Perfect Strangers

I spend that night as I’ve spent countless others, lying on my back in bed staring at the ceiling until the sun comes up.

The tranquility of the morning is shattered by an orgasmic wail from Gigi, but this time her lusty screams don’t disturb me. It could be meeting her that has taken the edge off my irritation at the noise, but it could also be gratitude.

If it weren’t for her and Gaspard getting it on so loudly, I wouldn’t have enjoyed the first orgasm I’ve had in years.

Today I don’t find the sound of their lovemaking arousing, either. It’s simply another morning sound, like a garbage truck rumbling down an alleyway or a rooster crowing at the dawn. It’s background noise, meaningless and pleasant.

I’m too preoccupied with thoughts of James to be moved by anything else.

The memory of the way he licks his lips is torture. How can a mannerism so small be so seductive? I could write a thesis on the shape of his mouth alone.

I wait until I hear my neighbors’ shared climax before I rise from bed. Then I spend a few hours unpacking my bags, doing laundry, and getting organized. It’s just after ten o’clock when the knock comes on the front door.

I open it to find a young man holding a vase of snowy white tulips.NôvelDrama.Org owns © this.

“Olivia Rossi?”

“That’s me.”

He hands me the bouquet, then leaves without asking for a signature. Apparently he thinks I have a trustworthy face.

I bring the flowers into the kitchen, where I set them on the counter and remove the card.

“When you’re ready,” it reads, followed by a phone number.

He didn’t sign his name.

He didn’t have to.

With my heart in my throat, I dial James’s number. He picks up on the first ring.

“You got the flowers.”

His voice is low and pleased. He’s happy I called so quickly. But how did he know it was me?

“Flowers? No, I’ve just been sitting here for the past twelve hours randomly dialing phone numbers. I can’t believe I finally tried the right combination.”

“Imagine the odds,” he says, playing along. “Your dialing finger must be cramping.”

“You have no idea. It’s crooked as a fish hook. I might have to visit the emergency room. By the way, who is this?”

His chuckle sends a shiver of pleasure straight through me. “When am I going to see you, funny lady?”

“I could text you a selfie. Would that do?”

“I thought you’d rather be shot than take a selfie.”

“No, you weren’t paying attention. I said I’d rather be shot than post a selfie on the internet.”

His voice drops. “I paid attention to everything.”

In the short silence that follows, I hear my blood rushing through my veins. “So I take it Edmond gave you my message.”

He makes a soft sound that I interpret as amusement at my awkward segue. “He did. He also gave me your apartment number.”

Hence the flower delivery. “I have a feeling he would’ve also given you a key if you’d asked for it. The man thinks you walk on water.”

“I’ll be sure to ask him for one.”

When I pause, swallowing, James says, “That was a joke. I promise.”

“Hmm. Like you promised you weren’t a biter?”

Another drop in his tone, and now he’s all husky sex line operator. “I’m not a biter. I’m a nibbler. There’s a big difference.”

I break out in a cold sweat. Steady, Olivia. Take a deep breath.

After it becomes obvious I’m not going to respond, James prompts, “Are you not saying anything because I’m bothering you, or because I’m bothering you?”

I exhale in a noisy rush. “Honestly? I don’t know if a woman has ever been more bothered by a man in the whole of human history.”

He unleashes that devastating chuckle again, the bastard. “I’ll take that as a compliment. When am I going to see you?”

I note he doesn’t ask, “When can you sit for your portrait?” because we both know when I told Edmond I’d sit for a portrait, that wasn’t what I was agreeing to at all.

I say quietly, “I haven’t done this in a long time.”

“Talked on the phone?”

“Taken a lover.”

His exhalation is slow and rough. I imagine him gripping the phone so hard he puts a crack in it.

After a while, I ask, “Are you still there?”

“Just recovering the power of speech. Please hold.”

I smile, gratified I affect him as much as he affects me. “Not to be presumptuous, but it does seem like the feeling is—”

“Mutual. Yes. Jesus. Are you always this direct?”

“Life’s too short to mince words. But since we’re on the subject, I should tell you I’m going to need some time. I can’t just…”

“Hop into bed with me on the first date.”

“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 fuck’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.”

“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?”

He says drily, “Try not to sound so surprised. I’m quite capable of reading a book.”

“But that book—I mean, the woman is practically my idol. I love her work.”

“Me too. In fact, there are a lot of books I love.” His tone grows warmer. “Looks like we found something we can talk about when we’re busy not getting personal.”

The swooning threatens to encroach again. This man is terrible for my blood pressure.

“First things first,” I say, struggling to remain cool. “We were supposed to be talking terms. Oh, and you were supposed to tell me what my ass looks like to a man.”

James chuckles. “Over dinner. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Okay. See you then.”

“And Olivia?”

“Yes?”

His voice turns husky. “Be ready to tell me everything you want me to do to you in bed.”

The line goes dead in my hand.