Peril

STARK

She was experienced, as he expected, and preferred to be on top. She kept her blouse on but unbuttoned the sleeves and rolled them up to the elbow. Her breathing came in quick, rhythmic spurts, and on the downstroke, little pleasurable bursts of vulgarity broke from her. “Oh, shit,” she groaned, then took a deep breath. “Oh, fuck,” she gasped. She reared back, swept her hair from her eyes, and switched to a grinding motion. “Oh, Christ.” Her movements grew more rapid. “I’m going to get it,” she said with a quick laugh. “I’m going to get it, baby.”

Then she did, and after that rolled off him and lay on her back and gazed at the ceiling.

“Do you know what they call it in the South?” she asked. “When you get it, I mean. A nut. They call it getting your nut.” She shifted onto her side, rested her head in her hand, and stared at him. “Did it bother you… about keeping my blouse on?”

“No.”

“I’ve had some… problems, so…”

He touched her lips with his finger. “It didn’t bother me.”

She brushed back a strand of his silver hair. “You’re probably married. With a couple of kids.”

He neither confirmed nor denied this.

She remained silent for a time, then said, “I took the room just for the day. I do that once a month or so. To stay alive.”

She was trying to explain something he’d heard before, that life was inadequate, a quick fuck at the Plaza just another survival tool. And why not? Nothing lasted. Nothing held. Life was just a long improvisation. You feinted left or right, and by that means dodged the blow.

“So, what do you think… Frank,” she said. “Maybe we could save the country again sometime.”

He shook his head.

She looked at him piercingly, and he saw a wound open up inside her. “Just not interested, is that it?” she asked.

Inevitably, the time had come to lie to her. “I’m leaving town.”

Inevitably, she did not believe it. “Whatever you say, mystery man.” She shrugged indifferently, but there was a bitter glint in her eye. “Too bad.” She pulled herself from the bed and began to dress. He took the cue and did the same.

A few minutes later they strolled out of the Plaza and made their way toward Fifth Avenue. The circular fountain sprayed its fine mist. Chauffeurs were gathered in small knots, smoking.

“Pretty,” she said. There was a mist in her eyes. “So pretty.”

They walked along the avenue. The silence between them lengthened and grew heavier with each step.

At last she stopped and faced him. “May I ask you something? Do you do this… a lot?”

The time had come to cut the cord, and he knew that any effort to do it slowly would only make things worse. “Every chance I get,” he said.

“Does it matter… who?”

“No.”

“How very… romantic.” Her tone suddenly grew brittle. “I should have guessed as much. All you mystery men are shits.”

He gave no response but only stepped over to the curb and hailed a cab while she watched him, fuming now, from a few feet away.

When the cab pulled over he got in. “Four forty-five West Nineteenth,” he said.

She bolted forward and rapped at the window, her eyes flaring vehemently. “Fuck you, mystery man.”

The cab pulled away and he fixed his gaze on the rearview mirror, where he could see the driver’s eyes peering at him. They were dark and sunken and they reminded him of Marisol. Her voice returned to him in a ghostly whisper, Sabes que me matara. You know he’s going to kill me.

He closed his eyes and let the black curtain fall. When he opened them again, the cab was turning onto Nineteenth Street, and it had begun to rain.