Coffee?
I take it.
Thank you.
She climbs onto the bed, sits cross-legged facing me.
You’re a real fucking dumbass, you know?
I laugh.
What did I do?
I went to Polly to see if you were around, wanted to wish you Happy New Year.
That’s nice of you.
And I also kind of wanted to fuck you.
Even nicer.
Your pal Omer said you had been in earlier but had left. As I was walking away I saw you passed out in the little park in front of Shakespeare and Company.
Yeah, I sleep there sometimes.
It’s fucking snowing, and you were in a pool of your own vomit.
Usually not like that.
You could have died, literally.
I’m pretty indestructible.
I thought you were dead when I saw you. I ran and got Omer, and he helped me get you back here.
Omer is a good dude.
I don’t know why but he likes you.
I laugh.
I don’t know why either.
She motions toward my cup of coffee.
You gonna drink that?
Yeah.
I take a sip, it’s hot and strong.
It’s good, thank you.
She smiles.
I’ve missed you, Writer Boy.
I missed you, Model Girl.
You’re the first boy I’ve ever had in my apartment.
I’m honored.
When we leave you’re going to have to wear a blindfold so you don’t know where it is.
I laugh.
Fine. Whatever you want. I’m just happy to be here now. Happy to see you. Part of me thinks I’m dead and this is Heaven.
They wouldn’t let you into Heaven.
Then this is the closest thing I can imagine to it. This bed and this room and this coffee and you, you, you, Model Girl, you. Thank you. So much. Thank you.
She laughs.
You’re a fucking cornball.
I laugh.
Hard on the outside, soft on the in.
She smiles, sets her coffee on the nightstand, lies down facing me.
You wanna snuggle?
I smile, set down my coffee.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Los Angeles, 2017
* * *
What’s it like there right now?
Sunny, warm.
How sunny, how warm?
Not a cloud in the sky, about 78 degrees.
That way every day?
More or less. Sometimes a bit warmer.
Shorts and a white T-shirt every day?
Yes.
Adidas sneakers?
Adidas slides.
I always wanted to live in perfect weather.
You’re still young.
Hardly.
You are.
We’re not young anymore.
We’re not old.
Getting there.
Go live somewhere warm.
Not going to happen.
Why?
Just won’t.
Why?
Just won’t.
Is there a particular reason?
A couple of them.
What?
I’d rather not say.
This isn’t fair, Model Girl.
What isn’t?
I tell you about my life, you never tell me about yours.
What do you want to know?
Where are you?
Oslo.
Is that where you saw me?
No, though I knew you were here. A couple times.
I came there because I hoped to see you.
I thought you might.
I did.
So I went to a reading you did in Stockholm.
I would have looked for you there as well. Anywhere I went in Scandinavia. I looked for your hair in the crowd.
Ha.
Ha?
I figured that’s what you’d do, so I wore a hat.
Smart.
Model smart.
Legit fucking smart. Way fucking smarter than me.
Different.
I wish we had seen each other.
Best that we didn’t.
Why?
Just is.
How long have you been in Oslo?
Since Paris.
You left right after I did.
How do you know that?
Philippe.
Really?
We’re still pals. He lives in LA. He and Laura got married, had three kids, got divorced. And he’s exactly the same.
You stayed in touch after you left?
Didn’t see him for a couple years after, but when I did, I asked him about you, and he said you vanished not long after we saw each other.
I did.
Why?
Not why you think.
You sure?
Yes.
Really?
Yes.
Why?
Doesn’t matter.
I’ve always wondered.
Really?
Always.
I came back for my mother and my brother.
How are they?
My mother passed away.
I’m sorry.
It was for the best.
Still sorry.
My brother is a fancy tech lawyer here in Oslo.
He owes you.
He’s been a very good brother, and I love him.
You married?
I was.
To who?
A man here. Son of a wealthy banker. We were together for about ten years.
What happened?
I left him.
Why?
He was an asshole.
Aren’t we all?
He was in the opposite way you are.
What do you mean?
You pretend to be an asshole but you have a kind heart. He pretends to be kind but has the heart of an asshole.
Sorry.
Don’t be fucking sorry for me, Jay.
That’s my line.
It was mine first.
I stole it from you.
I just stole it back.
Kids?
We had one.
Just one?
Yes.
I always…
One. We had one.
Boy or girl?
Boy. Sixteen. Loves hockey and soccer. Will probably be a banker when he grows up. Lives half the time with me, half with his father.
Tell him I said hi.
He’s read your books.
Does he know we know each other?
I told him I knew you when I was young and crazy in Paris. I was hoping he’d think I was cool.
Did it work?
He didn’t believe me.
You want me to call him?
I’d rather have you call me.
I’d love to hear your voice.
It’s the same.
Will you swear at me and call me names?
Absolutely.
Send me your number. I’ll call you right now.
