February 16–17, 2024
After that scalding moment outside of Wilde Things, Ricki and Ezra were keeping things as tame as possible while they strolled.
They were careful not to walk too close together. Careful not to discuss anything too real. Careful not to mention the fact that at the end of the day, Ezra would reveal his terrible secret, and they’d go their separate ways.
Ricki and Ezra were careful to avoid becoming hopelessly entangled in each other.
For half an hour, they chatted about generic topics like New Girl supremacy and the Knicks as they were headed for a new locally sourced organic restaurant that Ezra wanted to try.
“I don’t really live here anymore, so I don’t know what’s good,” he admitted. “But I read a great review of the brunch at Pia’s Pantry in New York magazine.”
Ricki’s eyes were bright, her coils loose and lush, billowing around her face. “The actual magazine or online?”
“The actual magazine,” he told her. “I need real, physical pages. And I like writing notes in the margins; it’s an old habit.”
She was in emphatic support of this. “Same! What do you write in the margins?”
“Ideas for songs, mostly. I underline phrases that feel musical in some way or spark a melody.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hands in his pockets, looking bashful.
Ricki barely heard him, as she was mid-epiphany. Was Warm Weather Ezra the sexiest Ezra? Before today, she’d thought that his stern, intense brow and beautiful mouth would be the death of her, but, oh, she wasn’t prepared for the erotic onslaught of his biceps in a short-sleeve shirt. She wanted to bury her face in the velvety skin under his jaw, get drunk on his woody, clean scent. It was torture.
“I like actual paper, too.” Ricki tried to neutralize herself. “Old stuff has my heart. My favorite pieces to wear are from the ’20s, ’30s, and ’60s. Those women could dress. Josephine Baker, Lena Horne, Diana Ross…”
“I love your style. It’s art, truly. Your attention to detail is a throwback to another era.”
“Thank you,” she said shyly. “I’ve just always appreciated the way our ancestors would show up and show out. Those old Van Der Zee portraits of Harlem society folks in the 1920s? Beautiful brown skin, satin gowns, suits, hats, every sexual orientation… all flexing to the nines.”
“Strong flexual content,” Ezra said, nodding.
Ricki gasped. “Are you a pun guy?”
“I’m the pun guy. I’m the punniest.”
“I wanted to name my shop Botany Flowers Lately? But I couldn’t trademark a question. Clever, right?”
“Meh, that one’s kinda rough around the hedges.”
Ricki rolled her eyes melodramatically. Ezra looked so proud. Dimples they didn’t know they had were popping. They were positively goofy on each other. It was enough to make them forget that every moment they shared today would be their last together.
Ezra pointed to a bland restaurant facade up the block, its beige awning spelling out PIA’S PANTRY. “Bottomless Brunch” was written in lilting gold cursive on a chalkboard easel on the sidewalk.
“There’s the place,” he said. “Just up yonder.”
Ricki couldn’t help but smile at him. “I don’t say ‘yonder’ enough.”
At the entrance, Ezra pulled open the door and poured on the charm.
“Ricki Wilde, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to this oasis of libations and farm-to-table delights?”
“I’d love nothing more, Ezra Walker,” she said with flirtatious sweetness. Then they were greeted by a grim hostess in indigo lipstick.
“Welcome,” she mumbled flatly in a strong Bronx accent. “You got a reservation?”
“Apologies, ma’am, I didn’t make one. Any chance y’all have an open table?”
The hostess furrowed her fashionably thick brows and then looked Ezra and Ricki up and down. “Don’t you wanna check anything?”
Ricki shook her head pleasantly. “No, I think we’re good.”
Sighing, the hostess pushed through a curtain. “À chacun ses goûts. Follow me.”
“To each his own,” Ezra whispered to Ricki.
“You speak French?”
“I used to live in France.”
“What haven’t you done?”
“This.” Eyes sparking with mischief, he reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers.
They’d never touched before, skin on skin, and a tingly, surging warmth radiated from their palms. For a moment, they were rooted to their spot, eyes locked on each other, grips tightening. Lightly, Ezra ran his thumb against her finger. Ricki let out a small, involuntary gasp.
“Stop,” she hissed.
