He does clean up nicely. Or, he’s always clean, always neatly groomed and preternaturally fresh-smelling, but he knows how to make himself look like art. A cream linen shirt with a Cuban collar and delicate accents of embroidered flowers, tapered trousers cinched at his narrow waist, some of his hair twisted back into—did hebraidit? Did he sit in his little room and lovingly braid his hair like he used to braid his sister’s?
To add insult to injury, dinner comes with one bottle of champagne for every two people, and we have to share.
Across the table, Blond Calum eyes his champagne. “What, no absinthe? We don’t get to meet the green fairy?”
“I reckon Kylie Minogue was booked tonight,” Ginger Calum says.
Kit and I let out identical, simultaneous laughs. Both Calums look at us with eyebrows raised.
“Got that one, did ya?” Ginger Calum says. “Most Americans I’ve met don’t even know who Kylie Minogue is.”
“Heathens,” Blond Calum adds.
“We’re—” Kit says. “I’ma massiveMoulin Rougefan. It was my favorite movie growing up.”
I’ve been trying not to think about it, Kit at thirteen, obsessed with a high-camp, high-saturation tragedy about forbidden love and dying of consumption. He’s always been so completely himself.
“Once,” I say, “in the eighth grade, he made me watch it four times in one night.”
“I didn’tmakeyou,” Kit teases, and then he flinches, like he doesn’t know if this is allowed. His voice softens as he adds, “You were the one who wanted to learn every word of ‘Elephant Love Medley.’”
“And you were a full-grown adult when you convinced me to do it with you at someone else’s karaoke birthday.”
“Crikey,” Ginger Calum says. “That’ll kill the party.”
“Oh,tankedit,” I say.
“Very poorly reviewed,” Kit agrees, beginning to smile.
“We pulled it out, though, with—”
“‘Can’t Stop Loving You,’” we finish at the same time.
Our eyes meet, and I feel my mouth slipping into a smile. God, we got some mileage out of that song. So many nights in smoky bars or house parties, the two of us laughing into squawky microphones over an instrumental track. I haven’t been able to think of it in years, but strangely, it doesn’t hurt the same right now.
“Phil Collins,” Blond Calum says with a sage nod. “Good lad.”
“Good lad,” I agree.
When the lights go down and the curtain rises on the luminous heart-shaped stage, I remind myself not to get sappy. I don’t watch Kit’s reactions from the corner of my eye. I choose the loveliest dancer on stage, and I focus only on her. It helps.
But it doesn’t prepare me for the way Kit catches my elbow as we stand for the final bow. I find him gazing at me, golden in the chandelier glow.
“Do you still want to make up for last night?” he says under the cheers of the audience.
“What?”
“When I couldn’t go out with you,” he says. “Do you want to have that drink now? My favorite bar is around the corner, if you want to see it.”
It’s the fault of nostalgia, of my surprisingly successful morning, of blurry memories of Ewan McGregor’s earnest belting and Kit spinning me under a disco ball, that I hear myself say, “Yeah, why not?”
We head off from the Moulin Rouge’s red windmill, down the wide Boulevard de Clichy, past sex shop after topless bar after sex shop. Girls grasp their heaving bosoms in portraits over shop fronts full of mannequins in lacy red chemises. Flashing displays advertise vibrators in every imaginable shape and size, and some I’ve never even thought to imagine.
“I hope that’s where we’re going,” I say, pointing at a three-story emporium, ominously emblazoned with the nameSEXODROMEin neon red letters. I’m nervous and searching for jokes. “I’ve always wanted to go to”—I drop my voice to the guttural register of monster truck announcer—“THE SEXODROME.”
Unable to resist a bit, Kit replies, “You need a Parisian mailing address to get intoTHE SEXODROME.”
“CancelingTHE SEXODROMEfor discriminatory business practices.”
