Cleopatra and Frankenstein(106)

She opened her eyes and let her hand fall away. A new wetness coated her fingers. She felt empty and full at once. A delicious tenderness between her legs. So that’s what all the fuss was about, she thought. And then she was laughing, pressing the side of her face into the hot pillow. A puddle of pleasure, that’s what she was.

When she heard the door open a little while later, she was still melted on the bed. Jiro stood in the doorway, a takeout bag in each hand, smiling.

“I know you will say I’m a cliché,” he said. “But I got sushi.”

He paused, regarding her. She could feel that her cheeks were warm and pink, her eyes unusually bright. She tried to smile at him, but the laughter returned again, rising inside her like a crowd of colorful balloons. Jiro set down the bags and began to laugh too. Eventually, when they had both run out of breath, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her.

“Now,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Why are we laughing?”





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


May


Cleo had been staying at Audrey’s for a week when she noticed the neighbor watching her through the window. She had just taken a shower and was standing naked in Audrey’s bedroom, applying body lotion, when she looked up and saw him. She froze. To close the curtains would mean advancing toward him; to retreat would only offer him an alternate view of her behind. In a panic she dropped to the floor and crawled military-style back to the bathroom, leaving a glistening snail trail of moisturizer on the wooden floorboards behind her.

She pushed the door closed with her toe and sat curled on the tiled floor. It was not just that he had seen her naked. It was her scar. The thin purple trench running from her wrist to elbow, thirty stitches like tracks on a railroad. Why did she care if he saw it? He was nobody. But her scar felt more naked than naked, more secret than her sex. No one had seen it but Frank. And she had not seen Frank for two months.

When she opened the bathroom door again, the neighbor was gone. Cleo dressed quickly in vintage high-waisted jeans and one of the silk wrap jackets she’d painted earlier that year, splashing giant peacocks and shining black crows across the backs. She’d brought a few in her suitcase when she left Frank’s; she’d packed anything with long sleeves. She checked the sleeves of the jacket now. They were slightly loose, sliding up and down her arm freely. She whipped it off and pulled on a mesh long-sleeved shirt underneath, then retied the jacket. She was grateful the spring had not yet turned warm.

Audrey was lounging on the sofa, with her new boyfriend Marshall rubbing her feet, when Cleo entered the living room. Marshall was tall and chestnut-haired, with a square, symmetrical face. He had what Cleo had once heard referred to as “understudy good looks,” a generic handsomeness that lacked any discernible flaw or character.

“Wow, you look great,” said Audrey.

“I think your neighbor was looking at me naked,” Cleo said. She perched on the sofa arm to braid her hair.

“Pervert,” said Audrey. “I caught him watching us having sex the other day.”

“Babe, that’s because you refused to close your curtains,” Marshall said.

“Well, I prefer the way I look in natural light, my sweet.”

“All I’m saying, gorgeous, is that it wasn’t very private.”

Cleo smiled inwardly at this exchange. The more petulant they grew with one another, the more saccharine their nicknames became. This, along with Marshall’s gift for offering the most basic psychological insight possible into any situation (“Relationships are complicated,” “People are full of surprises”), was a reliable source of amusement for her.

“That’s the crazy thing about New York,” said Audrey. “Not even your bedroom is private. All the world’s a stage, I guess.”

“And the men and women merely overcharged renters,” said Cleo.

“New York is so overpriced,” said Marshall.

Audrey stroked Marshall’s cheek affectionately with her big toe. They’d met at Santiago’s first restaurant, where she was still a hostess and Marshall had until recently been a server. Now Marshall made his living cheerfully harassing tourists into buying tickets to comedy clubs on MacDougal Street, where he also occasionally performed with his improv group. Cleo was spared having to attend these performances by Audrey, who didn’t believe in theater where, as she put it, “no one has bothered to learn their lines.” Marshall was Audrey’s first boyfriend, the first man Cleo had ever known her to sleep with more than once, in fact.

“Anyway,” said Audrey. “I should start getting ready too. You look so good, Cleo. I wanna wear something like that.”

“Really?” said Cleo. “I have some more if you want to take a look in the pile by my suitcase.”

Audrey sprung up and disappeared into the bedroom.

“Perks of having Cleo as a roommate!” she sang.

“Just houseguest!” called Cleo. “I promise I’ll be off your sofa soon.”

“Don’t worry,” Marshall said. “We love having you here.”

Cleo raised one eyebrow. We? As far as she knew, Marshall lived in a loft in Red Hook with six other out-of-work actors. Audrey appeared from the bedroom wearing one of the jackets over a dress so short it ended up looking like a very tiny bathrobe.