“You stop,” he commanded, eyes twinkling. “Have some decorum.”
And then Ezra led her into the restaurant, following the hostess to the table. Pia’s Pantry was dimly lit, with faux-leather, graffiti-tagged banquettes lining the walls. Only one was free, nestled in the back. Ambient Europop warbled softly through speakers. The restaurant smelled like cinnamon and good coffee. Releasing their hands, they slid into the banquette, side by side.
They were seated for four seconds before Ricki noticed the other guests. “Look,” she whispered, clapping her palm to her mouth.
A couple across the room paid their check and then rose from their seats. The guy was wearing a buffalo plaid flannel; his date wore a cozy cashmere sweater—and, well, that was where their outfits stopped. The man had on tighty-whities. The woman was wearing a mesh thong.
They all looked normal on top. But down below, they wore nothing but their underwear.
Suddenly, a svelte young white guy with a handlebar mustache, a polo shirt, and a Speedo hurried to their table. “Sir? Ma’am? I’m your waiter. Did the hostess offer to check your pants?”
Ezra stared at him, incredulous. “If I may… what the hell y’all do at this brunch?”
“Well, this is a bottomless brunch. No bottoms.” He paused. “It’s a pun?”
Ricki glanced at Ezra, lips kneaded together in rising hilarity.
“Okay, so I just skimmed the write-up! It was in the ‘Best Of’ section.”
“Best of what, though?” giggled Ricki.
The waiter handed them drink menus. “Sit with it for a moment. Our clientele finds the experience to be quite freeing.”
He left, and Ricki and Ezra watched a thirty-something blonde walk past them to the bathroom, wearing a designer blouse and cherry-print bikini briefs.
Ricki’s eyes were huge. “Is this even sexy? These seats are leather; it can’t feel good on naked thighs.” She quieted her voice. “I read about a woman who sat on her leather couch for six years, and her skin fused to it. She had to be cut away.”
“An introvert’s cautionary tale,” said Ezra, loving the absurdity of this experience.
“Look, I’m kink-positive, but I can’t imagine eating croque madame in a thong.”
“No? How about a Belgian waffle?”
“How repressed do you have to be to require a panty brunch to unleash your inner thot?”
“I bet most of these folks came here just to tell the story later.” He slid the menu toward Ricki. Leaning their heads toward each other, they scanned the cocktail list: Triangle of Love. Sunday Undie. Banana (Hammock) Daiquiri. Well Hung.
The waiter returned, his spindly, hairy legs looking so vulnerable. “Cocktail? Fine day for an Ass-erol Spritz! I should’ve mentioned that, legally, you must remove your pants to stay.”
“No thanks,” said Ricki. “We’re intentionally trying to keep our pants on today.”
The waiter scratched his chin, exposing a #BLM wrist tattoo. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to do this, but follow me. And keep your eyes to yourself.”
Eyes trained on the floor, Ezra and Ricki trailed the waiter through the restaurant and into the backyard. And there, before them, was a snow globe brought to life. The pandemic-era globe was decorated with ski-chalet-style features: twinkly lights, a white shag rug, a rustic picnic bench, and cozy throw blankets. It was magical.
“It’s yours for the hour, if you want it,” said the pants-less waiter.
Oh, they wanted it. Ricki and Ezra took their seats inside their own private bubble, pants on, and the waiter left them to grab some drinks.
“We better tip him good,” said Ezra. “He saved our lives.”
“A true ally. Did you see the BLM tat on his wrist?”
“I did,” he acknowledged mildly. “The gesture’s appreciated. I’m just… tired. Inventing slogans to justify your humanity, again and again, is depressing. ‘Black Lives Matter’ was ‘Black Power’ was ‘A Black Man Was Lynched Yesterday.’ Feels like Groundhog Day.”
She agreed. “Think of the protest songs. There’s one every decade. Billie sang ‘Strange Fruit’ in the ’30s. Sam Cooke wrote ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’ in the ’60s.”
“Marvin wrote ‘What’s Going On’ in the ’70s. NWA wrote ‘Fuck tha Police’ in the ’80s. And on and on.” Ezra sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve lived through so much pointless suffering. I’ve lost so many people. It takes a toll.”
