He climbed the red, dim-lit stairwell to her loft for the last time as anxious as the first. But whereas then he had been filled with trepidation and excitement, now he was simply fearful at still not having found the words with which to say goodbye.
She had become unpretentious and more beautiful over the years. When they first met, her face had been fuller, her demeanor distant and haughty. She had described herself as “fully independent” in her online ad and later made clear that she looked down on the girls who were managed. Youthful flesh had gone and left her face sculpted, exquisite, and she had become kinder, more forgiving, though still proud that she was her own woman.
She opened the door in her dark blue negligee, smiled, and let him in. He looked around the candle-lit room, at the poster bed with lace sheets – at her.
She had become unpretentious and more beautiful over the years. When they first met, her face had been fuller, her demeanor distant and haughty. She had described herself as “fully independent” in her online ad and later made clear that she looked down on the girls who were managed. Youthful flesh had gone and left her face sculpted, exquisite, and she had become kinder, more forgiving, though still proud that she was her own woman.
There was a flash of movement on the floor. She stooped down and came up with a ball of ginger fur. “A friend’s cat had kittens, and she gave me this one,” she said.
“What’s – his? her? – name?” he asked.
“Him. I haven’t named him yet. I want to know who he is first,” she replied, putting it down.
They moved in for their usual first long, lingering kiss. He thought to himself, How could she not know? Even if I’ve been too much of a coward to tell her about meeting Clara, surely she must know by how cold I’ve become?
They undressed, went to bed, and made love, then lay in each other arms, quietly breathing. It was sweet, and it was release. But where before it had also been a desperate longing, now it was just that: sweetness, release.
As he started dressing, the kitten jumped on the bed and she took it in her arms. As she stroked its fur, she said, trying to make her tone light, “You know, there’s a farmer’s market in the park on Sunday. I was thinking of getting some artisan bread and cheese for a picnic.”
He froze. Now? he thought. Now you hint that you might see me outside of this room? For years he had begged to take her out to dinner, for coffee, for a walk – to spend time with her off the clock. Not once had she agreed, or given him more than the barest glimpse of what her real life was like. She had never even given him her real name. He felt strange calling her by her handle, “La Courtesan,” so he had taken to calling her “Ell.” “Boundaries,” she kept repeating, whenever he pushed.
His will hardened as he finished buttoning his shirt. He had Clara now, and he was anxious to get on with real life, with her. And the words were there at last. He smiled as he went to her and scratched the kitten’s ear. “I know what you can name him,” he said in a bantering tone. “Call him ‘Pimp.’ So when people ask you his name, you can say, ‘He’s my Pimp.’”
He frowned as her face fell. “Sorry,” he said, “Bad joke.”
He left the envelope on her dresser, the same amount as always, even as she had raised her rates on her other clients. “Goodnight, Ell,” he said as he walked to the door. She had sat down on the bed and did not follow him, did not kiss him goodbye as had been her custom, merely kept stroking her kitten. He gave her one last look, then left. Inside the room, she began to weep.
(January 2011)
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