to make her talk a little about her life. I don’t want to say anything that might jeopardize our relationship or turn her off.
“Are there any other men in your life?” I ask gently.
“There are none,” she says, sort of distractedly. This answer makes me so happy.
She’s looking at the people around us a lot.
“How old are you?” I ask. Whether she’s twenty or forty doesn’t make any difference to me. I’m asking her because I want to know as much about her as possible, and I believe in directness.
“Thirty,” she says.
“I’m twenty-nine. What about the past men in your life?”
“Oh, they were like anyone else’s past men.”
“Which is?”
“I went out with a few. They lasted a year at the most. It was fun while it lasted.”
“Would you like to find a relationship that will last?”
“I’m sure I do.”
“What do you mean, you’re sure you do? Is that a way of saying you’re not sure?”
“One of my traits is that I am usually not sure about anything.”
“What about Sara’s father?”
“What about him?”
“What became of him?”
“He died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
I know I probably shouldn’t ask “how.” But what about “when”? Am I allowed to ask “when”?
“When?” I ask in a small voice.
“Ten years ago.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” she says, and looks around at the people, probably wanting me to drop the subject.
“How did it happen?”
She looks at me. “Flying accident.”
“A plane crash?”
“No, hang gliding.”
Am I allowed to ask, “Have you ever hang glided?” or would that be dragging out the unpleasant subject for too long?
“Have you ever hang glided?” I ask.
“No, it was never my cup of tea,” she says, pushing the hair out of her face, probably desperate for me to shut up. She looks around at the people more eagerly than ever, and I decide to point it out to her.
“Are you studying subjects for your paintings?” I ask.
“How perceptive,” she says, smiling, probably relieved that I dropped the subject. “Recently,” she goes on, “I realized more clearly than ever that movement is an excellent thing to study for painting. Especially now, for my new, more moderate paintings. Everything is more subtle, so I have to start observing things that don’t seem relevant for painting. Like voice, conversation, and intelligence.”
I’m a teeny bit jealous that she looks at other people so much. Obsessively Infatuated Martyr.
“I like optical illusions,” she adds.
I can’t think of anything else to say, so even though I don’t really care about the answer, I ask, “Where is the dancing magician?”
“She should be out soon. She’s getting ready. It takes her a long time.”
I wonder why she is smiling when she says this. The waiter comes to take our order for dessert.
Henrietta says, “I would like the poires aux amandes sur une mousse de vin blanc .”
I say, “I would like the homemade honey ice cream, please.” The background music suddenly stops, and a different music begins. It sounds rather Arabian.
A woman comes out on the stage, carrying a box full of objects. She puts it down in a corner. I guess this is Laura. She has not been announced, but since she starts dancing, it must be her. She is dressed rather normally (for living, that is, not dancing), wearing boots and a loose jacket, no special costume, except for a top hat, which looks out of place with the rest of her outfit. The hat is held on her head by an elastic under her chin, so that it won’t fall off when she dances. She’s not bad-looking, except that her mouth seems a bit deformed. She twirls and skips and raises her arms. I can tell right away that her dancing is very amateurish: the kind bankers might do, on the spur of the moment, in the privacy of their homes. The magic has not come yet. She bounces, taps her feet. She pulls a flower out of her boot and raises it triumphantly, leading me to believe with
“Are there any other men in your life?” I ask gently.
“There are none,” she says, sort of distractedly. This answer makes me so happy.
She’s looking at the people around us a lot.
“How old are you?” I ask. Whether she’s twenty or forty doesn’t make any difference to me. I’m asking her because I want to know as much about her as possible, and I believe in directness.
“Thirty,” she says.
“I’m twenty-nine. What about the past men in your life?”
“Oh, they were like anyone else’s past men.”
“Which is?”
“I went out with a few. They lasted a year at the most. It was fun while it lasted.”
“Would you like to find a relationship that will last?”
“I’m sure I do.”
“What do you mean, you’re sure you do? Is that a way of saying you’re not sure?”
“One of my traits is that I am usually not sure about anything.”
“What about Sara’s father?”
“What about him?”
“What became of him?”
“He died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
I know I probably shouldn’t ask “how.” But what about “when”? Am I allowed to ask “when”?
“When?” I ask in a small voice.
“Ten years ago.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” she says, and looks around at the people, probably wanting me to drop the subject.
“How did it happen?”
She looks at me. “Flying accident.”
“A plane crash?”
“No, hang gliding.”
Am I allowed to ask, “Have you ever hang glided?” or would that be dragging out the unpleasant subject for too long?
“Have you ever hang glided?” I ask.
“No, it was never my cup of tea,” she says, pushing the hair out of her face, probably desperate for me to shut up. She looks around at the people more eagerly than ever, and I decide to point it out to her.
“Are you studying subjects for your paintings?” I ask.
“How perceptive,” she says, smiling, probably relieved that I dropped the subject. “Recently,” she goes on, “I realized more clearly than ever that movement is an excellent thing to study for painting. Especially now, for my new, more moderate paintings. Everything is more subtle, so I have to start observing things that don’t seem relevant for painting. Like voice, conversation, and intelligence.”
I’m a teeny bit jealous that she looks at other people so much. Obsessively Infatuated Martyr.
“I like optical illusions,” she adds.
I can’t think of anything else to say, so even though I don’t really care about the answer, I ask, “Where is the dancing magician?”
“She should be out soon. She’s getting ready. It takes her a long time.”
I wonder why she is smiling when she says this. The waiter comes to take our order for dessert.
Henrietta says, “I would like the poires aux amandes sur une mousse de vin blanc .”
I say, “I would like the homemade honey ice cream, please.” The background music suddenly stops, and a different music begins. It sounds rather Arabian.
A woman comes out on the stage, carrying a box full of objects. She puts it down in a corner. I guess this is Laura. She has not been announced, but since she starts dancing, it must be her. She is dressed rather normally (for living, that is, not dancing), wearing boots and a loose jacket, no special costume, except for a top hat, which looks out of place with the rest of her outfit. The hat is held on her head by an elastic under her chin, so that it won’t fall off when she dances. She’s not bad-looking, except that her mouth seems a bit deformed. She twirls and skips and raises her arms. I can tell right away that her dancing is very amateurish: the kind bankers might do, on the spur of the moment, in the privacy of their homes. The magic has not come yet. She bounces, taps her feet. She pulls a flower out of her boot and raises it triumphantly, leading me to believe with
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