Ricki eyed the twenty-eight-year-old man across from her. They were the same age, but he seemed so worldweary. What had he seen?
And, God help her, there it was: Ricki was drawn to this secret tragedy of Ezra, the mystery, the tangible sadness. His unknowable depths.
“Well, the world may be in shambles around us,” said Ricki, ever optimistic, “but we’re still creating through it. We’ll always have art, love, stories, adventures, beauty…”
“Flowers,” he said with a grin.
“Pianos.” She grinned back. “Can I be horribly nosy for a second?”
“Go ahead,” he said, his voice an invitation. “Do your worst.”
“How does a freelance pianist afford to drop thousands on art before he’s even thirty?”
“No big secret, just good investments. And songwriting credits.”
“Yeah? Anything I know?”
“Hmm.” He plucked at his full bottom lip, thinking. “Do you listen to any big band tunes? Bebop? Blues? Jazz?”
“Well, not really. I’m more of a hip-hop, pop, R&B girl.”
“And where do you think all that comes from?”
“What you’re not going to do is mansplain the history of twentieth-century music to me, a pop culture scholar.”
Guilty, he chuckled, his teeth so pretty and white against his rich skin.
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Ricki. “I respect all those influences, but I prefer new shit. Sometimes, when I hear early artists—blues, for example, like those 1930s Robert Johnson recordings—I appreciate the artistry, but it sounds creaky.”
“I get it. The first model may not be the flashiest, but it’s the smartest. Take the internet. Sure, it changed the world. But the telegraph is its great-granddaddy, and that was smarter. That was the unfathomable leap. Before that, information traveled as fast as some fella on a horse.”
Ricki blinked slowly, resting her chin on her palm. Why was it that every new thing she learned about Ezra, every door he opened to her, made her fall harder?
It just isn’t possible, she thought, to be this hungry for a person.
“You’re odd, Ezra Walker. You not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
“I know,” he said, raising a glass of water to his mouth. “I’m a mystery.”
“I’m jealous. Everything shows on my face, I hear.”
“It does, and it’s fucking charming.” He groaned a little. “Pardon.”
“Ezra, you can curse in front of me. You’re following an old-school rule based on the idea that women are fragile. I’m not fragile.”
“Obviously not. But I told you, I’m chivalrous.”
“Yeah?” Her expression flickered with challenge. “Hypothetically speaking, what else would you do in the name of chivalry? Order for me? Dress me? Throw me over your shoulder and carry me across a puddle?”
Ezra focused his eyes on hers, then leisurely, his gaze traveled down to her lips and back up again. He drank her in. It was boldly intimate.
“Depends. What do you want me to do?”
I’m losing focus, thought Ricki, pressing her thighs together, willing the ache to subside.
“Anyway,” she continued, stomach fluttering, “speaking of music, I wanted to ask you what you were playing at Bar Exquise. I can’t get those few chords out of my head.”
It’s like you wrote it for me, she thought. It’s haunting me.
“Not sure. I hear bits of the melody, but I can’t turn it into a full song. Something’s missing.”
“What do you think’s missing, Ezra?”
“Remains to be seen, Ricki.” His eyes danced. “Where did your name come from?”
She groaned. “God, I hoped you wouldn’t ask. I’m named after my dad. Richard Wilde.”
Ezra’s face lit up in pure, wholesome delight.
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m not.” He was. “I love it. So he’s Big Richard and you’re… Little Richard?”
“Call me Little Richard and I’ll throw hands. My parents were expecting a boy! And the Tiffany silver spoon had already been engraved, so…” She shrugged. “It’s a lot to live up to. I’ll never be as successful as my dad.”
“But it’s your life, not his. You’re happy with your choices, right?”
Ricki inhaled deeply, mulling this over. “I think so. Yeah, I am.”
“Then nothing else matters,” he told her. “Love well. Eat well. Fuck well. And leave the world better off than you found it. That’s success.”
Ricki folded her arms across her chest. “You’re not gonna apologize for ‘fuck well’?”
Ezra curled his mouth into something dangerous, somewhere between a smirk and a grin. Leisurely, he finished off his water.
“I never apologize for fucking well.”
