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Authors: Nancy Kricorian
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which was dominated by a large bed with a red velvet headboard. An upright piano stood nearby. Overhead, the ceiling was lined with egg crates.
“The neighbors complain about my piano, so I put up the cartons against the noise. Let me play for you,” Philippe said.
He settled himself onto the piano bench as though he were in a concert hall. He closed his eyes and began awkwardly to play a Satie nocturne. His nostrils dilated, his brow furrowed, and when a black forelock fell over his face he tossed his head like a stallion.
Freezing his hands above the keys, Philippe gazed at Ani with longing.
He breathed, “ Je suis fou. Je veux follement te faire l’amour. ”
Then he flung himself at her.
Just as they were getting each other’s clothes undone, Philippe leaped up shouting, “ Mon dieu! I’m late for my job.”
Hurriedly buttoning his shirt, Philippe hustled her out of the apartment. When he asked for her coordinates, she gave him a number that was correct except for the final numeral. With any luck she would never see him again.
On the metro home, Ani marveled at how close she had been to having sex with a complete stranger, and a completely bizarre stranger at that. Only the guy’s eccentric behavior had brought a halt to their ill-advised encounter. And it was Asa’s fault, the foul betrayer. She thought of his narrow face and his slightly calloused hands. She had loved those hands most of all.
Men started buzzing around like flies, although Ani felt more like carrion than honey. Was she sending out secret signals of which she herself was unaware? When a medical student from Pau followed her home one afternoon, she agreed to go out with him that night to hear Argentinean music. He corrected her French and droned on about the details of his family’s prune farm. She lied and said she didn’t have a telephone. Then he lurked outside the back door several days in a row until Ani told him to get lost.
She went on a miserable date with a Greek actor who showed her his portfolio of head shots. She sat in a café with a disheveled Polish painter who told her that American culture was primitive but that he loved the enthusiasm of American women. She disliked the glint in his eye when he pronounced the word enthusiasm . She didn’t sleep with any of them.
Ani and Michael went to see The Philadelphia Story at a cinema near the Odéon. After the movie a chill wind blew bits of newspaper and trash along the boulevard. They went to a nearby café for a hot drink. Then Michael invited her to his place to play backgammon. She had played the game with her grandfather a few times—he called it tavloo.
They sat on the bed in Michael’s one-room apartment—it was a real apartment, though, with its own bathroom and minuscule kitchen—and he set out the pieces. He beat her twice and then let her win the third time. It was getting late and they both knew she’d miss the last metro if she didn’t leave soon. They set up for another round.
Michael executed his next move on the board as he said casually, “You know, you can stay here tonight if you want. There’s a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.”
She went to the bathroom and put in the diaphragm she had impulsively thrown in her bag.
After she slid between the sheets of Michael’s bed the sex happened fast, without any conversation. His body was foreign and unfamiliar. She was afraid to look at his face. Now she understood what Elena had meant when she asked if sex was better with Asa or with Will. It had generally been good with both of them, but sex with Michael wasn’t good at all. Odd how the mechanics of the thing could be more or less the same, but the sensations so different. Did this mean he was a bad lover or did it mean that they made a dismal combination?
Thankfully, it was over soon enough and she settled her head into the crook of his arm. The mood was companionable despite the stale sex. It occurred to her that he was probably as
“The neighbors complain about my piano, so I put up the cartons against the noise. Let me play for you,” Philippe said.
He settled himself onto the piano bench as though he were in a concert hall. He closed his eyes and began awkwardly to play a Satie nocturne. His nostrils dilated, his brow furrowed, and when a black forelock fell over his face he tossed his head like a stallion.
Freezing his hands above the keys, Philippe gazed at Ani with longing.
He breathed, “ Je suis fou. Je veux follement te faire l’amour. ”
Then he flung himself at her.
Just as they were getting each other’s clothes undone, Philippe leaped up shouting, “ Mon dieu! I’m late for my job.”
Hurriedly buttoning his shirt, Philippe hustled her out of the apartment. When he asked for her coordinates, she gave him a number that was correct except for the final numeral. With any luck she would never see him again.
On the metro home, Ani marveled at how close she had been to having sex with a complete stranger, and a completely bizarre stranger at that. Only the guy’s eccentric behavior had brought a halt to their ill-advised encounter. And it was Asa’s fault, the foul betrayer. She thought of his narrow face and his slightly calloused hands. She had loved those hands most of all.
Men started buzzing around like flies, although Ani felt more like carrion than honey. Was she sending out secret signals of which she herself was unaware? When a medical student from Pau followed her home one afternoon, she agreed to go out with him that night to hear Argentinean music. He corrected her French and droned on about the details of his family’s prune farm. She lied and said she didn’t have a telephone. Then he lurked outside the back door several days in a row until Ani told him to get lost.
She went on a miserable date with a Greek actor who showed her his portfolio of head shots. She sat in a café with a disheveled Polish painter who told her that American culture was primitive but that he loved the enthusiasm of American women. She disliked the glint in his eye when he pronounced the word enthusiasm . She didn’t sleep with any of them.
Ani and Michael went to see The Philadelphia Story at a cinema near the Odéon. After the movie a chill wind blew bits of newspaper and trash along the boulevard. They went to a nearby café for a hot drink. Then Michael invited her to his place to play backgammon. She had played the game with her grandfather a few times—he called it tavloo.
They sat on the bed in Michael’s one-room apartment—it was a real apartment, though, with its own bathroom and minuscule kitchen—and he set out the pieces. He beat her twice and then let her win the third time. It was getting late and they both knew she’d miss the last metro if she didn’t leave soon. They set up for another round.
Michael executed his next move on the board as he said casually, “You know, you can stay here tonight if you want. There’s a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.”
She went to the bathroom and put in the diaphragm she had impulsively thrown in her bag.
After she slid between the sheets of Michael’s bed the sex happened fast, without any conversation. His body was foreign and unfamiliar. She was afraid to look at his face. Now she understood what Elena had meant when she asked if sex was better with Asa or with Will. It had generally been good with both of them, but sex with Michael wasn’t good at all. Odd how the mechanics of the thing could be more or less the same, but the sensations so different. Did this mean he was a bad lover or did it mean that they made a dismal combination?
Thankfully, it was over soon enough and she settled her head into the crook of his arm. The mood was companionable despite the stale sex. It occurred to her that he was probably as
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