Cleopatra and Frankenstein(98)

Her plan had been to ply Frank with drinks over dinner, then do her best puppy-dog plea for money, but he’d thrown her by suggesting breakfast at Santiago’s new restaurant instead. Even as she’d agreed to the plan several days earlier, she knew she would be late. But really, what did he expect? It was before noon on a Saturday, after all.

She wove her way through the already full tables, looking around the restaurant appreciatively. The place was modern American with a traditional Peruvian twist, and this meeting of old and new culinary styles was reflected by sleek stainless-steel furniture juxtaposed with colorful Andean textiles. Overall the space felt fresh, open, and relaxed—the exact opposite, incidentally, of how Zoe felt.

Frank had cut his hair since the last time she saw him, the cloud of dark curls usually surrounding his face sheared to only a few coils on top. It left his head looking strangely exposed, she thought, like a newborn. He stood up to give her a hug, then pulled away, clutching at his chest.

“What’s wrong?” asked Zoe.

“Nothing.” Frank waved her off. “A little burn.”

“Heartburn? You’re turning into Mom.”

“Not heartburn. I … Well …” He paused, then exhaled loudly. “Fuck it. I was trying to dye some gray hairs there, but the stuff I bought was too strong, and it burned half my skin off.”

In deference to Frank’s embarrassment, Zoe swallowed the laughter that was rising in her throat.

“Let me see,” she said, pulling the shirt aside to reveal what did appear to be an angry red burn covering his chest. “It’s doesn’t look too bad,” she lied.

They sat down and eyed each other across the table in silence.

“So, you got a breakup haircut,” said Zoe.

“That’s not a thing,” said Frank. “Men don’t do that.”

Zoe wanted to interject that men didn’t usually dye their chest hair either, but she resisted.

“It was just getting too long,” he said. “Anyway, what do you think?”

He took off his glasses and mussed the top. She thought he looked like a gay soccer player, but the sight of his pale scalp peeking from beneath the stubble, his naked squinting eyes, made her ache.

“It’s cool,” she said. “Makes you look younger.”

She was happy to see him smile as she grabbed the cup of ice water from the table and pressed it to her forehead. Frank looked at her over his glasses and slid his Bloody Mary toward her.

“You’re hungover.”

“Only a little.” She took a long sip.

“What did you do last night?”

Last night. She’d gone out with the aforementioned friends from Tisch, promising herself she wouldn’t drink, but once she was there, it had seemed pointless not to have one glass of wine, and in fact if they split a bottle it worked out to only a little more, and then there was a movie producer she’d met once at an after-party who was offering to get her a drink, get everyone drinks, and it had seemed a good idea to have a bump in the bathroom, just one so she’d drink less, and then she’d heard there was a warehouse party in Brooklyn, and all right, she’d got in the cab, but just to see it, not to stay for long, and wow the drinks were so much cheaper than in Manhattan basically free did she have cash she got two got three and where were her friends they’d gone never mind there was the producer he was dancing and sweating and yelling something over the music she couldn’t hear it sounded like I’MSOLONELYI’MSOLONELY and he wasn’t bad looking really just a bit old and he was staying at a hotel and he had another gram back at the room he called them a car and black space she was yelling about diversity in Hollywood or something, she was angry and black space rolling on the bed laughing, saying don’t get it in my hair black space naked on the bathroom floor trying to get clean something wet get up get a towel blackspaceblackspaceblackspaceblackspace.

“Drinks with friends,” said Zoe, shaking her head to clear the thoughts. “Anyway, you’re hungover too. I can tell.”

“I’ve earned the right,” said Frank.

“How convenient for you.”

A blond server who didn’t look much older than Zoe bounded over to their table, clutching his notepad. She gave him a little wink. To her satisfaction, he blushed to the tips of his ears.

“We’ll have the huevos,” said Frank, handing him the menus before he could open his mouth. “And another Bloody Mary. I’ll have a beer on the side too.”

“Me too,” said Zoe.

“Um, which kind?” he asked, ferociously scribbling away.

“Corona,” they said in unison.

He laughed. “You guys been dating a long time?”

“She’s my sister,” said Frank.

A profusion of embarrassed apologies followed while Zoe assured him that it happened all the time, which was true. No one would guess they were related by sight. Their mother might not have made her offspring in her image, but she had stamped them with her nature, a fact they both deeply resented. Quick to love, quick to anger, quick to self-destruct. The server brought their drinks and retreated, still bowing with contrition.

“How’s the internship going?” asked Frank.

“Amazing. I’m working really hard.”

Zoe was getting class credit interning at an experimental theater company in Dumbo. She was meant to be gaining hands-on experience in the Brooklyn fringe theater movement, but mostly she had been learning how to live on the minimum amount of sleep possible and still get to work and school on time. She took a gulp of Bloody Mary and chased it with the beer. She was trying to decide when to bring up her recent credit card bill when a current of nausea ran through her.