The bare-legged waiter had returned to take their order, and sensing the palpable erotic flame flickering between them, he immediately scurried back inside. They never noticed him.
Ricki and Ezra stayed for hours, getting tipsy on cocktails named after euphemisms. They debated the best Entenmann’s dessert (Ricki: Louisiana crunch cake; Ezra: cinnamon buns), the weirdest Black TV sibling (Ricki: Sondra Huxtable; Ezra: that kid on Shameless), and their favorite pastimes (Ricki: refurbishing other people’s clothes; Ezra: walking other people’s dogs). They barely even touched their banana pancakes.
By the time they decided to walk off the drinks, it was almost dark, that dusky, in-between time where the setting sun took its last gasp of the day. Neither wanted it to end. With the night came the reality of Ezra’s secret, and so they were both playing with time—prolonging it, trying to savor each moment before whatever this was dissolved into dust.
They walked till they reached the Riverside Drive Viaduct, a fifty-foot-tall roadway atop a row of picturesque arches. Tonight, a sign shouting HARLEM UPTOWN NIGHT MARKET blanketed the top of an arch, and underneath was a rollicking block party. There was glow-in-the-dark mini golf, food trucks, and a deejay painted iridescent colors. In the center, folks danced to throwback hip-hop mixed with Doja Cat, SZA, and Bad Bunny.
Buzzing and warm, Ricki and Ezra were only too happy to join, drawn to the flea market, with shelves of photographs, records, and magazines. Of course, Ricki made a beeline for the clothing racks.
“She is everything,” she gushed, pulling out a swishy, strapless chiffon gown. “Very losing my virginity in the back seat of an Edsel after the sock hop.”
“Oh, that’s yours. You need it,” said Ezra, emerging with an armful of Life magazines, the top one opened to a profile on Ray Charles from July 1966.
“It’s a testament to Jamie Foxx’s performance,” declared Ricki, “that I can’t look at that man without seeing his face.”
Ezra’s jaw dropped. “Say again?”
“I said what I said,” she chirped playfully.
“Oh, you cuttin’ up. Jamie Foxx is talented, but this is Ray Charles. I mean, when he was young, he needed some coaching. His right hand was on the weaker side, so I…”
Ricki raised a brow. “You what? What were you going to say?”
“Nothing, just stopping myself before I get too technical,” he said quickly. “So. You trying on that dress?”
“I should, right?” She stepped in front of a floor-length mirror, examining it. “My mom had a dress like this. That maniac has style, if nothing else.
“Here, try this on,” she said, grabbing a tuxedo jacket from a rack marked “1920s.” The lapel was scented with long-ago cologne. Ezra held it against his chest as they stood side by side in front of the floor-length mirror.
They saw themselves together, as a pair, for the first time. And they fit.
Their hands moved toward each other, their pinkies brushing. Ricki felt something shifting between them, like their molecules had been rearranged.
“So, what did you have to tell me?” she asked Ezra, her voice trembling. “I need to know. Now. Because this feels too good.”
Just then, the flea market proprietor stepped over to them. He was a slightly stooped seventy-year-old man wearing an Adidas tracksuit. Ezra grabbed his wallet from his pocket and slipped him cash to pay for their pieces. Then he noticed the guy’s face and drew back. It was subtle, but just enough for Ricki to notice.
“You’re a good-looking couple,” the guy said.
“Thank you!” she exclaimed. And, true to form, Ricki continued by oversharing. “We’re making the most out of our final hours together. For reasons unknown, this is our last date.”
“Good. Otherwise, you’d be making a terrible mistake.”
“I’m sorry?” She flinched, searching for signs that he was joking. “What do you…”
“I mean, you two better stay away from each other,” ordered the guy, pointing an accusatory finger at them. “Only darkness awaits.”
Ezra’s features turned to stone. Grabbing Ricki’s hand, he led her out into the street, leaving behind the clothes, the magazines, and forty dollars in change.
Ricki couldn’t grasp what had just happened. “Ezra, what was he talking about?”
“Poor fella. Mental health care is draconian in this country,” said Ezra. “You won’t remember him in a month, anyway.”
You’ll forget him in a month, anyway.
Now, where had she heard that before?
