is a thing of substance. I’m buying Didier as I might a gourmet meal or an evening of live music, a fleeting indulgence. Does it really matter that I paid for any of them, that I didn’t prepare the food or compose the music; that others could enjoy the pleasures if they too were willing to pay for them? Was it really all some New World hang-up, the demand for permanence and ownership and exclusivity? I hope so. My parents were such a cautionary tale against two people staying together, it’s no wonder I’ve never pined for commitment.
Didier spoke after a long silence. “You look rather thoughtful.”
“I feel rather thoughtful.”
“You are not sad, I hope.”
I shook my head. “Not at all. I’m having a lovely evening. Everything is delicious. Thank you.”
He lifted his glass. “And thank you, for sharing it.” Didier is as smooth as I’d expected a Frenchman to be, but not in the cloying, coercive way I’d feared. His seduction puts you at ease, like a slowly sipped cocktail or a hot bath.
Didier is a fine cook, and the bite of the tomatoes brought out the tang of the grated cheese, the sweetness of the onions, the tartness of the wine. I will never be able to eat linguine again without thinking of him, his hands and mouth and voice.
“What else would you like to do tonight?” he asked.
“I hadn’t thought too much about it. Just drink and talk, like Thursday. See where that goes.”
“That sounds perfect. And if you are interested…if you enjoy music and you grow weary of my voice…”
Fat chance.
“I have a phonograph and some records. I know that’s old-fashioned…”
“No, that’s cool.”
He smiled. “Good. I love old things. Typewriters, gas lamps. Those things that are trapped between history and the present. What we used to call technology, now antiques.”
“That’s interesting. What other sorts of things?”
“Toys fascinate me, like wind-up tin animals, miniature railroads, slot cars, music boxes. When I was a child I would get lost for hours in my grandparents’ attic. My grandfather had nearly all of the toys he’d grown up with, board games too, and so many photographs.”
“Wow.”
“Yes. I would fantasize about living in that time, between the wars. I have a cabinet full of things I’ve collected, if you’d like to see, after dinner.”
“I would.”
I watched Didier as he ate, marveling again at him. Surely no one is perfect, and yet he seems so. A large man, big enough to seem exceptional but not so big that he feels inaccessible or overbearing. I adore him from every angle, his jaw, his strong nose, the dark, graceful arch of his eyelashes when his face is cast down. I remembered this face as it had looked on Thursday evening, seconds before he came. An entirely different strain of perfection.
When we’d cleaned our plates he took them to the sink and refreshed our glasses.
“May I see your cabinet?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Come.”
We went through to the main room and set our wine on the coffee table. He turned on a lamp and I followed him to a corner, to an old china hutch I’d not noticed before. It contained no dishes, but a multitude of treasures. Beyond the glass stood tin toys, clocks, brass scales, metronomes. He opened a drawer to reveal a carefully spaced selection of watch faces. From behind them he withdrew a tied leather bag and unrolled it, taking out tiny tools to show me—a set of magnifying lenses, minuscule
Didier switched on the lights as the daylight died, and before I knew it he was dragging over a second chair, clearing the island and setting dinner before me.
This was a date. A meal, drinks, the promise of foreplay if not sex. I didn’t let myself diminish it, knowing I was paying for his company as surely as I’d purchased the wine we were enjoying. He’s extraordinary, that way. He doesn’t trick you into believing this is something other than what it is. He merely makes what it is a thing of substance. I’m buying Didier as I might a gourmet meal or an evening of live music, a fleeting indulgence. Does it really matter that I paid for any of them, that I didn’t prepare the food or compose the music; that others could enjoy the pleasures if they too were willing to pay for them? Was it really all some New World hang-up, the demand for permanence and ownership and exclusivity? I hope so. My parents were such a cautionary tale against two people staying together, it’s no wonder I’ve never pined for commitment.
Didier spoke after a long silence. “You look rather thoughtful.”
“I feel rather thoughtful.”
“You are not sad, I hope.”
I shook my head. “Not at all. I’m having a lovely evening. Everything is delicious. Thank you.”
He lifted his glass. “And thank you, for sharing it.” Didier is as smooth as I’d expected a Frenchman to be, but not in the cloying, coercive way I’d feared. His seduction puts you at ease, like a slowly sipped cocktail or a hot bath.
Didier is a fine cook, and the bite of the tomatoes brought out the tang of the grated cheese, the sweetness of the onions, the tartness of the wine. I will never be able to eat linguine again without thinking of him, his hands and mouth and voice.
“What else would you like to do tonight?” he asked.
“I hadn’t thought too much about it. Just drink and talk, like Thursday. See where that goes.”
“That sounds perfect. And if you are interested…if you enjoy music and you grow weary of my voice…”
Fat chance.
“I have a phonograph and some records. I know that’s old-fashioned…”
“No, that’s cool.”
He smiled. “Good. I love old things. Typewriters, gas lamps. Those things that are trapped between history and the present. What we used to call technology, now antiques.”
“That’s interesting. What other sorts of things?”
“Toys fascinate me, like wind-up tin animals, miniature railroads, slot cars, music boxes. When I was a child I would get lost for hours in my grandparents’ attic. My grandfather had nearly all of the toys he’d grown up with, board games too, and so many photographs.”
“Wow.”
“Yes. I would fantasize about living in that time, between the wars. I have a cabinet full of things I’ve collected, if you’d like to see, after dinner.”
“I would.”
I watched Didier as he ate, marveling again at him. Surely no one is perfect, and yet he seems so. A large man, big enough to seem exceptional but not so big that he feels inaccessible or overbearing. I adore him from every angle, his jaw, his strong nose, the dark, graceful arch of his eyelashes when his face is cast down. I remembered this face as it had looked on Thursday evening, seconds before he came. An entirely different strain of perfection.
When we’d cleaned our plates he took them to the sink and refreshed our glasses.
“May I see your cabinet?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Come.”
We went through to the main room and set our wine on the coffee table. He turned on a lamp and I followed him to a corner, to an old china hutch I’d not noticed before. It contained no dishes, but a multitude of treasures. Beyond the glass stood tin toys, clocks, brass scales, metronomes. He opened a drawer to reveal a carefully spaced selection of watch faces. From behind them he withdrew a tied leather bag and unrolled it, taking out tiny tools to show me—a set of magnifying lenses, minuscule
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