Free Married Sex by Jesse Kornbluth Page B

kissed, a real kiss, with a lot of feeling behind it.
    The book surprised me. “A cookbook?”
    â€œBetter than fiction—every recipe has a happy ending.”
    â€œWant me to cook something before we go?” I asked.
    â€œVanity dictates a flat stomach.”
    â€œI understand. But I see tequila in your future. Or champagne. You’ll want a base. Yogurt, at the very least.”
    â€œHow about … stir-fry?”
    â€œGood. I’ll make it.”
    â€œThanks,” Blair said. “One favor.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œNo garlic.”
    In the cab, we rode in silence, far apart, staring blankly ahead, thoughtful.
    â€œWe must look like the couple in that American Gothic painting,” I said, as we started the long drive downtown. “All we need is the pitchfork.”
    â€œPlease. We are hip New Yorkers.”
    â€œNot that hip,” I said. “We could still bail. Go home, pull a movie.”
    Blair shook her head.
    â€œWhy not?” I asked.
    â€œYou’ve got a script, don’t you?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œPositions. Sequences. Who does what.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo let’s do this.”
    â€œDo you have a script?” I asked.
    â€œNo. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hearing about the fun we missed.”
    â€œYou really see fun ahead?”
    â€œWhat I know of your fantasies—and by now I think I’ve heard them all—they’re vanilla. So I don’t see harm . And I think Jean is …”
    Blair searched for the right word. “Harmless?” I suggested.
    â€œCool,” she said.
    Well, that was a surprise. But not one that registered. I was thinking ahead, to the dance of bodies. And to an agreement I’d failed to make explicit. I waited until the cab reached Tribeca to mention it.
    â€œWhen I need to come, I want to be in you.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œDon’t … wander off.”
    We got out on Greenwich, a few blocks from Jean’s loft. On this warm Saturday night, the young were everywhere—filling the sidewalk café in front of Locanda Verde, smoking outside De Niro’s hotel. They were groomed. Expensively underdressed. They wore scents that broadcast self-confidence. And discretionary money. Hard to look at these kids and not feel jealous. Also: old.
    We turned onto Laight Street, a movie set of old warehouses converted to condos and new condos designed to look like they were once warehouses. I’d imagined Jean living in a loft like the ones I knew when I was in law school and one of my girlfriends lived down here—wood floors that were a minefield of splinters, exposed water pipes, clawfoot bathtub and noisy plumbing. But there was no modestly improved industrial space left in Tribeca.
    I was forced to readjust; Jean had money.
    And not just some—more than we have.
    From an open window, party sounds emerged. And music: “Almost Saturday Night,” written, sung, and produced by John Fogerty, who labored over his breakthrough songs, he said, because he didn’t want to go back to working at the car wash. And here he was, party music for the privileged.
    It had been years since we danced. I grabbed Blair and held her close. Then she broke away, and for a few seconds, she found the beat and went with it. I’d almost forgotten how hot Blair was when she moved.
    I pressed Jean’s bell.

Chapter 16
    A massive photo in the lobby. Not Jean’s. She’d never shoot such sentimental chlorophyll: Central Park, three miles and several cultures north, in full summer.
    The elevator. Holding hands with Blair. Nervous smiles.
    Jean’s building, for all its pin lighting and polished brick, was venerable in one respect. One loft per floor, so when the elevator opens, you step right into the living space.
    We did.
    And found ourselves alone.
    The living area was vast, big enough for an energetic game of floor hockey.