By the time they walked back to Wilde Things, it was around 9:00 p.m. Their tipsiness had faded into a pleasant, cozy buzz, and that bizarre encounter was, for now, on the back burner.
Ricki stood in her doorway and peered up at Ezra. “Do you… want to come in? Have some bad Keurig coffee? A nightcap?”
“No.” The sadness in his face was like a punch in her heart. “I should decline.”
“Right. Of course. So, do you want to break up with me here, or inside?”
They looked at each other, both aching with pain over losing a person they barely knew. A dry wind whipped around them, tossing Ricki’s hair.
“I don’t want this night to end,” he said, his voice low.
“Then come inside for a sec.” She forced a smile. “Wanna see my square piano? You can tell me if it’s worth any money, at least.”
Ezra had no excuses left. In silence, Ricki led him through the lush garden of Wilde Things and back into her apartment. A single beam of moonlight shimmered through the window above her bed. The radiator clanged. A siren went off in the distance. Out in the street, someone laughed, a tinny, faraway sound.
And Ezra was frozen in front of the piano. Even in darkness, Ricki could make out his haunted, stormy expression, like he was fighting a war that Ricki didn’t understand.
Finally, he moved, running his fingers along the piano top.
“Do you want to play?” whispered Ricki. She perched on the edge of her bed, behind the piano bench. “That song I heard you working on?”
Ezra sat at the piano, back facing her, and pushed open the lid to expose the keys. Moonlight danced on his skin. He looked beatific. Ricki watched him, taking in the lines of his strong back and shoulders under his shirt, the skin of his neck. It was quiet, so quiet.
With a weighty exhale, Ezra rubbed his hands together. He worked his knuckles and curled his hands into fists. Then he hovered his trembling fingertips over the keys.
Ezra glanced at her over his shoulder. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“I can’t.” His voice was low, strangled. “I think I need you. To play. I think you were the missing piece.”
Ricki understood. Instantly, she was at the piano. In a smooth, unbroken gesture, he pulled her onto his lap so that they faced each other, Ricki straddling him.
They were nose to nose, forehead to forehead, lips ghosting each other. With a husky groan, Ezra gripped her hips and sealed her against the strong planes of his chest, wrapping her legs around his waist. There was no space between them. Just raw, rising desire.
“Do it,” she breathed against his mouth. “Play for me.”
He nipped her bottom lip with his teeth, turning her thighs liquid. “Thank you.”
Reaching on either side of her, his fingers instinctively found the keys. And oh, the sound that poured out of him. It was the piece from the other night, but more. A complete song. And it was in dialogue with Ricki, melting into her, warming her bones.
Laid bare, Ezra buried his face in Ricki’s neck, his breath falling hot on her skin as he played. She clung to him, and he kept on, masterfully, magically coaxing the raw and soaring melody from the instrument. The song blazed through Ricki, the heartbreaking, slow groove arching her back, accelerating her heartbeat.
Ricki sank her fingers into Ezra’s biceps and rocked against him, moving with the controlled, synchronized rhythm of his song. She felt him harden, huge and hot, through their clothes. The friction sent waves of pleasure through her. Helplessly, she whimpered his name.
And then Ezra couldn’t play anymore.
Gripping Ricki’s ass in his hands, he stood up. In seconds, he had her pressed against the wall, her feet barely touching the ground. He crashed his mouth over hers in a bruising, ravenous kiss. He tasted like whiskey and warmth. She tasted like cherries and cream. They clung to each other, lost in the rush.
Plunging his hand up into her hair, Ezra tipped Ricki’s head back, kissing her deeper and greedier still, like he’d never get the chance again. And if she’d ever thought that she’d dominate him, make him pay for toying with her, he ended that fantasy. Because she properly swooned in his arms. This was all-consuming ravishment.
Overwhelmed by Ricki’s scent, the silkiness of her skin, Ezra broke the kiss, drawing upon as much self-control as he could muster, but when Ricki gazed up at him with such vulnerable, naked hunger, he scooped her into another devouring kiss. In this hot, breathless blur of grasping hands, mouths, tongues, Ezra managed to slip Ricki’s shirt over her head.
