I remain silent. You must work some things out for yourself.
“What am I not doing right, though? What’s wrong with me that he can’t just—just—”
“Jonathan,” I scold.
“What?”
“Stop whining andthink.”
You glare at me, but, to your credit, you don’t lash out at me. Instead, you rise and pace to the window. My window, the one at which I stand and watch the passersby so far beneath and imagine stories for them.
“When I was three,” you say, cutting a regal figure at the window, one hand in your pocket, the other propped on the glass, head ducked, voice quiet, “I drew a picture. I don’t remember of what. I was three, so it was probably a bunch of scribbles, right? But I wasthree, and I wanted to draw a picture and give it to my dad. So I gave it to him, and I remember being excited that he’d looked at me, that he’d looked at my drawing. And you know what he did? He took it, looked at it, at me, and he didn’t smile or tell me how good it was. He said, ‘Not bad, Jonathan, but you can do better. Try again.’” You let out a long breath. “I was fuckingthree. And that was... that was the first time. I went back to my little desk with my little crayons, and I remember drawing another picture. Being proud of it. Wanting to give it to him and have him tell me it was great, that he loved it. Only he’d left, gone back to work. And the first picture I’d drawn was in the garbage. Not wadded up or anything, I just... I remember seeing it shoved down in the trash can with ripped-up envelopes and a Kleenex and other trash. That was the first time I remember feeling not good enough. And I’ve spent every single fucking day since then trying to get him to look at my goddamned pictures and tell me how nice they are. Twenty-three years.”
I sit sideways on the chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching you at the window. I wait for you to speak again, and it is a long silent time before you do.
“He’s the giant. Not a windmill, but a real giant. And I have no hope of slaying him, do I? So why am I trying? That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it? Why bother?”
“No, not why bother. That’s the wrong question.”
I stand up, step carefully over to you, my nude Gucci Ursula high-heel sandals goingclick-click-click-clickon the floor. I am within touching distance, close enough to smell your cologne, which is subdued, faint, and alluring. Close enough to realize how tall you really are, and that I may have done my job a littletoowell with you.
“Then what’s the right question, X?” You turn, a half pivot. I do not back away, and pretend not to notice your gaze flowing over me.
“Whatshouldyou tilt at? That’s the question. We are all of us facing something, charging at something. Aren’t we? But we have to choose which giants we attempt to slay.”
Hypocrite, I. There is no choice, for me. It has been made on my behalf, and that in itself is a giant I cannot slay. But this isn’t about me. And I must appear wise.
You nod, understanding. Your eyes are on me. I hold your gaze and wait. A glance at the clock would tell me the hour is up, but then I know that already, I can feel it. I can feel the passage of time. My life is measured in one-hour increments, and thus I am finely attuned to the sensation of an hour’s passage, used to the slow caress of each minute, the slippery tread of each quarter hour sliding over me. An hour has passed, yet you are still here. Staring down at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“X—”
I back up. “Choose your giant, Jonathan.”
You follow me step for step. “I think maybe I’ll start going by Jon.” Your eyes, brown and richly textured in arcs of light and darker shades, fix on mine. You are not leering, or staring; worse, you areseeing.
“Jon, then.” I meet your gaze, and I must focus intently on keeping erect the wall of neutrality between us. “Choose your giant, Jon. Tilt wisely.”
A step. Not even a step, more of a slide of one Italian-leather pointy-toed loafer, and a single sheet of loose-leaf paper could not fit between my body and yours, and though we are not touching, this is illicit, a stolen moment. You do not—cannot—fathom the risk you take. The riskItake.
“What if I choose to tilt at this windmill, X?” You ask this with your intention telegraphed in the whisper of your voice, in the way your hands twitch at your sides as if itching to take me by the waist or by the face.
I keep my gaze and my voice calm, neutral; the direst threats are best delivered sotto voce. “There are giants, Jonathan, and then there are titans.”
Click . . . ding.
I breathe a sigh of relief . . .
or is it thinly veiled disappointment?
Chapter 7
Ido not expect the knock at the door. It comes at 7:30p.m., Saturday. I have imagined dozens of fictional stories by now. It is all I have to do. When the knock comes—rap-rap-rap-rap, four firm but polite taps—I jump, blink, and stare at the door as if expecting it to burst into flames, or come to life. Regaining my composure, I smooth my skirt over my hips, school my features into a blank mask, and open the door.
“Len. Good evening. Is anything the matter?”
Len’s broad, weather-worn face seems hewn from granite and expresses the same measure of emotion. “Good evening, Madame X.” A black garment bag hangs over one arm. “This is for you.”
I take the bag. “Why? I mean, what is it for?”