I can’t right now.
Why?
I’m at the hospital.
Fuck. Why?
I’m here for an appointment, but I’m here quite a bit because I became a doctor.
No shit! That was the dream.
I did it.
That’s the best thing I’ve heard in forever. Sounds corny, but I’m proud of you, so fucking proud of you.
Thank you.
Doctor Girl. Your new name.
I like it.
My old pal Doctor Girl.
I need to go now. My doctor is waiting for me.
Good luck.
Thank you, Jay.
Let me know when you want to talk.
Soon.
Paris, 1992/1993
* * *
We spend the day in bed. Katerina gets out to get me chicken soup and white wine, the wine keeps the shak
es away. I drift in and out of sleep. Every time I wake up and she’s with me I smile. Her arms around me. Her hand on my hip or my stomach or my chest. When she kisses me, lightly, on my neck or cheek, lightly on my lips, when she teases me with the tip of her tongue. Sometimes when I wake up she’s sleeping, sometimes touching me or kissing me, sometimes she’s reading Hunger by Knut Hamsun, and that she’s reading it makes me smile. Hunger indeed.
Hunger indeed.
It’s a delirious day, between my sickness and my joy, between sleep and not, between not quite believing any of it is real and feeling like nothing in my life has ever been this real. I wake up and it’s dark and she’s gone and I get out of bed walk around the apartment. The floors are large wide hardwood boards two or three hundred years old warped and cold each step feels good on the bottom of my feet wakes me more. Out of the bedroom into the living room bookshelves overflowing, large French windows with sheer white silks hanging, a huge old comfortable pink couch with giant cushions, a small round table with one white chair and some roses in a vase. Along one wall there is a small kitchen, a mini-fridge an electric cooktop a coffee machine a sink, a drying rack carefully lined with clean dishes. I walk over to the bookshelves. Mostly novels, some are in French, some in English, some in Norwegian, a few nonfiction books, a couple travel guides, a book about applying for college. The walls are white, mostly blank, in a few places framed photos of her family, I walk over to one, her mother and father and brother and her, she’s probably eight or nine, standing on a beach in winter, she has a huge smile, her hair longer and crazier, her eyes twinkling. She’s holding her mom’s hand with one of her hands, her dad’s with the other. The picture breaks my heart. Because I know she was happy and her family was happy and it all went to shit, and it all became pain, and it all became loss, and it all ended. And if I could, if I were a sorcerer or had a time machine or could somehow change destiny, I would go back to this moment, this exact moment, this beautiful happy joyous moment, and make sure that all of their lives were different, that they stayed happy and together, that this little girl now a woman I love would still smile like she’s smiling in this picture, and not because she was paid to do it, to pretend to do it, but because it was what was in her heart, because there was true happiness in her heart. As I stand and look and hurt and wish the door opens and she walks in with a couple bags, I turn and smile she smiles back not as pure as it once was but pure enough for me she speaks.
You’re up.
Yeah.
Snooping?
A little.
Find anything good?
I love this picture.
Me too.
And I dig your place.
Don’t get used to it.
I laugh. She sets the bags down on the kitchen counter, starts unpacking.
It’s New Year’s Eve. I thought we could have our own little party.
Awesome.
She holds up a brown paper bag.
I got tacos. I expect you to teach me about tacos and whether these taste like real tacos.
I laugh.
I can do that.
She takes out a bottle.
I got us some champagne. Not super-fancy, but pretty good.
Some bubbles will feel good.
She takes out a small box with a ribbon around it.
And I got a cake.
I smile, walk toward her she smiles I put my arms around her.
Thank you.
I kiss her, pull her in tight, lay my head to her shoulder she lays hers on mine, we stand there, breathing, our arms around each other, and as weak and sad and stupid and pathetic and fucked-up and lost and doomed as I have felt in recent days, I feel simple and strong and loved now, in this moment, now, I feel like the future doesn’t matter, the past is irrelevant, that whatever dreams I had are real in Katerina’s arms, that I could die and be happy, now. We stand holding each other. I smell her hair fresh, clean, some kind of fancy shampoo, her skin soft against mine, her body so thin too thin I can feel her ribs, her arms pulling against my back. A minute two I don’t know how long she slowly steps away I start to speak she smiles and holds a finger in front of my lips speaks.
We still got rules, motherfucker, we still got rules.
I laugh she gets out a couple plates. I open the bag of tacos two steak two chicken two shrimp small plastic containers of guacamole and salsa and hot sauce. I put together the plates one of each for each of us, she opens the champagne pours two glasses motions for me to follow her we walk into the bedroom sit cross-legged facing each other on the bed. She raises her glass.
Happy New Year, Jay.
I raise mine.
Happy New Year, Katerina.
I’m happy I know you.
And I, you.
Rules or not, you’re my dude.
I smile.
