“She likes big men with big dicks.”
“Me too, so this should be easy,” he says and prances off, leaving me laughing. The store’s empty, no jewelry, but there are some cool watches out in the open next to me, and I itch to take one, put it on my wrist, and see if he’ll say anything when I walk out with it. But I don’t do that shit no more, though old habits die hard, and I pick up one watch and admire its weight and size. Big, bold, tells time.
The man returns, and pain slices through my fingers when I return the watch to the display. He thrusts a big box in front of me and tells me to look through it while he gets me a coffee.
I open the box and pull back the velvet cloth to see diamonds of all shapes and sizes propped on golden circles. “Fucking beautiful.” That deal with the South Africans is solid, and I’m thrilled I got into that pot first. Since my wife’s family deals in these commodities and other forms of art or beauty I have zero understanding of, I’m gonna need some help so I don’t pick out something shitty.
She must know diamond quality and size and whatever the fuck.
“Do you need help choosing?” the man asks.
“I want the best one.”
“What does the best mean to you?”
“Are you psyching me out?”
He nudges the coffee toward me, and I sip. Mmmm. “What’s in here?”
“Vanilla.”
“Sweet. Warm. Goes down easily. I want a vanilla ring. Which one is a vanilla ring?”
The man’s eyes light up, and he bends, coming real close to me as he looks over the box’s contents. I sniff. That cologne smells familiar. “What kind of cologne you wearing?” I ask.
“Hunter for Men. It’s fantastic, adorable, sexy, and also warm. Would you like a sample?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Motherfucker. I can’t escape the suited refined society.
“And,” the man says, “we happen to sponsor the marketing campaign for that cologne, and in the launch shoot, the model, who knows her diamonds, chose this ring.” He picks up a beautiful large round diamond ring with a thick band. Yellow gold, not white. “Warm. Sweet,” he says.
It’s not a coincidence. It’s the connectedness ofwe,the moment when the universe aligns us. “You said the model chose the ring?”
“Mmhm.”
“You are sure she chose the ring because you saw her choose it with your own eyes.”
“Good heavens, Mr. Boriskov, I wouldn’t lie to you. Kaya, that’s the model’s name, picked the ring. Let me show you what it looks like on her hand.”
He walks off, then comes out from the back with the dreadful magazine, finds the spread, and points to Kaya’s hand, showing me the ring I’m holding in my palm.
I get a second look at the image. My wife is beautiful. No question about it. I yank the magazine from his grasp, rip out the centerfold ad, and tear off the suit dude. I give him the dude, folding up the image of my wife to slip into my pocket. Maybe I’ll go around the continental US and buy every copy. Do they distribute internationally? “We’re done here. Bill me.”
The man’s cool and collected, unruffled by my theatrics. He folds the image of the billionaire and slips it into his pocket. Nice. I like this man. “What’s your name?”
“Jaxon.”
I extend my hand. “Mikhail.”
“I know who you are.”
“That’s good. We gonna be doing business together.”
“We already are. Ivana is a regular here.”
“Excellent.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t send her.”
