Not My Type

by Anna Zarlenga

‘I won’t let you go until you give me an answer,’ I tease, using the sensual tones that I usually reserve for my bar conquests. But I don’t mean to conquer her now, do I? All of a sudden the idea of ​​revenge on principle no longer seems like a great idea. I shouldn’t have brought her here, I’m getting confused. I don’t know what my plan is any more.

  ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she answers finally, rising lightly from her chair and moving towards me. Too close. Definitely too close.

  I shrink back, afraid. ‘What do you want? My body in exchange for your help?’

  She giggles, looking at me as if I were the greatest fool on the face of the Earth. ‘You just have a little icing sugar on your shirt. Keep still, I’ll get rid of it.’

  She wipes it off me with a light and delicate touch. I don’t know what to think any more; it’s an innocent gesture, but my body reacts as though it weren’t.

  ‘So… don’t you like me?’ I ask, in spite of myself. Why does my tongue keep acting without consulting my brain?

  ‘Nope. Is that a problem?’

  I fall silent, not knowing what to answer. Or in truth, because I know the answer all too well and I don’t like it one bit.

  ‘Honestly, yes. It’s a problem.’ I confess. ‘I’ve never been in this position before.’

  ‘You mean lying on a lounger? Teo, Teo… I know you’re the creative type, and you want me to believe you’ve never done it here, under the stars… with a bit of help from your guardian friend?

  I roll my eyes, exasperated by the childish joke.

  ‘I don’t mean that kind of position! I meant that I have never had to try so hard with a woman. Especially a woman who is objectively not up to my beauty standards.’

  ‘Well first of all, I’d say your courtship technique needs some work. If you want a woman you like to fall at your feet, try being nice to her!’

  I sit up, offended. ‘What can you have to teach me about courtship?’

  She sits up alongside me. ‘It seems to me that I showed you once – no, twice! – that I kiss better than you.’

  ‘That is absolutely not true! And anyway, I don’t like you, don’t flatter yourself.’

  Shit, what am I doing? Wasn’t I supposed to be winning her over? Why am I being an arsehole now?

  ‘Given that your performance was more.. than competent, I wouldn’t bet on it. You liked the kiss… sorry, kisses, just fine.’

  ‘I’m just a good actor,’ I reply. It’s useless. Caesar himself would have surrendered to this one.

  ‘Good for you,’ she concludes, stretching out again and folding her arms declaring the conversation over. I have an irrepressible rage. Oh no, my dear. I will have the last word this time.

  With a lightning-fast burst, I grab onto the side of her lounger, dragging it alongside mine with a sudden jerk. Perhaps too sudden, because the next thing I know, she has tumbled from her bed onto mine, and is glaring up at me with an expression somewhere between astonishment and fury. Apparently she never expected this move. She doesn’t try to move, and I feel her soft body under mine, painfully conscious of something that is treacherously hardening, despite my best efforts.

  ‘First point: I have never been here with anyone else and I’ve never done it under these stars,’ I murmur against the skin of her cheek.

  ‘Second point: You must know that I get excited in strange ways, for example when I make you angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry,’ she hisses, her eyes boring into mine. I glue my pelvis to hers so she can feel what I can no longer keep hidden.

  ‘Judging by my friend, you’re lying. The angrier you get, the more I get excited, so right now you are really, really angry.’

  Sara raises an eyebrow, exasperated.

  ‘How can you get excited if you don’t like me? It’s a contradiction.’

  ‘It is not. The world generally bores me, but when I find an interesting game to play, I do it until I win,’ I whisper, returning her gaze.

  ‘You can’t win with me. I have no interest in you.’

  ‘But you do like my kisses.’

  ‘Not even a bit.’

  ‘Quoting your words… “you liked the kisses just fine.” Your language says the opposite of what you think.’

  ‘And now what do you think it says?’ she retorts defiantly. And without waiting for my answer, her mouth covers mine, impudent and intrusive. Infuriating, just like her.

  With a wave of anger I close my lips, denying her access and pull away to make her stop, but she passes her hand behind my neck and insists, holding me firmly.

  Oh really? You want war?

  She opens her mouth but I don’t allow her to take the lead. I’m the one on top, right? I invade her first, stroking her cheek with my thumb as I open her thighs with my knee. I feel her start to tremble, and tighten my grip on her hips, enjoying the sweet and slightly vanilla flavoured taste of her lips. She doesn’t affect me, she has no effect on me.

  I won’t let myself go any further. The rounded shape of her hips adapts perfectly to my hands and I feel her muscles convulse and then relax, welcoming my weight, one hand moving over my buttocks. She arches her body towards me, allowing herself to be savoured without hesitation or restraint. In a corner of my mind I know this is ridiculous, but I just can’t seem to remember how much I don’t like her. Right now I just want to keep kissing her until she’s sorry for what she said.

