An Anonymous Girl(17)
And all of my answers.
What does this flawless-looking woman think about my messy life?
My cheeks grow warm as I remember casually describing lap dances and G-strings at a bachelor party when I answered the question about what I’d do if I saw a friend’s fiancé kiss another woman. My grammar wasn’t always perfect when I wrote my answers, and I didn’t phrase things carefully.
Yet she was kind to me. She pushed me to reveal things I never talk about, and she comforted me.
She wasn’t repelled by anything I confessed; she invited me back. She wants to meet me, I remind myself.
I zoom in on the photograph, noticing for the first time that Dr. Shields is smiling slightly as she holds the microphone to her lips.
I’m still a l ittle nervous about Wednesday’s appointment, but for dif-ferent reasons now. I guess I don’t want to disappoint her when we meet.
I start to close my laptop. Then I move my mouse back to click on the news link of my Google search. I grab my phone and begin typing notes. I write down her office address, which matches the location where she suggested we meet on Wednesday; the title of a book she wrote and her alma mater, Yale University.
I can’t let the fact that Dr. Shields is a woman change my original plan. She is paying me an awful lot of money and I still have no idea why, or what for.
And sometimes the people who seem the most accomplished and to-gether are the ones who can hurt you the deepest.
Monday, November 26
Her photos didn’t lie, which is fitting, given her research study rules about telling the truth.
It was easy to find Dr. Shields’s NYU class schedule online; it was one of the first things that popped up in my search. She teaches a single seminar a week, on Mondays from five to seven p.m. Her classroom is just down the hallway from Room 214. It’s so different here today, with the hallways filled with noise and activity.
Dr. Shields adjusts her taupe wrap around her shoulders, untucking her glossy hair from beneath the folds as she walks down the corridor. I’m in a baseball cap and jeans, like a lot of the students milling around.
I hold my breath as she draws closer. I’ve positioned myself behind two girls chatting animatedly, but Dr. Shields is about to stride past them. Right before she does, I duck into a bathroom.
I poke my head out a few seconds later. She is continuing down the hallway toward the stairwell.
I let her get a dozen steps ahead of me, then I trail her out the door. I catch the faintest scent of something clean and spicy.
It’s impossible to take my eyes off her.
It’s as if she is gliding through the streets in a protective bubble, where the elements can’t tousle her hair or snag her stockings or scuff her heels. A few men turn around to get a second look at her, and a UPS guy steering a heavy-looking cart twists it out of her path. The sidewalk is crowded with commuters and shoppers, but she never needs to slow her pace.
She turns onto Prince Street and proceeds past a row of designer boutiques that sell three-hundred-dollar cashmere hoodies and cosmetics in cases that look like jewels.
She doesn’t glance in any of the windows. Unlike the people around her, she isn’t on a cell phone or listening to music or distracted by her surroundings.
She continues to a little French restaurant farther down the block, then pulls open the door and disappears inside.
I stand there, unsure of what to do.
I want to get another glimpse of her, since I only saw her face fleet-ingly. But it would be too weird to wait outside the whole time she eats dinner.
I’m about to leave when I see the ma?tre d’ has led her to a seat by the window. She is only a dozen feet away from me. If she turns her head slightly and looks up, our eyes will meet.
I quickly shift to my left, pretending to read the menu displayed behind glass to one side of the entrance.
I can still see her out of the corner of my eye.
The waiter approaches Dr. Shields and hands her a menu. I glance back at the one in front of me. If I could afford this kind of place, I’d choose the filet mignon with bearnaise sauce and frites. But I bet Dr. Shields orders the broiled swordfish au Nicoise.
She chats briefly with the waiter, then hands him her menu. Her skin is so pale that in the candlelight her profile appears celestial. I’m reminded of the gorgeous items in the procession of storefront windows we passed earlier. It seems right that she should also be displayed here for others to admire.
It’s growing darker outside now, and my fingertips are beginning to feel numb, but I’m not ready to go just yet.
She has asked me all these questions, but now I am the one brimming with queries for her. The most pressing one: Why do you care so much about the choices people like me make?
The waiter returns with a glass of wine. Dr. Shields takes a sip and I notice the burgundy color is almost a perfect match for the nail polish that adorns her long, tapered fingers.
She smiles and nods at the waiter, but after he leaves, she touches a fingertip to the corner of her eye. She could have an itch, or be brushing away a tiny fiber from her wrap. It is also the gesture someone makes to wipe away a tear.
She lifts her wineglass again, this time taking a much deeper drink.
I definitely saw a wedding band in the photo when she was holding a microphone. But her left hand is tucked in her lap and I can’t tell if she’s still wearing a ring.
I’d intended to stick around to see if I’d guessed right about what Dr. Shields ordered. But now I put in my earbuds and begin to walk east, toward my apartment.