Love in Lingerie(18)

Hong Kong is both everything I expected and like nothing I could have imagined. I stand in the middle of a busy street and lift my arms, spinning in the crowd, the neon lights everywhere, the air full of foreign smells and sounds, the clatter of languages like a comforting blanket of anonymity. I catch Trey’s eyes and wave, the corner of his mouth pulling up in response, his eyes dropping back to the cash in his hand, his discussion with the street vendor continuing, a back and forth negotiation about scooter rentals, a conversation that Craig is panicking over, his repeated attempts to get my attention ignored. “Relaaaxxxx,” I call out to him. He doesn’t trust Trey; that is the problem. He hasn’t learned the carefree ease with which Trey manages to handle things. It’s been nine months, and I’m just now learning to leap when he offers his hand. Because that’s how he is. He doesn’t ask you to risk, unless he is taking that journey alongside you. If I fail, he fails. And if a street peddler in the biggest city in the world screws Craig over, he’s screwing over Trey Marks also. And that scenario is as unlikely as, well … a tiny speck of moisture hits my cheek and I look up in delight, a kaleidoscope of white flurries drifting down. I jerk forward, waving my hands in big circles to get their attention. “Guys! It’s SNOWING!”





Trey stands, and Craig and I watch as he lifts his glass toward us. “A toast,” he announces, that trademark grin pulling at the edge of his mouth.

I glance down at my own wineglass, surprised to find it half empty. Hadn’t he just topped me off … what, five minutes ago? Or ten? It was when we’d been telling Craig that story—the one about Marie from Accounting, and her Halloween costume. I giggle, and lift my glass. We should drink more. We should travel more. With my latest raise, and Craig’s … well, Craig never spends any money so he should have mountains of it — there is no reason why we don’t have more fun. Like this. Halfway across the world, in a place where foreign languages bounce off exotic walls, and we are eating fried silkworms for God’s sake. Why, in three years together, are we just doing this now?

Trey clears his throat, and looks at me in an almost stern fashion. “Kate, I do believe that you are drunk.”

I giggle again, a completely uncharacteristic act, and stop myself, analyzing my alcohol consumption and present mood. I am drunk. I feel almost proud at the fact, and that itself is even further testimony to the fact that I must be drunk. I, Kate Martin, eternal good girl and dotter of all I’s, am officially drunk. In Hong Kong. With two of the best guys—

“She’s about to cry,” Craig blurts out, looking at Trey with concern.

I sniff. I can’t help it. They are so different. Craig is so good to me. And he tries so hard to be the best partner; he’s going to be a wonderful father, and he’s suuuuch a good person on the inside. And then you have Trey, who is, like, this perfect sexy unicorn—not that he has a horn sticking out of his head or anything like that—he’s just so … I close my eyes and try to find the right word, the one that embodies how special and unique he is. How he can make my day by just smiling. Like how, right now, he is looking at me, in the kindest, sweetest way, as if—

“DON’T CRY,” Craig says, very loudly, his face close to mine, my nose catching a whiff of the tuna tartare he had for an appetizer.

“OKAY,” I say back, just as loudly and exaggerated as he had, as if being drunk made me deaf in some way. “I WILL NOT CRY.”

My eyes meet with Trey’s, and he winks.





2 AM. My buzz peaks, then falls, my joy ebbing into something else, something dark and contemplative, where all of my thoughts bubble to the surface and demand to be examined. Craig and I step into the elevator, and I watch the floor numbers rise.

I think there is something fundamentally wrong with my relationship.

In three years of dating, we haven’t had a single fight. In three years, we have fit together easily, me overlooking any imperfections, and hiding any qualities that I thought he wouldn’t approve of. I love him, but I’ve never been passionate about him; I’ve never obsessed over him. Shouldn’t a woman, at some point, obsess over the man she is going to spend the rest of her life with? Once, when I was looking up an email on Craig’s phone, I had the momentary idea to check his text messages, to see who he was communicating with, and what was being said. I hadn’t, the idea preposterous that Craig would be cheating on me, or flirting with someone else. A waitress once hit on him, and he got so worked up about it that he made the poor waitress sit down and listen to him explain the history of our relationship. We stopped going to that restaurant, just to avoid another uncomfortable interaction with her.

Our hotel room is dark, no lights left on, the curtains drawn. I open the top drawer of the dresser, moving aside my sweater and consider the lingerie set hidden underneath it. I replace the sweater and sit on the bed, listening to Craig brush his teeth, then floss. When he comes into the room and unzips his pants, I watch him remove them, hanging them neatly back on the hanger, his body slowly unwrapped as he removes his shirt and follows the same process. His body is the perfect specimen for a doctor’s office: well-exercised, no flab, but only moderate muscle tone, nothing bulky enough to stress the heart. He comes to me naked, gently pulling me to my feet and we kiss, his tongue tasting of wintergreen, his skin cool beneath my fingers. He pulls at the zipper of my dress and I help him. He goes to his knees, and I lie back on the bed, one leg over his shoulder, his mouth gentle against me, and I dig my fingers into his hair when I come.