She’s going away.
The weight of her leg across his legs, her fingers in his hair, her boob stack nudging his arm—all withdrawn. Why?
He opens his eyes. She’s sitting up, feet on the floor.
No! No nono!
What—where are you going?
To the minibar. She’s standing, stretching. I want to grab a drink.
He reaches out, but just misses her. She can’t leave his side, not now. He needs her close, right after. He is lonely by himself in a still-warm bed. It’s always been that way. He’s never told anyone.
I brought champagne. He points to the ice bucket on the nightstand, the glasses, all within easy reach.
I’d love some sparkling water. She moves toward the lacquered cabinets lining one wall.
Would you? Funny thing. He scrambles up, propping himself against the headboard. Champagne is sparkling water. With bonus champagne flavor.
She pauses in the center of the room, taking it in. She moves tothe window, which is huge, a wall of glass. They’re on the forty-second floor. Manhattan blazes all around them.Between above below.Snow is falling. Beyond the river and New Jersey there’s the faintest smudge of light in the February sky. The world’s glow. Also disappearing.
God, she says. In her faint midwestern accent it comes outGad.Can you believe this view?
He can’t. Especially when she bends to scratch an ankle. Compensation for the loss of her proximity. One hand on the back of a chair for balance, one foot off the floor, hair spilling over her shoulder. Her ass, pale, rounded, slightly too large for her slender frame, and therefore perfect.
Gad, he thinks. Help me, Gad.
However many times you see it, she says, it never gets old.
Right you are, my lady. The shadowy cleft, the two deep dimples hovering above. The astonishing substantiality of it, its exquisite assness, which he gets to behold, to fondle, to (occasionally, if only superficially) probe.
Look at her. So at ease when she’s naked. At home in herself, able to wander a room unashamed, baring her remarkable everything. No self-consciousness, no restraint.
He pulls the duvet over himself. It’s chilly in here.
Jenny. Come back to bed.
Just a sec. She drifts to the wall of cabinets, opening one and poking around. Closing it and opening another. He’s a patient man—well, no—but this is too much. She’s wasting their precious time, frittering it away on views and beverages, when he needs her near him.
Which is why he sits up and announces:
We’re not using the minibar.
She turns to him, puzzled. We always use the minibar.
Fuck, that’s true.
Not anymore, he says. Twelve dollars for M&M’s? Fifteen dollars for water? It’s an outrage. It’s extortionate.
She looks amused. You’re only realizing this now?
Why won’t she come back? It’s a scam, Jenny. A convenience penalty. I’m not payingit.
She rolls her eyes. Relax, El Cheapo. I’ll pay.
El Cheapo! The glow surges. He swoons. Internally. Externally he frowns and drops back onto the pillows. Nothing to see here.
But to feel. To feel! That’s, well, that’s all he needs.
