Cleopatra and Frankenstein(26)

“For a visa,” said Frank. “You know that, Zo.”

He shouldn’t blame Cleo, really, for trying to bond with Zoe, but it bothered him always having to be the bad guy. Plus, he was sick of “man” being used as a synonym for “asshole.” To his gratification, he saw Cleo’s eyes snap up with surprise.

“That’s not fair,” she said softly.

“But you,” he said, turning to Zoe. “My ungrateful little parasite. I just want you to take care of yourself.”

“I know,” Zoe said, patting him on the cheek. “Now stop making me move, you heard the male nurse.”

“You can just call him a nurse,” said Cleo.

Frank smiled in spite of himself; he knew Cleo wouldn’t let that one pass. They fell back into silence, the incessant beep of the monitor keeping time.

“Okay, no drinks,” said Zoe eventually. “Movie? It’s too hot to be outside anyway. There was something on at IFC I wanted to see.”

“God, I haven’t been there since …,” said Frank. “You remember, Cley?”

“I remember,” said Cleo.

“What?” said Zoe.

“I guess it would have been our first official date,” Cleo said. She was looking at Zoe, but she was speaking to him. “Not that we ever really dated in the traditional sense.”

“We mostly just fucked,” said Frank.

“Gross,” said Zoe.

“But accurate,” said Cleo, giving Frank the smallest corner of her smile. “We went to see a film by that Norwegian director. What’s his name? Always very depressing?”

“I know the one,” said Zoe. “The Norwegians are so dark.”

“What about Bergman?” said Frank.

“Swedish,” said Cleo and Zoe in unison.

“Anyway, Bergman’s depressing too,” said Zoe. “You know the divorce rate in Sweden doubled after Scenes from a Marriage came out?”

This fact hung in the air for a beat.

“Anyway,” said Frank, steering the conversation away from divorce and back to the memory he wanted Cleo to have, “it was in the middle of that massive snowstorm.”

It was the last storm of the winter, midway through March, which heaped five feet of snow onto the city and swathed it in a silence Frank had never before witnessed. There was something miraculous about meeting each other at the empty cinema, which was improbably still open, the two of them sitting alone in the dark, the smell of damp wool and melted butter curling around them. Afterward, they’d walked blindly through swirling white streets, the occasional headlamps of a car crawling past illuminating their path. There were no cabs, so they’d ducked into an Italian bakery on Bleecker Street that was still open. Cleo ordered a Venetian-style hot chocolate that was thicker than syrup and burned the skin off the roof of her mouth.

“We went to this bakery,” said Cleo. “And immediately started arguing.”

“I think you mean passionately discussing the movie’s cinematic merits,” said Frank.

“I thought the lead actress was terrible,” said Zoe.

“Well, our impassioned discussion was about the father’s choice to feed himself first when he had risked his life to get the family a meal during the war,” said Frank.

“Frank was actually defending him,” said Cleo.

“You said,” Frank said, holding Cleo’s eyes, “that I empathized with the father because I’ve always put my own needs first.”

Cleo was the first woman who could actually turn him on by criticizing him. She was smart about it, insightful in a way that made him feel defenseless but seen, really considered, for the first time in his life.

“That’s kind of harsh,” said Zoe.

“This was before she knew everything I do for you,” he said.

“He stood up, grabbed my hot chocolate, and walked out of the bakery,” said Cleo. “He even left his jacket. I thought he was storming out in a rage, but when I looked up, he was standing outside, holding my cup out to catch the snow.”

“Why?” asked Zoe, stifling a yawn.

“To cool it down,” said Cleo.

“To make her laugh,” said Frank.

It felt almost impossible to imagine the severity of the cold now during the heat of August, the same way it’s impossible to think of being hungry when one is full. Frank tried to remember the shallow clouds of smoke his breath made and the feel of heavy snowflakes sinking through the thin skin of his shirt. What he could recall with absolute clarity was the way Cleo had looked sitting in the window, her lovely shining face and honey hair. Everything about her was golden then, the stack of gold rings she was always leaving by his sink, the first surprise of her light, silky pubic hair. She even smelled like honey, some cream she was always lathering herself with, complaining that her skin was too sensitive for the harsh New York winters.

“Can we talk about me again now?” asked Zoe.

But Frank was looking at Cleo. She held his stare. She smiled, and he was forgiven for last night. She was sensitive, he knew that, but she was tough too. He’d yelled to her from the street outside, but she hadn’t heard. Happy? That was what he’d been calling through the window, through the swirling snow. Have I made you happy now?