“Romance novels,” Elliot repeats slowly. “You’ve been listening to Golda Adler read romance novels.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“I just... I wanted to hear her voice, okay? And those were the only recordings I could find where she sounds like herself instead of trying to sell me breakfast cereal.”
Brody has progressed to making wheezing sounds.
“So you bought seventeen romance novels,” Elliot continues, “to listen to her voice.”
“Yes.”
“And how’s that going?”
The question hangs in the air while I contemplate the various ways I could die of embarrassment right here in Brody’s kitchen.
“It’s... problematic.”
“Problematic how?”
“Do I really have to spell this out?”
“Oh my god,” Elliot breathes, understanding dawning on her face. “Oh my GOD.”
“What?” Brody manages to ask from the floor.
“He’s getting turned on by bedtime stories,” Elliot announces with gleeful horror.
The silence that follows is broken only by Brody’s renewed cackling.
“It’s not bedtime stories,” I protest. “It’s... look, have you heard her voice? Really listened to it?”
“I talked to her for an hour yesterday,” Elliot points out.
“Not talking. Reading. When she’s reading, it’s... fuck, it’s hard to explain it. She gets this tone, this rhythm, like she’s telling secrets.”
“Sexy secrets,” Brody adds helpfully from the floor.
“They’re not all sexy. Some of them are about dukes and ballrooms and proper courtship.”
“But some of them are sexy,” Elliot presses.
“Some of them are... explicit, yes.”
“And you listen to Golda Adler’s voice reading explicit romance novels.”
“Yes.”
“Before bed.”
“Usually, yes.”
“And then?”
I drain my beer. “And then I take very cold showers.”
Brody’s laughter reaches a pitch that’s probably damaging to his vocal cords.
