Cleopatra and Frankenstein(2)

He smiled back. Like most people, he noticed her hair first. It hung over her shoulder in two golden curtains, sweeping open to reveal that much-anticipated first act: her face. And it was a performance, her face. He felt instinctively that he could watch it for hours. She’d drawn thick black wings over her eyelids, 1960s style, finishing each flick with a tiny gold star. Her cheeks were dusted with something shimmering and gold too; it sparkled like champagne in the light. A heavy sheepskin coat encased her, paired with the pink kid gloves he’d noticed earlier and a white woolen beret. On her feet were embroidered cream cowboy boots. Everything about her was deliberate. Frank, who had spent much of his life surrounded by beautiful people, had never met anyone who looked like her.

Embarrassed by the directness of his stare, Cleo turned to examine a shelf filled, inopportunely, with cans of cat food. She was wearing too much makeup, she worried, and looked clownish in the light.

“My brother,” said Frank to the man behind the counter. “Happy New Year.”

The man looked up from his newspaper, where he was reading about more government-sanctioned tortures in his country. He wondered what made this white man think they were brothers, then smiled.

“And to you,” he said.

“Where’s the ice?”

“No ice.” He shrugged.

“What kind of deli doesn’t sell ice?”

“This one,” said the man.

Frank lifted his hands in surrender.

“Okay, no ice.” He turned to Cleo. “You want your smokes?”

Cleo had been scanning the cigarette prices on the shelf. She pulled out her wallet, which, Frank noted, was not really a wallet at all but a velvet pouch stuffed with papers and wrappers. Her long fingers haltingly picked through its contents.

“You know what?” she said. “I have a few rolling papers in here. I’ll just get a bag of tobacco. A small one. How much is that?”

Frank watched the man’s whole posture relax forward as she addressed him. It was like watching the front of an ice glacier dissolve into the sea; he melted.

“Beautiful girl,” he murmured. “How much you want to pay?”

A red blush was rising up her neck to her chin.

“Let me get this,” said Frank, slapping down his credit card. “And—” He picked up a bar of milk chocolate. “This too. In case you get hungry.”

Cleo gave him a grateful look, but she did not hesitate.

“Pack of Capris please,” she said. “The magenta ones.”

Back outside, Cleo scanned up and down the street.

“You’ll never get a cab tonight,” Frank said. “Where do you live?”

“East Village,” she said. “Near Tompkins Square Park. But I’ll just walk, it’s not too far.”

“I’ll walk with you,” he said.

“No, you mustn’t,” she protested. “It’s too far.”

“I thought it wasn’t far?”

“You’ll miss the countdown.”

“Fuck the countdown,” said Frank.

“And the ice?”

“You’re right. The ice is important.”

Cleo’s face fell. Frank laughed. He began marching north, so she had no choice but to follow him. He looked over to find her trotting along beside him and slowed down.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Are you? Would you like my chapeau?”

“Your what?”

“My hat. He’s a beret, so I usually speak to him in French.”

“You speak French?”

“Only a little. I can say, like, ‘Chocolat chaud avec chantilly’ and ‘C’est cool mais c’est fou.’”

“What does that mean?”

“‘Hot chocolate with whipped cream’ and ‘It’s cool but it’s crazy.’ Both surprisingly useful phrases. So, do you want him?”

“I don’t think I was built to pull off a beret.”

“Nonsense,” said Cleo. “The world is your chapeau.”

“You know what?” Frank plucked the hat from Cleo’s head and pulled it gamely over his own. “You’re right.”

“Magnifique,” she said. “Allez!”

They walked east toward Chinatown. A group of women all wearing silver top hats and novelty 2007 sunglasses wobbled past them. One blew a party horn by Frank’s head, and the group exploded into whoops of delight. He pulled the beret back off his head.

“Would it be unfestive of me to say I hate New Year’s?” he asked.

Cleo shrugged. “I usually only celebrate Lunar New Year.”

Frank waited, but she didn’t elaborate.

“So, what was the best part of last year for you?” he asked.

“Just one thing?”

“It can be anything.”

“Gosh, let me think. Well, I switched to an antidepressant that actually allows me to achieve orgasm again. That felt like a win.”

“Wow. Okay. I was not expecting that. That’s great news.”

“Both clitoral and penetrative.” Cleo gave him two thumbs. “What about you? What was your favorite thing that happened last year?”