“We don’t have to do this,” she says. “We could just fuck and call it a night. But you look like you’re about to bite through your own tongue, you’re so tortured.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling on my pants. I don’t say anything. My hands move in silence, button, zip, belt, shirt. The motions are muscle memory. The cuffs are French, the buttons tiny and slick. I remember the time Andie spent a whole five minutes trying to fasten my cuffs, her tongue sticking out, cheeks flushed, before she just gave up and used her teeth. I remember the bite, the way her teeth left little crescents on my skin. I remember the way she laughed, the sound of it, so loud and careless in my penthouse that it shook the glass.
Meanwhile, Elaine stands in the city’s blue glow, one hand on her hip, the other cradling her water. “You’re not the first,” she says, “and you won’t be the last. Don’t feel bad for me.”
I tie my shoes, slow and methodical. “I don’t,” I say in a flat tone.
She laughs again, this time quieter, and walks to the bed. She sits beside me, nude but regal, the kind of poise you only get from winning a hundred arguments in a row. She puts her hand on my thigh, not sexual, but friendly.
“Listen,” she says, “If you ever want to talk, or fuck, or just have a glass of wine—text me. Or don’t. But at least be honest with yourself. We’re too old to care what other people think. What we want is what matters, so don’t let other peoples’ shit stand in your way.”
Where is she even getting this? Why is she acting like an armchair psychiatrist? But Elaine doesn’t flinch when I stand. She just sits there, half-upright against the headboard, the sheets pulled to her waist like a makeshift toga, watching me button my shirt with the dispassion of a tax lawyer auditing my own return. The bedside lamp throws a gold halo around her head, but the expression is all shadow: calm, unsentimental, eyes on me the way a vet watches a dog about to bite.
She asks, “So is this about the caterer from the fundraiser?” Goddamn it, she’s back to Andie. But there’s no heat in her question. No sarcasm. Just the neutral tone of someone who’s cross-examined a thousand men and already knows the answer.
My hands stop mid-button, and for a second I just look at her, mouth open, nothing coming out.
She waits. “I mean, it’s obvious,” Elaine says, voice even. “She stared holes through you the whole night. So did you, frankly.”
I blink, caught. My shoulders go rigid. I nod. “It’s her.” The words sound like they’re coming from the other end of a tunnel.
Elaine tilts her head, considering. “She’s young,” she says, then after a beat, “but very beautiful. It makes sense.”
I want to argue. I want to say it doesn’t make sense, that I’m not that guy. But I am. I’m exactly that guy, and Elaine knows it. We both do.
“She’stooyoung,” I say, voice tight. “Like I said, that’s half the issue.”
Elaine shrugs, not unkind. She grabs her robe off the end of the bed and pulls it on, the silk whispering over her skin, the movement elegant but casual. “Age is nothing but a number,” she says, “unless you’re looking for an excuse.”
She knots the sash, sits at the edge of the bed, legs crossed, one foot flexing in a slow arc. “If you wanted to give it a try with her, you should. There’s not much point in pretending otherwise.”
I start to speak, but she waves me off.
“No offense, Thomas, but I could tell you weren’t really here tonight.” She looks at me, a little amused. “I was going to fake it, but then I thought, what’s the point? I’m too old for that shit.” She leans back, arms braced on the mattress, perfectly relaxed. “Besides, you weren’t even that hard.”
I flush. She’s right, and the bluntness of it makes me want to laugh or punch a wall.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I mean it, but the words sound like an afterthought.
She smiles, wry and practiced. “Don’t be. You’re a good man, but you’re not good at lying to yourself. Or to me.” She fidgets with the robe’s belt, then says, “You want to know the real secret? Nobody’s that good.”
I watch her, unsure what to say. She changes tack, like a lawyer steering a witness.
“So, what’s wrong with her? The caterer. Is she married? Crazy? A Truther?”
I almost laugh, but then the words come out. “She lied to me. She filmed us having sex—without telling me.” I can’t keep the disgust out of my voice.
Elaine pauses, then tilts her head. “Did she upload it? Share it? Try to blackmail you?” The questions come rapid-fire, legal instinct sharpened to a blade.
I shake my head. “No, she just kept it. On her cloud, apparently. I found it by accident.”
Elaine shrugs again, this time with a little more heat. “So what’s the big deal then? You think you’re the only man who’s ever been filmed? Thomas, this is the age of over-sharing. Everyone records everything.” She gives a short laugh, then pushes herself up off the bed, smooths her robe, and walks over to the window. “I have a hundred clients who would kill for a sex tape scandal that wasn’t actually a scandal.”
I watch her, a slow burn rising under my skin. “I just wanted honesty,” I say. “Not some fucking surveillance state in my own bedroom.”
Elaine doesn’t answer right away. She purses her lips, weighing the odds, and then reaches behind the base of the lamp, fingers searching, and then turns, holding something up between her index and middle finger. It’s a camera—so small it could be a button off a shirt, matte black and faceless.
She tosses it onto the bed. “There. Now you’ve been filmed twice without your knowing.” She watches me, eyes bright. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t for blackmail. I just like to keep a record. Call it a souvenir.”
