The Queen of Hearts(47)
There was some truth to this, so I let it slide. We were insanely sexually compatible, to the point where it was hard to be productive at work while constantly fighting the urge to rip each other’s clothes off and go at it right there in the surgeons’ lounge, or on the operating room table, or wherever. How often in life did you meet someone whose presence caused you to blaze into an immediate erotic meltdown every single time you saw them? Every glance between us was charged; every utterance, every physical contact, no matter how slight, seemed to rearrange the very molecules of the air around us into incandescent conductors of longing. No wonder people used heat metaphors to describe passion.
However. We were adults, and in general, adults who considered themselves to be intelligent, decent human beings often had standards for ongoing relationships that involved more than enthusiastically screwing each other’s brains out. We stared at each other politely over a meal of green chili wontons and salads from the Bristol restaurant down the street.
“Are you upset about what happened with the pregnant lady?” X asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t want to think about it. Besides, I’m pretty familiar with Dr. X, genius surgeon. Let’s discuss something non-work-related.”
“Please,” said X. “Say Nick.”
“Nick,” I tried. It sounded really strange. “I wish I knew more about your life outside medicine.”
“Uh-oh. Here we go,” said Nick. “Next you’ll be wanting to know what I’m thinking and feeling.”
“It’s a slippery slope,” I agreed.
“Okay. I’m from Maryland, went to med school there, then landed here because my aunt lives here and I’d heard how great the surgery program is. I’ve always wanted to be a surgeon—my dad’s a surgeon—and I have two brothers who are my best friends. What else? I love poetry, moonlight, and long walks on the beach.”
“That started off well,” I said encouragingly. “I feel like I know you so much better now.”
He laughed. “Honestly, Zadie, it was definitely not my plan to seduce a twenty-four-year-old medical student, beautiful though you are. But do you know why I can’t stay away from you?”
“Yep,” I said, guiltily flushing with pleasure at being described as beautiful.
“No, you don’t,” he said. “It’s not the sex, even though that’s fucking unbelievable. It’s that I love the quirky way you think. You are never boring.”
“Oh my God,” I said, dropping my fork in delight. “Jackpot!”
“What?” he asked.
“You just said—sincerely—that you love me for my mind. That completely legitimizes all the hot sex!”
For a second he just looked at me. Then he lost the battle and lunged up, and in one fluid motion he knocked his chair back and lifted me out of mine. I flung myself into him. He kissed me, hoisting me up so that my legs wrapped around his waist. Then somehow we were rolling on the ground where we’d been standing, tearing off our clothes. I was reeling from a familiar wave as an exquisite storm of dopamine flooded my brain. So good, so good, so good . . . This feeling was why people got addicted to heroin, why people risked everything for affairs, why people jumped from airplanes . . . this rush of being as completely alive as it is possible to be, a honey-thick ecstasy coursing through your veins. I gasped as I felt him wrench my legs apart, his mouth still on mine. His jaw was recognizably male in shape just by feeling it against my cheek, with its flawless right angle and its golden sandpapery roughness. I felt nearly liquid, a butter girl left in the sun.
He closed his eyes, lost in whatever ecstatic grip had command of him; but then he paused for an interminable second, still except for a slight heaving of his chest. He lifted his face so he could see mine and said hoarsely, “I think I love you, Zadie.”
“I think I love you too,” I whispered.
—
Later, after we replaced our clothes and ate the cold wontons and drank the wine, we wrapped up in an ugly camel-colored fuzzy blanket and entwined ourselves on Nick’s fat sofa, drowsing in the extinguishing light of Santa and Ray Lewis.
“I think we did pretty well tonight on the date, Z,” Nick said. “We made it at least five minutes before we knocked boots.”
I sniffed. “I know there’s a lot of satisfied machismo going on here, but could you phrase that more delicately?”
“Sorry, my little dumpling,” he said. “We held off as long as possible before we became intimate.”
“Thank you. That’s much sweeter.”
Nick blinked and sat up. “Oh hell, I never gave you the present,” he said. “Want me to go get it?”
“No worries,” I assured him. “You don’t need to get up. I already know what it is.”
“No, you don’t,” he protested, arching his back to see if the flat box still appeared to be fully wrapped.
“I hate to break this to you, Rico Suave,” I said, “but based on the rest of your setup in here, I’d say it is one hundred percent obvious that that box contains naughty lingerie.”
“Huh,” he mumbled. Then, hopefully: “Well, maybe you can wear it tomorrow?”
“I’d love to,” I said happily, burying my face in his chest.