“I told you: I remember everything.”
He was quiet for a moment, his hand playing in my hair.
“And now I’m always going to remember how much fucking noise you made at the Four Seasons in Paris.”
I laughed. “Great.”
He nodded again, drowsy. “Itwasgreat. It wasbetterthan great. I like you loud. Happy Early Birthday, Solène Marchand…” He drifted off for a second, and when I kissed him, he whispered, “I’m falling in love with you. I’m just going to put that out there, because I can. Because you told me I couldn’t if I was sleeping with anyone else, and I’m not, so there you have it…”
“Shhh.” I put my finger over his mouth. “You’re talking in your sleep.”
“I’m not sleeping,” he said, his eyes still closed.
We were quiet for a long time, there on the floor, until I could feel his semen seeping out of me, dripping between my thighs. All the little Hayeses and Solènes…
“How do you suddenly know so much about art, Hayes?”
For a moment he didn’t respond, and I was certain he’d passed out, but then he smiled, faint. “I read a book.”
“You read a book?”
He nodded. “Seven Days in the Art World.I thought I should probably learn something about what you do…”
And in that instant I was thankful that he was half asleep. Because asleep, he could not see me cry.
On Sunday, after two full days of killing time, Hayes became restless.
“Please stay,” he begged from his position strewn across the bed, where he was watching me dress for my fifth and final day at the fair.
It was a quarter after eleven, and I had to be at the Grand Palais by noon. “You’ll have me all day tomorrow. Promise.”
“Not good enough. I want you now.”
I laughed, zipping my skirt. “Again?”
He smiled, resting his cheek on his folded arms, his hair fluffy and in disarray, a pair of black Calvin Klein boxer briefs his only attire. “I just want to be around you. Don’t go. Please.”
I finished putting on my earrings and Hayes’s borrowed watch before making my way over to him, cradling his face in my hands. “You are very, very, very irresistible. You know this. But I have to work. Please respect that.”
He lay there, allowing me to muss his hair and kiss his lips, without responding.
“I’ll text you later, okay? Okay?”
He nodded. This was Hayes, vulnerable.
That afternoon the Grand Palais felt slightly more cavernous than usual, and I could sense it in the air: the end of a beautiful thing. We had two pieces remaining unsold, and Lulit and I were already talking about Miami in December. The installation, the parties… It wasn’t quite half past three when I looked up to find Hayes striding into our booth.
“Do you know what today is?” he began the conversation. No greeting, no kiss.
Lulit and I exchanged looks.
“Sunday? October twenty-sixth? The last day of the fair?”
“It’s the last day of your thirties,” he said.
“Shhh,” Lulit laughed. “No one says that stuff out loud.”
“Sorry. It’s true…” He paused while a French couple who’d been admiring one of the Kenji Horiyama sculptures exited the booth. “So…” he continued, making his way over to me, “I’m taking her.”
