Her eyes pierced into me like emeralds. As I sat diagonally from her on the patio, I couldn’t escape their invasion. What was she thinking? The conversation had gone a bit dry, and my mouth was hurting from feigning too many courtesy smiles. Frank had been talking incessantly, cracking jokes that became more and more absurd, but we all had smoked some hash, so I suppose there was room for silliness in conversation. Yet my mind was obsessed with what lurked behind those eyes.
Douglas, her husband, had been sitting beside her. Attentively and genuinely engaged in Frank’s comedic routine, he’d reach and touch her leg now and then. An endearing gesture, yes, but her eyes told me she felt otherwise. As it grew later, the cold began to get to me. Summertime in Long Island isn’t exactly like that in San Diego. I sat with my arms crossed, for fear of my nipples cutting through my shirt. Leila had noticed my shivering, so she offered me one of her sweaters, and I thanked her, somewhat embarrassed. The wool was laced with her perfume, and the smell intoxicated me more than the hash we had all shared.
It was a Monday night, and Frank and Douglas had an important business meeting in the morning. The corporate world can afford many material luxuries, but being chained to a desk has always been a drawback in my mind—even in an executive position. After a couple drinks and handshakes, Frank left for home in his “baby,” a silver Porsche Boxter. Following suit, Douglas gave Leila a kiss on the forehead, and bid us both a good night.
“Now it’s time for you two to get down to business,” he said before winking and closing the French doors behind him. We giggled, probably because we were both too trashed to conduct a professional interview now. And something in me said there were other reasons for that nervous laughter. Yet, the interview was the reason I was there, so I brought up her latest painting.
“I hear your show went well; everyone is raving about La recherché, and I understand it sold for twelve million,” I said.
She shot me a look, which seemed almost contemptuous. “Fifteen million,” she retorted, her mouth fading into a complacent smile.
“I..I’m sorry,” I stammered, “the people at MOMA….”
She rose from her chair and took the seat next to me, which had been occupied by Frank. “Don’t apologize, Kate,” she said warmly, placing her hand momentarily on my knee. “We met two years ago in the same dilettante crowd that makes or breaks the artist nowadays. The exact sum is always a rumor, but my academic background tends to make me a bit adamant in correcting the misinformation I hear.” She laughed, taking an arrogant pride in her response, her eyes settling on my arms and chest. “Goddamn, Kate, you’re still shivering! Let’s go inside.”
Her sharp tongue excited me. I’ve always found intelligent women extremely attractive, yet something about her was exceptional. Here was a woman who had it all…beauty, talent, intelligence, and security. But I felt that she wanted more from life. Then again, don’t all artists?
I followed her into the kitchen, carrying a couple wine glasses and ashtrays. “Thank you again for the sweater,” I began, “I guess it’s going to take me a while to get used to these eastern seasons.” I was still a little flushed from the hash, but the warmth of the house made me much more comfortable.
She laughed, “You’ve been spoiled on the west coast with all that excess sunshine and storybook blue skies. Nothing changes over there! No wonder everyone from California is on Prozac. Either that or their brains are cooked from frying too much. The seasons here, darling, are what makes me tick,” she said, facing me. “Here, I’ll show you the difference between west coast and east coast art.”
I followed her into the living room. She had a cool restlessness in her walk, as she approached the bookshelf, turning her head sideways to read the bindings. I sat on the couch, my eyes gazing over her body. I’ve known this woman professionally for years, and God knows I’ve always found her attractive. But this night, my first evening in her home, made her almost irresistible to me. I prayed that she couldn’t read my thoughts, but secretly wished she could.
She grabbed three oversized books and sat next to me. Opening the first, she began speaking of brush strokes and texture, but my eyes were focused on her profile. So close to me, I could feel her leg against mine, smell her perfume on her neck, the faint scent of chamomile in her hair. I began to imagine the softness of her lips, the feel of her breast on my fingers…
“Do you see…,” she began, glancing at me and noticing that I hadn’t been looking at the book. This took me by surprise, as I didn’t want to seem rude.
I blinked, “Yes…it’s very clear of the different styles among these two paintings here.” I tried to recover, but I had no idea what she had been talking about.
“Kate, you’re distracted. Are you blushing?” she said with a coy smile.
