Maybe if they were at the same party, in the same stranger’s room together, drunk on mediocre wine, things would get more…interesting. It’s not really Sophie’s style. Or his. They’re both the kind of people who don’t touch the remotes in hotel rooms, so he can’t imagine commandeering this stranger’s bed for a tryst. But that doesn’t matter in a fantasy.
When you can only see each other every other month, imagination becomes a key component in facilitating a sexual relationship.
He calls her again, listening to her voice on the outgoing message, her businesslike tone making what he’s about to say feel a bit more transgressive.
Josh clears his throat as the tone sounds.
“You should have received the package this afternoon. If you read the note, it specifically instructed you to put on the items—all of them—and send me a picture tonight. It’s eleven fifty-three and I haven’t received a picture. Does that mean you’re not going to be a good girl for me this year? How many times do I have to tell you? Only good girls get my cock.” He lowers his voice. “Or do you want me to fuck you like you’re a bad girl?”
There’s a noise, like a cough or a hiccup that sounds like it comes from inside the room, nearly causing him to drop his mostly empty plastic cup of merlot. Josh hangs up and rushes around the bed, checking the opposite wall, peering around. The room itself is empty but there’s another sound just outside the window. He hadn’t noticed that it was open.
There’s a dark silhouette of someone seated on the fire escape.
“I have to know—what was in the package?” Ari barely gets the words out before breaking into giggles and then actual hiccups. “Please let it be a clown costume.”
Josh takes a few cautious steps toward the window. “Are you stalking me?”
“I was here first.” She’s wearing an enormous parka, probably pillaged from the bed, holding a mostly full bottle of some sickly pink wine. “I was sweating in there. Needed some fresh air.”
“Right. The crisp, clean scent of air pollution from the Con Edison plant.” He leans his head out the window, not feeling confident enough in the structural integrity of the fire escape to share it. “So I’m ‘Tall Nightmare Sweater Man’？ Is that one of Radhya’s charming nicknames?”
“No,” she says, taking a swig directly from the wine bottle. “You earned that title long before you fired my best friend over a piece of duck.”
“It wasn’t just a piece of duck. It’s about respect.” He takes a deep breath. “I heard Radhya’s working at Frenchette, so I’d say she’s just fine.”
Ari rolls her eyes. “She probably could’ve been an executive chef by now if she also had a famous dad—”
“Famous?” He lets out a bitter little snort. “The only thing he was famous for was kicking out anyone who asked for ketchup with their latkes.” It’s still strange to say it in past tense. Ari raises her eyebrows, as if clocking the change, but he’s grateful she doesn’t ask any questions or try to offer condolences. “I’m about to launch my own fine dining restaurant in the Brodsky’s space. A tasting room. My menu. My vision. And no latkes.” He doesn’t know why he feels the need to tell her this, where this desire for validation comes from. “It has nothing to do with my dad.”
Ari nods slowly. “You inherited a restaurant, and it has nothing to do with your dad, who definitely wasn’t a New York icon. Right. Totally level playing field.” She takes another drink. “Sorry, but I’ll probably miss that opening. I only patronize establishments that offer fried potatoes.”
“I wouldn’t invite someone who likes to harass chefs in their kitchens.”
She shrugs. “I did yell at Mario Batali on Sixth Avenue and he almost fell off his moped.”
Josh laughs despite himself.
“Wine?” She thrusts the bottle in his direction. “I found it on the counter.”
He examines the label. “Who shows up to a party with Trader Joe’s white zinfandel?”
“Don’t talk that way about the wine retailer of the proletariat,” Ari mutters.
He should duck his head back inside and leave. Wait for an Uber outside. There’s no reason to continue exchanging barbs with her. But something inside him—force of will, sheer stubbornness, pride—won’t let her have the last word.
Josh clears his throat. “I suppose I owe you congratulations on your complete ideological U-turn toward monogamy.”