although communication between them was too subtle for me. He pulled back her chair with a flourish and took her hand. They squeezed between tables and out of the café into the crowd.
Taylor arched sideways to keep Snow in her sights. She has beautiful slender arms and impossibly small wrists. Tall and tiny, she is both. I did feel lumpy around her. That day, as always, she was terminally chic in something geometric: a pleated top, front black, back white, the neckline and armholes slits in a perfect square.
“Michael’s so sweet with Snow. Finn could learn from him.” From one of six compartments of her efficient purse, she extracted a mini bottle of Purell and offered me a squirt.
I didn’t know about the Purell. I don’t think I would have wanted to vacation with someone who brought Purell along. I even fantasized later that if I’d known about the Purell, maybe the vacation wouldn’t have happened. I didn’t remember Purell in London, perhaps it was a new fetish. Purell
is
a fetish. Once one carries it—I have noticed from those who do—it seems necessary throughout the day to cleanse. It reflects a constant awareness that the world is awash with bacteria and you, going about your innocent carefree way, are all the while collecting microbes that can murder you or at least give you the twenty-four-hour flu. It’s awkward to turn down Purell, so I didn’t. That struck almost as powerfully as the Pantheon, I’m ashamed to admit. It’s as if one is saying,
I prefer germs, I prefer to eat with dirty hands, I have poor hygiene. I am a pig.
While I was playing with the possibility of spinning Purell into something, into some puny article to sell, Taylor shot upout of her chair and stared. Snow and Michael had stopped to talk to some husky Italians dressed as gladiators.
“Would you mind paying?” she said, and sped toward Snow.
It took me a minute to figure out the euros, which were mixed up in my wallet with American money, and to guess the tip. I finished off Taylor’s smoothie and left in search of Finn.
The market—open-air stalls shaded by umbrellas—is what makes my heart pitter-pat: stacks of prickly-looking vegetables (or fruits) I don’t recognize, baskets of peppers, fresh berries (the prettiest marble-sized cerise-colored ones that turned out to be slightly sour), mixtures of spices named after the pasta sauce they season (arrabbiata, puttanesca), a dizzying assortment of cheese, some in giant farm-sized hunks. I wanted to get stoned on their smoggy dense aroma.
Finn was eating a slice of
pizza bianca
, chatting with a signora at a checkered cloth–covered table where several large pieces were available by the slice.
“Close your eyes.”
I did, and took a bite. “God, it’s even good cold. Why is it better to eat with your eyes closed?”
“It concentrates you,” he said. “You can’t feel pain in two places at once.” He wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. “Same thing.”
“That makes no sense. I’m sure I could feel pain simultaneously in twenty places.”
“That’s because you don’t respect me. Whatever I say, you disagree. It’s a problem, Lizzie, your loss. You felt that, didn’t you?”
“Felt what?”
“Us. A
frisson
.” He gave the word the full impact of his French accent. “Just now.”
“No, I didn’t feel a
frisson
,” I said, although I did. “Have you been sneaking calls to Jessa?”
“Her kids are trying to murder each other. Also she’s a volunteer firefighter. She’s got a lot happening. It makes it hard for her to focus. Don’t mention Jessa. It disrespects Taylor.”
“You are bad.”
“Look,” he said, “if your eyes are open, whatever you see distracts you from the taste, dilutes intensity. You’re employing two senses at once, and not only that, instead of smelling what you eat, which will enhance the flavor, you might be smelling what you see or something else entirely. Never eat while you’re having sex either. Are you
Taylor arched sideways to keep Snow in her sights. She has beautiful slender arms and impossibly small wrists. Tall and tiny, she is both. I did feel lumpy around her. That day, as always, she was terminally chic in something geometric: a pleated top, front black, back white, the neckline and armholes slits in a perfect square.
“Michael’s so sweet with Snow. Finn could learn from him.” From one of six compartments of her efficient purse, she extracted a mini bottle of Purell and offered me a squirt.
I didn’t know about the Purell. I don’t think I would have wanted to vacation with someone who brought Purell along. I even fantasized later that if I’d known about the Purell, maybe the vacation wouldn’t have happened. I didn’t remember Purell in London, perhaps it was a new fetish. Purell
is
a fetish. Once one carries it—I have noticed from those who do—it seems necessary throughout the day to cleanse. It reflects a constant awareness that the world is awash with bacteria and you, going about your innocent carefree way, are all the while collecting microbes that can murder you or at least give you the twenty-four-hour flu. It’s awkward to turn down Purell, so I didn’t. That struck almost as powerfully as the Pantheon, I’m ashamed to admit. It’s as if one is saying,
I prefer germs, I prefer to eat with dirty hands, I have poor hygiene. I am a pig.
While I was playing with the possibility of spinning Purell into something, into some puny article to sell, Taylor shot upout of her chair and stared. Snow and Michael had stopped to talk to some husky Italians dressed as gladiators.
“Would you mind paying?” she said, and sped toward Snow.
It took me a minute to figure out the euros, which were mixed up in my wallet with American money, and to guess the tip. I finished off Taylor’s smoothie and left in search of Finn.
The market—open-air stalls shaded by umbrellas—is what makes my heart pitter-pat: stacks of prickly-looking vegetables (or fruits) I don’t recognize, baskets of peppers, fresh berries (the prettiest marble-sized cerise-colored ones that turned out to be slightly sour), mixtures of spices named after the pasta sauce they season (arrabbiata, puttanesca), a dizzying assortment of cheese, some in giant farm-sized hunks. I wanted to get stoned on their smoggy dense aroma.
Finn was eating a slice of
pizza bianca
, chatting with a signora at a checkered cloth–covered table where several large pieces were available by the slice.
“Close your eyes.”
I did, and took a bite. “God, it’s even good cold. Why is it better to eat with your eyes closed?”
“It concentrates you,” he said. “You can’t feel pain in two places at once.” He wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. “Same thing.”
“That makes no sense. I’m sure I could feel pain simultaneously in twenty places.”
“That’s because you don’t respect me. Whatever I say, you disagree. It’s a problem, Lizzie, your loss. You felt that, didn’t you?”
“Felt what?”
“Us. A
frisson
.” He gave the word the full impact of his French accent. “Just now.”
“No, I didn’t feel a
frisson
,” I said, although I did. “Have you been sneaking calls to Jessa?”
“Her kids are trying to murder each other. Also she’s a volunteer firefighter. She’s got a lot happening. It makes it hard for her to focus. Don’t mention Jessa. It disrespects Taylor.”
“You are bad.”
“Look,” he said, “if your eyes are open, whatever you see distracts you from the taste, dilutes intensity. You’re employing two senses at once, and not only that, instead of smelling what you eat, which will enhance the flavor, you might be smelling what you see or something else entirely. Never eat while you’re having sex either. Are you
Similar Books
