Cleopatra and Frankenstein(5)

“So now I am paying? See, that’s where I call bullshit. You want it both ways. You want to be so principled and above it all, but as soon as that becomes inconvenient for you, you’re fine with a man picking up the bill.”

“Are you kidding me? Maybe I’m broke because of, I don’t know, the gender pay gap, or years of systemic sexism limiting my job opportunities, or the fact I had to quit my last job as a nanny because the dad wouldn’t stop hitting on me, or—”

Now it was Frank’s turn to hop.

“That’s not why you’re broke! You’re broke because you’re twenty-four and an artist who works part-time! You can’t blame all your problems on being a woman!”

Cleo put her face close to Frank’s and spoke so quietly her words were just above a breath. He had the insane hope she was about to kiss him.

“Yes, I can,” she said.

Frank turned and walked into the pizza shop. “You’re cool,” he said over his shoulder. “But you’re crazy.”

“Sounds better in French!” she shouted back.

Cleo lit another cigarette and stamped her feet against the sidewalk like a restless racehorse. She thought about leaving just to spite him, but she knew she would regret it instantly. There was nothing to do but stand and smoke. Frank ordered two slices of pizza, anxiously checking over his shoulder to make sure she was still outside. He’d already decided that if she left, he’d run after her and apologize. But the back of her blond head was still in view, surrounded now by a cloud of smoke.

Back outside, he handed her a slice. An amber stream of oil ran across the flimsy paper plate.

“Here,” he said. “To make up for the years of systemic sexism.”

“Wanker,” said Cleo and took a bite.

“You’re in America now,” Frank said. “Here, I’m just an asshole.”

They walked with their slices up Elizabeth Street. Ahead of them a couple stood outside a bar in a pool of lamplight, performing a timeless two-person drama. The woman was clutching her heels to her chest and crying in long, high wails while her boyfriend shook her shoulders, repeating, “Tiffany listen, listen Tiffany, Tiffany listen …”

“I hate to say this,” whispered Frank as they passed. “But I don’t think Tiffany’s listening.”

Cleo turned back to look at them. “You think they’re all right?”

“They’ll be fine. New Year’s Eve is prime fighting night for couples. It’s like fireworks and fights. The two staples of a good New Year’s.”

“Did we just have our first fight?” Cleo asked.

Frank handed her a napkin. “I don’t know,” he said. “You did keep your shoes on.”

Cleo chuckled. “Would take a lot more than that to get me out of my cowboy boots.” She screwed up her napkin and flicked it expertly into a trash can on the corner. “Fighting can be a good thing, anyway. Look at Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. They got divorced, got back together, split up again …”

“But did you ever think that they created their art in spite of the fighting, not because of it?”

“Who cares?” said Cleo between mouthfuls of dough. “Point is, they made it.”

Frank nodded vaguely. He took her paper plate from her and folded it into a neat square with his own. He hoped they’d pass a place to recycle soon.

“I’m dying to go to their house in Mexico City,” said Cleo.

“It’s packed with lines of tourists,” said Frank. “And Do Not Touch signs on every surface.”

“Bummer.” Cleo looked disheartened.

“But it’s still worth seeing,” added Frank quickly. “There’s this framed collection of butterflies hanging above Kahlo’s bed that Patti Smith wrote a poem about when she visited it. And all her clothes, of course. She had amazing style, kind of like you.”

Cleo smiled happily at the compliment. “Those, I would love to see.”

“Let’s go next week,” said Frank. “The whole city’s full of art. It’s the perfect place for you.”

“Next week? Just like that?”

“Sure. Why not? I closed the office, and I’ve got thousands of air miles I need to use.”

“Okay.” She laughed. “I’m in.” She shook out her hair. “Mexico fucking City!”

Frank, who had been planning to work all next week in the empty office, had never been much of a spontaneous traveler—but he liked the idea that he could be. He had the means, just not the incentive. And here was Cleo with the opposite. They both turned to each other at the same time. He hesitated, then pulled her in for a hug. Her hair smelled like soap and almonds and cigarettes. His chest smelled of damp wool and an expensive cologne she recognized, tobacco sweetened with vanilla.

“And I’m not trying to buy you,” he added, releasing her. “I’d just like to see it with you.”

“I know,” she said. “I’d like to see it with you too.”

They crossed the Bowery and wandered through the East Village, where the merriment on the street took on a subtle edge of aggression. People shouted outside bars and fell in and out of doorways. More couples fought on more street corners. At the entrance of the park, a group of crust punks, dressed in shabby military gear and studded leather jackets, gently waved sparklers above their matted heads. A pit bull wearing a neckerchief with the anarchy symbol drawn on it glanced up from the pillow of his paws to watch the sparks fall in mute wonder.