“So,” she says. “Kendra tells me you’re seeing someone.”
I cough out a laugh. “When will I learn your motives are never altruistic?”
“Hopefully never,” Irina says. “But now that we’re here, tell me everything.” She comes to sit beside me at the counter. “Shrimp fried rice?”
I nod.
“And some summer rolls, so we can say we tried.”
She types in an order and discards the iPad on the counter.
“What’s his deal?”
“He’s nice.”
“Nice?”
“Nice is underrated.”
“I’m almost twenty years older than you—”
I raise my eyebrows but don’t say anything.
“So I can assure you, nice just means bad in bed.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say.
“You don’t think or you know?”
“We haven’t slept together yet.”
Irina lifts her wineglass at me. “I’m telling you. It’s been a while, but: kind spirit, limp dick.”
“I’m adding that quote to your bio.”
She smiles. “If you’re happy I’m happy, sweetheart. You deserve only the best.”
I take a small sip of wine. “Thank you. How’s Penelope?”
Irina shakes her head. “Sometimes I feel like I’m sixty fucking years old having the relationship of someone twenty-five.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not if you’re sixty fucking years old.”
I try not to think about aging. At least, not aging in relationships. Part of the beauty of the paper is that it allows me to be present. To not plan ahead too far, not further than specified. Until now.
“I guess,” I say. “I haven’t really thought about it too much.”
Irina puts a hand over mine. I can feel the cold metal of her silver cocktail rings on my skin. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says. “I’m sorry. Don’t listen to me. Penelope and I have been through the wringer and back again, but I do love her. Very much. I’m just jet-lagged, and an old lady.”
“You’re not old.”
“Of course not,” she says. “I’m thirty-five.”
The doorbell rings then, and I lift myself out of the chair, but Irina waves me off.
“I’ll get it.”
