Free Rococo by Adriana Trigiani Page A

me. I find the exchange of an idea, the collaboration over a common goal, and the art of conversation far more satisfying than the huff and puff of The Act. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” I ask Mary Kate.
    “I said, you’re fantastic!” she whispers, then goes back to the job at hand.
    I have been told that I’m a great lover, but I don’t do anything in particular, I simply hold on. I play captain of the ship, keeping the boat steady with a firm hand on the tiller when the motion gets intense. In any event, Mary Kate Fitzsimmons seems so completely satisfied when she’s had her fill that she collapses in a clump, the tassels forming a canopy over her sweet head.
    “Oh, B,” she whispers.
    “Well?” I vamp, never knowing what to say to a naked woman who is looking at me as though I could change the weather.
    She laughs. “I don’t know what happened to me. The wine. The spaghetti. The fringe.”
    “The hot-fudge sauce!” I snap my fingers as though I just found the answer.
    “No, no. It’s you.” She smiles.
    “Thank you.” What else can I say? She’s giving me too much credit.
    Mary Kate loops her red hair into a bun on the nape of her neck. “I really like Italian men. It’s the way you look at a woman.”
    I think of my father, who used to look at my mother’s face as though it was a beanbag. “What do you mean?”
    “It’s awe,” she says earnestly as she puts on her blouse and buttons it up. “You look at women like we know something.” She stands without a shred of modesty or shame and looks for her skirt. Her pink skin, saturated in gold streetlight, looks like polished marble.
    I don’t know what to say, so I simply smile and step back into my pants.
    “But you know what I really, really like about you in particular, Bartolomeo?” She takes my hand. “You don’t ruin it with a lot of talk.”
    We return the fringe to the display wall, she turns out the lights, and we walk arm in arm down the winding staircase, which gives me a slight case of vertigo. I hold on to her on one side and the rope railing on the other. “Wait. I have to give you something.” What an odd thing for a girl to say after sex. Mary Kate disappears into the back showroom, leaving me in the foyer. She returns quickly with a book.
    “Here.” She gives me the book
An Outline of European Architecture
by Nikolaus Pevsner. “This will give you lots of ideas for your church.”
    “Thank you.” I kiss her and tuck the book under my arm.
    Once outside, I hail a cab, help Mary Kate into the backseat, and stuff some money into the driver’s hand, instructing him to wait until she is safely inside her building in Sunnyside, Queens. She rolls down the window and leans out. The wisps of her red hair flutter against the yellow taxi like feathers.
    “The bullion you liked,” she says.
    “Yes?”
    “It’s number 1217.” She smiles sweetly.
    The taxi drives away, its red brake lights disappearing as it moves toward the East River Drive. I button my coat against the chill of the night air. I miss Mary Kate for a moment. I miss her creamy skin that smells like vanilla saltwater taffy. But the pang of sadness quickly fades as I walk up Third Avenue. Let’s face it, the best part of sex is when it’s over. I like to make love, say good-bye, and then be alone to reflect. Of course I always say a prayer that I won’t rot in hell for having done the deed in the first place. Guilt after sex is the espresso after dessert.
    I don’t know what kind of Catholic Mary Kate is, but somehow she avoided the modesty and shame pill the rest of us took. Good for her. Perhaps Mary Kate has the right idea—making love is absolutely ordinary and as delicious as a bowl of ice cream. Why can’t I let it be that? Why can’t I learn from a bright girl with legs so strong she could crack walnuts between her knees? Something more to think about on the drive home, but first I need a nightcap.
    I walk over to Gino’s, a decorator