Yolk(84)

A thin, smartly dressed woman with a blunt bob greets me at the hostess stand. Her face is a pearl, set against the strong shoulders of her vintage red dress. The lights from the construction outside pulse against the drawn venetian blinds, casting angled shadows across her face and the room. She reminds me of a replicant, but I feel more like the cyborg as I tell her I’m looking for friends, scanning the bar area before I spot him.

He’s sitting, clear across the room, tucked behind a beam at a leather-covered banquette in a corner. I wouldn’t have seen him had it not been for the mirrors hanging high on the wall. I’m horrified that he’s seated in such a snug spot. I can’t tell who with. Whoever it is, the shoulders are draped in a dark blazer topped by a leonine head of fair hair. Other than kids dining with their parents, I’m the youngest by a decade.

There are people on dates bustling behind me as the trim, attractive waitstaff in black and white negotiate their way through with hot plates and limitless patience. I’m desperate to leave, and had the hostess not been quite so coolly beautiful, I might have hidden my face, ducked, and hustled out with a mumbled apology. But instead I smile breezily, matching her sangfroid with my own, and make my way over.

I can at least say hi.

The older gentleman with Jeremy turns with his napkin pressed against his face, a flash of irritation disappearing so quickly that I must have imagined it. I reach down for my coat zipper and do it up a bit. There are full dinner plates in front of them, and I’m horrified that I’m interrupting a meal, hanging over them in this awful way. I helplessly gather my jacket around me, so I don’t disturb the couple next to them, who are now watching me as well.

“You can slide in with Jeremy,” says the man, calling someone over. “Let’s get that coat checked.” He eyes my enormous bomber. I do as I’m told, reluctantly baring my arms.

I’m basically naked, gritting my teeth so as not to shiver. I feel eyes on me and then realize it has nothing to do with my scant clothes and everything to do with this incredibly famous actor who even my parents would recognize.

“Hey, you,” says Jeremy, pressing his warm cheek to my cold one. I don’t know where to put my hands, pressed up against him like this, and when he slings his arm over the back of the banquette and around my neck, I don’t protest. Sandalwood cologne wafts over me and fills the sides of my mouth in warning saliva.

The actor watches us, never breaking eye contact or even blinking. He smiles, seeming on the verge of speech, but a calculation is taking place. I am being appraised. His eyes are a watery cerulean but beady. Set against puckered lips and florid, chubby cheeks, with his glinting cuff links and enormous watch, it dawns on me that I’m talking to a royal class of piglet.

Anybody really can be made to look like anyone.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, gesturing to his plate, and when I nod, he nods as well. “I didn’t know we’d be having company. I’d have insisted on another table.”

“I’m sorry,” I falter. “I thought I was meeting y’all for drinks.” I glance at Jeremy, who refuses my eye. I get it. Every man for himself. This is an entirely new stratosphere of ambition for him. An establishment that outpaces all the cool downtown art kids.

The actor saws into his fish. “Well, then, let’s get you a drink.” He chews and raises his brows at Jeremy, who springs into action and orders.

I’m gratified at seeing Jeremy like this. So utterly dominated.

“Thank you.” I direct it to him, not Jeremy. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of interrupting your dinner.”

He glances at me just once. He’s done discussing it.

I clear my throat.

“You know, this place used to be crawling with celebrities back in the eighties,” he tells me. I have to lean in to hear him. I hold the neckline of my dress against my clavicle with my cold palm. “Marty, Bobby, Keith Haring, Grace Jones. John Belushi used to march straight into the kitchen, into the walk-ins, and make whatever he wanted. Tribeca was obviously different back then. So much cocaine.”

Jeremy laughs at the cocaine reference. A quick snort that makes the actor stop chewing and shoot a questioning look. As if to ask what’s the matter with him.

I’m surprised that Jeremy isn’t bothering to show him up. I wonder who this man is to him.

At no point does the man introduce himself or ask my name.

“I gather you’re from the South,” he says. I’m astounded.

“Texas,” I report dutifully.

He nods as if there’s a correct answer. “You said y’all earlier. What do you do for”—he conducts the air briefly with his knife and fork as if looking for a word—“work?” he finishes.

“I’m in school.” Our drinks arrive in low glasses. “For fashion.”

“But surely you can see that by how fashionably she’s attired,” says Jeremy. My face burns. I uncross my legs. Under the table, I finger the hem of my short dress. The actor smiles politely.

He raises his glass, so I raise mine and take a big sip. I could take it down in four healthy gulps and run out.

“How do you like your old-fashioned?” he asks with a crooked smile teasing at his lips. It’s famous, this particular smile of his. It crinkles his eyes, as if he’s finding humor in something just outside of your perception.