The Feast of Love - Charles Baxter [57]
“And then I think” — he was still talking while I considered what he, this guy, might be like in bed, long-term, or on the sofa on Sunday morning, married, as it were, as the sun poured in the windows, how he would be behind the wheel or raking the leaves — “about how even that — what people are afraid of — can make them attractive. And after I’ve been through their . . . fears, I start to imagine, not that I have all that much time, how I’d get along with them, if we were ever a couple, you know, where we’d travel to and so forth, Bali or Fuji maybe or the Orkney Isles, and how —”
“You mean Fiji.”
“What?”
“You said ‘Fuji’ and you meant ‘Fiji.’ One’s a film. The other’s an island in . . . well, you know where it is.”
“Oh,” he said. He was trying to smile, but it was a brave smile, a sickroom smile, and I was sorry I had caused it. I had apparently taken the wind out of his sails. His discouragement wasn’t a good sign. Men should stand up to me more than that. They have to fight back to satisfy me. They have to face me down.
“ — Here,” I said, interrupting his silence. I took a business card out of my purse.
“What?”
“I’m writing down my home phone number. My name is Diana.”
He took the card and stared a bit dumbly at the number on it. “Thank you,” he said at last, as if he’d found an eyedropper of eloquence and was determined to use it.
“And now,” I said, “as decreed by custom, you tell me your name.”
“Well I’m Bradley,” he said in a rush, as if the kids in elementary school had always made fun of that name, and it was a wound for him. “Bradley Smith. Could I ask you to do something?”
“What’s that?”
“Could you stand up, so that I could give you a hug?”
Well, that was cute. But I’d rather have a tracheotomy than hug a man the first time through. “No,” I said, “no, indeed, I certainly won’t do that. Not yet. Nope. Too soon for hugs between strangers. Actually, I will stand up, but if there are going to be hugs, Bradley, they’ll have to come a bit later. That’s one of the things you’ll learn about me. You’ll excuse me, but I have to get to the office now, power failure or not. Time’s a-wasting.”
I shouldn’t have said that, that minute condescension in tone, but I’m not sure he noticed. So I rose to my feet, and he watched me do it. He appraised me. Oh, the poor guy: I bet he knew he was overmatched already. I think he knew I would always be quicker, and not just verbally, my edges would be sharper than his, more acute angles, I was the superior animal and he was in for the time of his life. I’m good-looking, but I will come at you. I’m one of those women who can’t see the beauty in any kind of weakness or pathos. Most men won’t trade up from themselves, they’ll walk away from a matchup like this, even if the woman is scarily beautiful, which I’m not, though almost, if you like intelligent eyes and gestures that correct themselves halfway through. But I saw him pocket my phone number and keep his fingers on the card, that little brand-new fetish curled up safely in its nest. He must have been a brave soul, in his way.
Then he went behind the counter and came back and gave me a slip of paper. It was an expertly drawn sketch of a dragon erasing, with his nose, the sign in front of Jitters. I was sitting inside the door, in his drawing, reading. Just a few strokes of the pencil, and you could tell it was me, just from my posture. I put it in my pocket. It had been signed by Bradley. An original.
WHAT WAS IN IT FOR ME? A relationship with Bradley Smith? Was this the classic