EIGHT FLOORS (4F)
Eight apartments. Eight lives mid-thought. One rogue firework tearing through them all.
Earlier in the day he sent her a picture of a skyline from his work trip. She was lying in the grass at a park so she sent him a picture of her legs.
Peter pan: Hot dogs or legs?
Peter pan: Am I allowed to say that?
Her: Why wouldn’t you be lol
Now she watches him beat eggs, peel potatoes, chop onions—a man convinced of the eroticism of his domesticity. His nose juts sharply from an otherwise slim face, his body tall and self-important. As the olive oil begins to sing in the pan, he asks her what her biggest flaw is.
“Sometimes I do things without thinking about the consequences.” He answers his own question before she can.
Ding! Ding! There it is. She knows to be wary of a man who offers a disclaimer; an apology tucked inside a confession. He has absolved himself. She’ll only have herself to blame from here on out.
At forty-two, he is thirteen years her senior. On some level she knows that she’s proof to himself that he still has it. Her, with her impeccable wit and smooth skin, reduced to a pill. She made the mistake of sleeping with him two times too many—just enough to fall under the spell that makes a woman walk into that burning house because even though it scorches, you’ve memorized the way through and you’ve left a change of clothes at the back door.
As he speaks she catalogs the foibles she’ll come to resent herself for overlooking. His obnoxious snoring, for one. How he can’t cum unless she licks his nipples. How the first night they stumbled drunkenly into his apartment, there were traces of dried fecal matter in his ass hairs. How the age gap makes it hard to imagine any productive future as a couple.
Nevertheless, she likes his metrosexual air: the way he styles his hair, his collection of utilitarian pants. He is suave and successful, European, so she lights up her eyes and laughs when she’s supposed to, between coy sips of his fancy wine.
She forgets to compliment his tortilla de patatas after the first bite. He notices: “Is it not good?”
She imagines all the other times he must’ve been in this exact position, bathed in this same dim light, the same charm rehearsed into muscle memory. She is aware of him being aware that his tortilla de patatas is, yet again, making its way to the lips of a beautiful, unsuspecting woman. She’s no saint, after all. She has her own rituals of seduction, always magnified by the other’s presumed ignorance, their not knowing there have been others in their exact place.
They sit on his designer sofa after dinner and he plays Solange—a move that screams: I’m hip! You’re brown! I’m down! As they interlace their fingers, he recounts a run-in with a woman colleague from his work trip earlier that day, careful to suggest just enough flirtation to make her notice. Ding! Ding! Another disclaimer. Another ego pulse: fiending work lady by day…PYT by night. What a Casanova! King of the world!
Still, he has a sexy accent and says cute things like “bala bala bala” instead of “blah blah blah.” And the space needle looks especially magical from his balcony tonight. So, there they are.
She chooses a Björk song next. He is impressed that someone “her age” can appreciate her music.
“I’m ready to see those hot dogs in real life,” he half whispers while sliding down her sheer tights. She obliges. She’s even a little wet at the rendition of it all. He leans in. She leans back.
The song hits a strange metallic note—suddenly he is airborne, the coffee table splinters behind him, glass shattering like applause.