It is not one drink.
Because Aleksandr—that’s his name, voice lowering to a deeper register for a moment, with harsher, richer tones under the Oxbridge polish; continental, Eastern, gilded icons—doesn’t look aghast or uncomfortablewhen she starts to tear into how EBITDA allows unviable venture-funded companies to continue exploiting the working class by promising the ever-retreating prospect of long-term growth potential to all-white Sand Hill Road boardrooms, or rails into how private equity firms are glorified corporate raiders cannibalizing America in partnership with management consultants, or eviscerates the disgusting hypocrisy of hedge funds handling the pensions of teachers and firefighters.
Rather, he smiles, an expression that flirts with a smirk—and yes, it veers condescending, but she supposes he is older, although she isn’t sure by how much; perhaps a decade, maybe more—and he gives as good as he gets. He pushes her about her vehemence around the negative impacts of multinationals’ investment in developing nations—“Christ, we don’t say third world anymore,” she says. “It’s not the Cold War. What are you, forty?”—and whether instability is actually inherent in the Harrod-Domar model—“Of course, you love neoclassical economics,” she grumbles, “you probably think the market will regulate itself, too”—and if the neoliberalization of foreign aid can really be blamed for creating power vacuums in the Middle East.
As the heavy warmth of her drinks starts to flood through her, Lili takes out her phone and demands his time and location of birth—January 3, 1977; 1:43 a.m.; Leningrad, frozen canals, mandarin rinds in the snow, empty squares, snowflakes on eyelashes, skeleton staff at the hospital, days off for the new year. When she pulls up his birth chart, he doesn’t laugh derisively or ask,You don’t really believe in that shit, do you?
Instead, he leans forward, listening as she taps through the houses of his chart.
“Capricorn, that checks out. But Jesus, Aries rising, really?”
“What do you mean, Aries? You just said Capricorn.”
“Everyone has multiple signs, obviously. Keep up.”
“Alright, what’s next?”
“So, your moon—Scorpio. Oh. That’s unfortunate.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, that’s not even touching the other houses—”
The weight of his attention is intoxicating. He listens intently, countering her arguments, raising an eyebrow when she overreaches her points. Somehow luxuriant in the way he never interrupts her.
Once or twice, Lili catches him glancing at her mouth, brief enough that she could miss it. She finds herself wishing that he’d linger there longer. The bar is packed, and her body is angled towards him. Close enough to taste his cologne, a mixture of cold nights and warm amber that mingles with the delicate burn of alcohol on her tongue, as she looks at his mouth, white teeth, as he’s saying something about economic neocolonialism, and—
“Would you like to come home with me?” His voice cuts under the din around them.
Lili grins before she can help it. She sends a quick text to her friends. He has a black car idling outside.
He doesn’t touch her in the car, like she expects. It’s a little absurd. She’s coming home with him, isn’t she? One night, easy sex: Maybe she could even get him to be a little rough with her. As she tries to pay attention to his thoughts on von Mises and restricted government interventions, her fingers tense with the restrained need to touch him—to crawl over the seats and straddle him, imagining the scratch of his beard against her palms.
But when his driver stops in Tribeca, car gliding to a halt on a dark, quiet street, she’s caught off guard. Frowning, she looks up at the building—cast-iron facade, one of the stunning old buildings converted from factories or warehouses—momentarily distracted from fogged thoughts of sex. This isn’t where she’d have thought a man like him would live: downtown; a nondescript entrance that could easily be mistaken for the staff door of one of the ground-floor art galleries; dim, narrow foyer sleek with discretion; a doorman with the look of hired security.
In the elevator—five floors; he hits the third—she leans against the opposite wall from him, liquor-sharp and bold. “Not enough cash on hand to buy the penthouse?” she teases.
“No, the rest of the building is social housing.”
She glares at him. “Hilarious.”
He grins. “You wouldn’t believe the tax breaks.”
The elevator slides open with a soft, sedate ding that drips wealth.
“This is actually your place?”
“Yes.”
Lili steps forward and spins slowly, taking in the loft. The ceilings,the tall windows, the view of narrow Tribeca streets at night. Across the room, a huge painting dominates a wall: beige canvas with gouges of dark color, terse scrawls, undercut with reds, oranges, white, blues. The ordered chaos veers into graffiti, violent like Twombly’sLeda and the SwanorThe Fall of Hyperion.
“Is that surprising?” he asks.
“I guess. Thought you’d be more of the 81st and Fifth type. You know, like, runs around the reservoir, bespoke Brioni, lunch at San Pietro—”
“Vivid.”
“Hush, I was painting a picture,” she says, pointing an accusatory finger at him. A smile tugs at his lips. “House in Bridgehampton, kids at Dalton—”
