On Friday night, he was waiting outside his condo when Lisa arrived precisely as promised at 7:15. She had not only offered to treat him to dinner at Il Mulino, his favorite New York restaurant, but had insisted on doing the driving as well.
One look at her car, however, more than surprised him. The beige Chrysler was at least five years old. It was boxy and dull, and not at all the kind of vehicle he would have associated with her.
He opened the passenger door. “Nice bus,” he said, and he went to take a seat.
“Don’t get comfortable.” She stopped him. “Our reservation isn’t until nine o’clock. And there’s nothing wrong with my car.”
“Of course not. It’s perfect for you.” He stepped away and closed the door.
Surprisingly for Manhattan, she found a parking spot at the end of the block. She locked the car and started toward him.
Blair admired the low-cut, black leather dress she was wearing. When she reached his side he held her at arm’s length. Having a woman in his life was starting to make a difference. It revitalized him, somehow.
“You like?” she asked, blushing. And then she caught herself. “My God! Your face! What happened to you?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, turning to a side.
“Blair?”
“I was in a little accident,” he said.
“Little?” She reached a hand out.
To divert her, he pointed in the approximate area. “Say, is that bra new?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Is it?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You seem … uplifted.”
“Smart-ass.” She brushed past him. “C’mon,” she said. “You can treat me to a drink in your apartment.”
“I have a bottle of champagne in the fridge,” Blair told her once they were settled on the couch. “Should I open it?”
She gave him a semi-serious look. “Duh…”
He went into the kitchen and removed the bottle. When the cork went flying, he let out an “opa,” filled two flutes to the brim, and carried them, along with the bottle, into the den.
“Skol,” he said, handing her one of the flutes and taking a seat beside her.
They clinked glasses and drank.
She asked again about the injuries he had suffered in Israel. He considered telling her, then changed his mind.
Her glass was half empty. When Blair went to fill it, she stopped him. “Want to get me drunk, mister?”
“I’m serious. Champagne does funny things to me. Especially when I haven’t eaten.”
“Would you like a snack? Peanuts or chips?”
With glass still in hand, she leaned in and kissed him. “I’d like something more than a snack,” she said.
Blair reached out to take the glass from her.
Misunderstanding, Lisa went to stop his hand’s progression. This knocked her glass forward, its contents spilling on his tie.
He feigned hurt. “It’s ruined,” he said.
“Poor baby. I’ll buy you another one.”
He flung what was left in his own glass at her, catching her flush in the face.
Lisa wrestled him to the floor. He somehow maneuvered his way on top. She kicked and swung her arms until he lost his balance. Positions reversed, her legs suddenly scissored upwards, then in. They enveloped his chest and held tight. “Give up?” she asked.
He tried for a finesse move, caught her breast instead.
“Pervert!” she hissed.
He held her in a bear-hug.
In less than a minute, he felt this grinding motion. “Lisa,” he protested.
She seemed oblivious. She was already undressing and motioning for him to do the same.
He thought about stopping. Only … her fingers had manipulated their way to his scrotum, and a wave of pleasure short-circuited his brain.
Blair couldn’t remember making love this way before. One climax followed another. When they weren’t on the floor, they were on the sofa. Often, it felt as if they were partially on both. The pauses grew longer; their satisfaction greater.
Then Lisa’s hand grasped his injured back and he winced.
“What is it?” she asked.
“My God,” she said, “Is that from Israel, too?”
He nodded.
“I’ll be more careful,” she promised.
Soon, he was lost again.
At one o’clock in the morning, Blair asked if Il Mulino was still open.
Lisa said she doubted that they were.
He smiled.
When Blair awoke in the morning, Lisa was sitting up in bed, looking radiant. “How did we get here?” he asked.
She gave him a peck on the cheek and said she didn’t know. “Is your back okay?”
He said his back was fine.
She took hold of his face in the palms of her hands. “I feel like I lost ten pounds,” she said.
He laughed. “Me, too.”
“I like losing ten pounds with you.”
“Me, three.”
She exaggerated the blinking of her lashes, which overemphasized her slightly crossed eye.
He asked her about it.
“Born this way,” she said. She let go of his face and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I want you to always be honest with me, Blair. No secrets and no lies.”
“Always is a long time,” he said, trying to keep it light. But he sensed a hurt there, something in her past.
“I’m serious,” she said.
“Okay, I promise. No lies between us.”
She kissed him. “Tell me the truth about your injuries,” she said. “What really happened in Israel?”
“I already told you.”
“Yeah, but what you said was a load of crap.”
“Lisa—”
“You promised. No lies.”
“So I did.”
“Well?”
“Starting tomorrow…”