Rules or not, you’re my girl.
She smiles we touch glasses each take a sip. I give her a lecture on tacos as we eat. About the difference between American tacos, Tex-Mex tacos, and true authentic Mexican tacos. These appear to be authentic Mexican tacos, or as authentic as one can find in Le Marais of Paris, France. They have soft corn tortillas, they are steak not ground beef, the shrimp are large and heavily spiced, the chicken is shredded. There is little or no cheese, the guacamole is fresh, the hot sauce is good and fucking hot. I gobble about half of each taco, which is all my stomach can handle, Katerina takes one or two tiny bites of each, I wish I could get her to eat more but she’s always respectful of my shit, of my madness and my addictions, so I am respectful of hers. We’re both broken in some way, both in pieces. She seems to know how to put mine back together. Hopefully I can help with hers.
We finish the tacos I clear the plates come back with the cake and two forks, I sit on the bed set the cake between us. She smiles.
I’m a little disappointed, Jay.
Why?
One of the things I adore about you is your cheesy cornball tendencies.
And?
I was expecting one fork.
And we could feed each other cake?
Dork-style.
I laugh, pick up my fork and throw it across the room, through the doorway, somewhere into the living room, we hear it bouncing across the floor. She laughs, cuts a piece from the edge of the cake, which is a small round cake covered with red, white, and blue frosting and the numbers 1993 on the top, lifts the fork.
Ready?
I am.
Here I come.
I smile, she smiles, she moves the fork and piece of cake on it toward my mouth, into my mouth. I close around it she pulls the fork from between my lips I let the cake sit on my tongue and melt, it’s sweet and soft and gushy and delicious I smile.
Mmmmmmm.
She smiles.
Good?
So fucking good.
I reach for the fork take it from her our hands linger as I pull it away, I cut a piece of cake she watches me do it. As I lift the fork our eyes meet pale green and light brown like cocoa our eyes lock. She opens her mouth those pouty lips our eyes are locked I move the fork into her mouth she closes around it I slowly pull the fork back from her perfect beautiful lips.
Mmmmmmm.
Right?
So fucking good.
She takes the fork from me our eyes locked we go back and forth feeding each other, staring, letting our hands linger, the tips of our fingers linger. I always associated the word intimate with sex, with the act of fucking, but fucking with love or emotion involved. I now know I was always wrong. Intimate is touching someone’s heart, and touching someone’s soul, with love, with deep pure true love, and having them touch you back in the same moment, in the same way. Doesn’t matter if you fuck. Don’t really even have to physically touch each other. And this, right now, this moment, staring into Katerina’s eyes, our fingers lingering, eating cake, feeding each other cake, knowing I love her and knowing she loves me, knowing we’ll never say it and knowing that it doesn’t matter, alone on New Year’
s Eve, after having spent most of the day in each other’s arms after not seeing each other for four months, and having that time not matter, and if anything having it make us closer because we missed each other, this is the closest I have ever felt to another human being, and this is what intimate means, what intimacy is, and is what I have always wanted to feel with another person, this, now, her, love true and unspoken, love real, eyes into each other, hearts and souls into each other, connected by the lightest touch of our fingers, love, intimate.
Halfway through the cake, she sets down the fork, smiles and starts leaning in I follow her and lean toward her our eyes still locked we start kissing each other. Long and slow our hands together alternating between light and heavy our lips and tongues kissing each other. I push the cake off the bed onto the floor we lie face-to-face, hands locked, feet entangled, kissing. Though we know where we’re going, neither of us is in a hurry. We kiss slowly and deeply our eyes still open an inch apart hers are bright and beautiful full of life and joy and love, a serenity and a peace, an intimacy. Our hands start to slowly wander removing clothing exploring sometimes light sometimes heavy hands finding playing squeezing caressing she lies back pulls me on top of her our eyes are open as I move inside her.
We take our time.
Kiss.
Stare.
Smile.
Whisper.
Laugh.
Slow and deep.
Fast and hard.
Slow and deep.
Hips in rhythm.
Hands locked.
Eyes into each other.
Bodies one body one.
We take our time.
It’s cold but we sweat the sweetest kind of sweat the bed soaked.
We finish.
Together.
One body one.
Ecstasy desire joy pleasure passion bliss rapture peace God one body together.
I stay inside her as we lie side by side staring into each other’s eyes still lightly kissing at some point the new year arrives our eyes close and we fall asleep, one body one still inside her.
*
I make coffee in the morning leave a hot steaming cup of it on Katerina’s nightstand go outside walk through Le Marais until I find an open shop I buy flowers and bread and cheese and tomatoes and wine and a copy of the Herald Tribune a couple fashion magazines some candy bars walk back to her place I will keep the location secret I press the buzzer and I wait.
Part of me thinks she’s not going to let me in.
I wait.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Ninety seconds.