The Lies That Bind(3)

    “Is that your way of asking my name?” he says with a smile, now resting his forearms on the bar.

I try not to smile back, and shake my head. “Not at all,” I say. “I was just stating a fact. I actually don’t want to know your name.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t want to know your name, either.”

“Swell,” I say, sliding off my stool, noticing my cardigan on the floor. I pick it up, put it on, then slowly button it, stalling. Now it’s my turn to feel self-conscious, but I mask it by extending my arm and making my expression prim. “So thank you again,” I say. “For the drinks and the company. Goodbye. Whatever your name is.”

“Yep. Goodbye,” he says, shaking my hand, his grip tight and warm. “Whatever your name is.”

I start to let go, but he holds on, pulling me toward him until my side is touching his knee, my hand still in his. I feel something funny in my stomach—something I haven’t felt in a very long time. For a second, I think it’s butterflies. I think it’s him.

But as the overhead lights brighten over the bar, and the jukebox grinds to a halt, and he drops my hand, I decide that such a thing isn’t possible. That it must just be the Goldschl?ger.



* * *



—

A few minutes later, after we’ve both gone to the restroom, and I’ve confirmed that I look like shit but remind myself that it doesn’t matter in the slightest, we are standing outside the bar. The temperature has dropped, but the air is so still that I don’t feel cold. The liquor helps, too. He announces that he’s going to the subway, and asks how I’m getting home. I tell him I’m taking a cab, and he says he’ll stay with me until we find one. Meanwhile, we start walking up the avenue, one block passing after another, both of us pretending not to see on-duty taxis drift by. Eventually we reach the steps of my building.

“This is it. Where I live,” I say, turning to face him. He’s much taller than I am, so I climb a stair, then another, looking into his eyes.

    “All right, then,” he says, leaning against the railing. “Good night for real this time.”

“Yep. Good night for real,” I say.

But neither of us moves, and after a long pause, he says, “Maybe I do want to know your name, after all?”

“Are you sure?” I say with my best poker face. “That’s a pretty major step.”

“You’re right,” he says, playing along. “Way too forward. My bad.”

Several seconds pass before I fold first.

“Sooo…Maybe you should just come in with me instead?” I am shocked to hear myself say. It’s not like me to be so spontaneous, downright foolish. He could be a serial killer for all I know. Didn’t they say Ted Bundy was good-looking? But for some inexplicable reason, it feels right.

He hesitates, and for a second I think he’s about to decline my offer—which is probably for the best. Instead he says, “Are you inviting me in?”

“Yes,” I say, trusting myself—and him. “I am.”

“I accept,” he says with a formal little nod.

I nod back, then turn and lead him up the stairs, through my front door and lobby, and over to the elevator, figuring I would be okay getting stuck inside with him. As we ride the elevator, we don’t speak. Our silence continues as I unlock my door and we enter my dark apartment, passing by the unblinking red eye of my answering machine. I know I should lead him over to my sofa, offer him a drink, make conversation. But I’m suddenly exhausted, and all I want to do is get into my bed. With him. So I walk there instead, taking off my shoes and cardigan before peeling back the covers. I don’t look at him, but can feel him watching me.

“Are you coming to bed?” I say. “It’s so late.”

    “Yes,” he whispers, then undresses down to his boxers and T-shirt. He climbs into bed beside me.

Several silent minutes pass before our bodies and breath come together in the darkness. My eyes closed, I wait for him to kiss me or make some kind of a move. Do the things that people do when they go from a bar to a bed together. But we don’t do any of that. We just drift to sleep, my cheek on his chest, his arm around me, as if we’ve known each other forever.





As the morning light works its way through the slats of my vertical blinds, I awaken. It takes me a few seconds to remember him. I hold my breath before slowly rolling over, wondering if he’s gone, half hoping that he is, if only to avoid the awkward morning-after routine.

Yet when I see him, still sleeping, with the covers pulled up to his chin, I’m overwhelmed with relief. There’s something so peaceful about his face—the way his lips are barely parted and his bangs fall across his forehead. He has good hair—the silky, shiny kind that I’ve always considered something of a waste on a guy. As I contemplate reaching out to touch it, his eyelids flutter open. He looks at me and smiles, his face lighting up. I smile back at him, nervous but excited.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice gravelly, sounding like a man who was drinking in a bar just a few hours before. He reaches up and runs his hand through his hair as if to straighten it, but ends up making it messier.

“Good morning,” I say, my heart racing.