And then he froze. His face lit up with awe. Ricki’s breasts were shockingly lush and voluptuous, practically overflowing out of her bra.
“They’re bigger than they look in clothes,” she said with a self-conscious giggle.
“Lucky me,” he rasped. With one hand, he unclipped her bra—thank fuck for front-fastening bras—and then, with damn near religious reverence, he held her breasts in both hands, running his thumbs over her nipples. Tingling from his touch, she gasped, arching her back. He closed his mouth over a nipple, sucking with increasing tension as cascades of pleasure roared through her.
Ricki needed more. Impatiently, she grabbed at his sweater with fumbling fingers, chanting “Take this off, take this off, take this off” until he did, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. He was exquisite. She told him so as she unzipped his jeans, slipping a hand into the elastic of his boxer briefs.
Ricki’s eyes widened.
“It’s bigger than it looks in clothes,” he said with a grin, his eyes hooded with lust.
“Lucky me,” she breathed. With a wicked gleam in her eye, she licked her palm wetly and began stroking him. Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead against hers. She raised her mouth to his, running her tongue along his bottom lip.
“Stop,” he ordered.
“No,” she murmured against his mouth.
“Ricki, I’m gonna… Stop.” Ezra tore her hand away, gathering her wrists and, with one hand, pinning them against the wall above her head. Her breathing went ragged as she was wildly turned on by the restraint.
Trailing succulent kisses down her throat, he slipped his other hand down, down, down, into the soaked cotton of her panties. Mouth hot against her jaw, he lightly stroked her in languorous circles. Her eyes shuttered closed. Her head fell back against the wall. She was reeling, feeling almost too much.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that Ezra’d dropped to his knees in front of her. And the sight of this big, magnificent man submitting to her was unimaginably sexy. He gripped her hips and planted a wet, suckling kiss under her belly button, teeth sinking into her soft skin. Ricki’s knees buckled. Then, in a bold, hungry move, he pulled her panties to the side and, without ceremony, buried his face in her. “God,” she breathed as he dragged his tongue along her folds, torturing her with soft suction and indulgent licks, like he’d been dying for it. Like he’d die without it.
She was drowning now, back arched from the wall, breasts flushed, leg hooked on his shoulder. Ezra’s muscled arms were the only thing holding her upright, until her rising moans became too much for him to bear.
Ezra pulled Ricki down to him, and the two toppled backward onto her rug in a tangle of limbs. Somehow, with her clinging to him, he reached for a condom from his wallet. With frenzied impatience, she snatched it from him and put it on. Drawing her into a delicious, bruising kiss, he pinned her down under the hot, velvety expanse of his muscled body. They were both caged in, the whole world reduced to this. Just Ricki and Ezra, skin on skin, hearts thundering against each other in the dark.
It was what they’d been aching for. But Ezra paused. He gazed down at her, his face a map of adoration and outrageous want.
And something else. Something Ricki couldn’t recognize.
“Please,” she whimpered.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, lips teasing hers. Ricki could feel his heartbeat crashing against her chest. He was everywhere, his strong body crushing hers. She arched against him, wrapping her legs around his waist.
“Everything,” she gasped. “You, Ezra. You…”
He sank into her and sweet Christ, it was good. But “good” was too weak a word, because nothing had ever felt like this before: transcendent and ruinous and soulmate-perfect.
Gripping his strong back, Ricki gasped on another hard thrust, and another, and then she couldn’t find her voice at all, because she peaked, suddenly and sharply, in an obliterating spike of pleasure. Ezra fucked her through it, gripping her ass and lifting her into each ferocious stroke, stoking that impossibly deep spot, coaxing her to come again in blinding waves. Only then did Ezra allow himself to break, too, rasping her name against the warmth of her neck.
They clung to each other like this, quivering and quiet.
This was always going to happen.
At some point, they drifted off to sleep, right there on the floor.
In the early morning, Ricki opened her eyes to sunlight streaming through her window. Her cheek rested on his chest, her hand in his. She raised her head, seeing that Ezra was awake. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes bloodshot and damp. He looked like his heart was already broken.
“Tell me now.” She settled back onto his chest, shutting her eyes, steeling herself against whatever he was going to say. “Tell me everything.”
And so he did.