The Intimacy Experiment (The Roommate #2)(34)

The only advice that came to mind was a scene from Miss Congeniality.

He let out a burst of semihysterical laughter.

If he survived the next fifteen minutes, it might very well be thanks to Sandra Bullock teaching the audience her S-I-N-G self-defense mechanism. Solar plexus. Instep. Nose. Groin.

This guy was a disaster. Not fit to breathe the same air as Naomi. But still, even as anger roiled in his gut, Ethan didn’t want to fight. What he wanted to do was recommend counseling and hand the man a pamphlet on drinking responsibly.

Ethan wasn’t even sure he was morally allowed to punch this guy. Rabbis were supposed to set an example for their congregations.

On the one hand, Moses had struck down an Egyptian he found beating a Hebrew slave in Exodus. But on the other, Proverbs 16:32. Slowness to anger is better than a mighty person, and the ruler of his spirit than the conqueror of a city.

Considering the relative level of injustice at hand, Ethan should probably try to settle this altercation without violence.

“Come on, dude. Throw ’em up,” his companion said before spitting on the sidewalk, presumably in some kind of display of machismo. “Let’s do this.” He seemed reluctant to throw the first punch. Though it seemed a safe bet that Lobster Shorts was not reviewing various religious resources to settle a philosophical debate on whether he could beat the crap out of Ethan.

“What if we didn’t?” Ethan said, using the kind of soft, gentle voice he practiced when comforting children. “This whole ritual of aggression is sort of barbaric, right? Surely a man with crustaceans on his clothing can see that?”

Lobster Shorts frowned in the general direction of his fly.

It was possible the phrase ritual of aggression had gone over his head.

“Look.” Ethan decided to try again. “You’re drunk and belligerent. I can’t say whether it’s because you don’t respect women in general, or if it’s because you think sex workers opt in to harassment by virtue of their profession. In either case, let me assure you that you’re very much mistaken. It would be easiest on both of us if you could acknowledge fault and take a cab home, where you will ideally reflect on your actions and consider methods of penance, but I do realize that’s reaching.”

“Reach for this, asswipe.” The guy cupped his own crotch in vulgar suggestion.

“Seriously?” Ethan shook his head. “How old are you? Even if we assume that you don’t regret your actions, which I must stress is extremely disappointing, is laying me out really worth assault charges?”

“What?” For the first time, frat guy lowered his fists. “Are you, like, gonna call the cops or something?”

At last, a translation that had found purchase.

“I imagine I might find it difficult to personally make the call if you remain intent on rearranging my face, but I have to assume that one of those nice people”—he waved at a cluster of rubbernecking diners on the patio across the street—“might do me a favor and alert the appropriate authorities, once they’ve gotten the show they came for, of course.”

Frat guy wiped his brow and grimaced at the onlookers before lowering his voice.

“I don’t really want this going on, like, my record or whatever. I’m applying for jobs right now.”

“Ah, I see.” Ethan smacked his head in an exaggerated pantomime of enlightenment. He figured adding illustrative hand gestures couldn’t hurt. “Once those recruiters see convicted felon on your résumé, they’re hardly going to be able to recommend you. Bet that cab’s sounding better and better, huh?”

With furrowed brows, frat guy seemed to be weighing the bodily demands of an abundance of testosterone versus his career aspirations. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Ethan could work with maybe. “She’s an incredible person, by the way, that woman in there.”

It might be a stretch to get this guy to recognize Naomi as a human being, but it was worth trying.

“Are you serious, man? That chick? There’s videos of her fucking all over the Internet. I don’t get why she’s acting all high and mighty about keeping covered up now.”

Ben Zoma was really testing Ethan at the moment. He groped for a metaphor to get this jerk to see that he’d actually done something wrong.

“Okay, let’s say you saw Bruce Willis on the street, would you ask him to walk over broken glass barefoot for your entertainment?”

“No . . .”

“Why not? He did it in Die Hard.”

“’Cause that would be insane,” Lobster Shorts said, crossing his arms petulantly.

“Right. Because what a performer chooses to do on film doesn’t commit them to a lifetime of reenactment on demand for strangers.”

Frat guy kicked his toe across the pavement. “I guess not.”

That was probably the closest Ethan was gonna get.

“I’m going back inside now. Don’t forget about the cab.”

“Hey, wait a second.”

He slowed his footsteps. Was this guy actually grateful to have been shown the error of his ways?

“Just tell me one thing. What’s her pussy taste like?”

Ethan dragged his fingers across his face and stared accusingly toward the heavens. Some men really were hopeless.

“Okay. So this is happening, I guess.” Ethan cocked his fist. Thumb on the outside. Weight on your back foot.