  I open my mouth to explore her more deeply and with a groan she claws my shoulder, while my hand creeps under the hem of her trousers, uncovering her ankle and calf and touching skin as smooth as silk. With circular movements I draw a path from the ankle upwards, and then back down again. I feel like I’m losing control, but that’s not my goal. I don’t have to prove anything any more. I have to reformulate the plan and make sure I focus only on business.

  With a superhuman effort I rise and catch my breath, blinking my eyelids a couple of times and finally focusing on Sara, lying there with smudged lips and heaving chest.

  She seems lost, but the impression lasts only a few seconds, immediately replaced by her usual supercilious smirk.

  ‘What is it you always say? You can’t resist me.’

  I walk away, sitting on the edge of the lounger and running a hand through my hair.

  ‘Your kiss is no different from anyone else’s. Perhaps your tongue is more forked, but that’s not really my thing.’

  ‘Deny it as much as you want. You’re at a disadvantage right now,’ she replies triumphantly. I hate her so much!

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I narrow my eyes, ‘Unless I imagined your hands on my buttocks.’

  ‘I had to support myself.’

  ‘Support yourself? You’re lying on a lounger! Baby, I’m telling you… you caught fire.’

  ‘The only one who will catch fire tonight is you, and I will light the touch paper myself if you don’t take me home right now. This game is over. ‘

  ‘Not until you give me an answer. Are you up for it?’

  She opens her eyes wide. ‘Up for what?’

  I burst out laughing. ‘What is going on in that dirty mind? What we were talking about before: the format.’

  A blush colours her cheeks and neck.

  ‘I knew that.’

  ‘Of course. So, are we doing this?’

  ‘If I say yes, will you leave me alone afterwards?’

  ‘Cross my heart,’ I promise, raising my right hand.

  She shakes her head and sits down. And when she looks at me I realise that maybe I will have to start sending my CV around: this show will either be a fiasco or it will ruin me.

  ‘Fine. But I want to get paid. And above all, I want your solemn promise that we will never kiss again. Not as a game, not as a bet. We need to behave like adults.’

  ‘No kissing? No problem,’ I reply with conviction.

  I feel an emptiness in my stomach, but I ignore it. Kissing her is the last thing on my mind.

  18

  Sara
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br />   ‘Hey, I don’t think Charles is going to jump off the page to help you out.’

  Eleonora’s voice reaches me from far away. My head is full of cotton wool. I feel numb, irritable, confused. I have spent over a week thinking constantly about my night with Teo and I swear I can hardly recognise myself any more. I don’t usually go round kissing people just for the hell of it, and I certainly don’t want to kiss him, a man who keeps telling me how unattractive I am and who seems to get off on making me angry.

  ‘Charles who?’ I answer distractedly, chewing the end of my pencil.

  ‘Charles Peirce. The guy whose book you’ve been turning over in your hands for about an hour. Don’t wear yourself out with it, the students will never understand him at first, no matter how hard you try.’

  I sigh, looking out of the window. The weather is grey like my mood. ‘I gave up deceiving myself about that for a long time ago. Sometimes I think people pay less and attention to me as time goes on. It’s like a sort of backwards evolution.’

  ‘Devolution.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘It’s called devolution. You can’t seem to find the words today. Which is a little bit worrying.’

  ‘I’m just… thoughtful.’

  My colleague approaches, a sympathetic expression on her face.

  ‘Tell me, is there anything I can do to chase away these thoughts?’ she asks, brushing my forehead with a finger.

  ‘Explain to me why men are so stupid?’

  Her honest laughter comforts me a little.

  ‘I can’t tell you why, because I don’t know myself. Let’s just say that I have been aware of the fact for quite a while now. I just don’t particularly care…’

  ‘So you’re a certified singleton, then?’

  The smile fades a little. ‘Single, but not so convinced. In fact… there is someone that I like, but …’

  ‘Let me guess – they don’t even notice you.’

  She nods, resignedly.

  ‘Have you tried to tell them?

  Eleonora raises an eyebrow. ‘How’s it going with the professor?’

  I twist my hands uncomfortably. ‘I know. It’s pathetic. I’m trying to give you heartfelt advice, but then I don’t have the courage to confront the person I like.’

  ‘It’s not pathetic, you’re just afraid of being turned down. Just like me. You know, I think in some ways doubt is comforting. If you live in doubt you at least imagine you might have had a chance. Maybe that’s better than going for it and realising that you have no hope.’

  ‘But what if by living in doubt we miss our chance for happiness?’

  Eleonora doesn’t answer my question, and I’m not sure what else to say. All I know is that men are a strange race and that one of these days I will give up trying to understand them entirely.

  ‘Is this a bad time?’

  The professor’s voice startles us both. He was supposed to be at a conference.

  I get up abruptly and in doing so upset my chair, bringing a pot plant crashing to the floor. Why am I always a such disaster area at the least suitable times?

  Eleonora is quick to limit the damage, while I stand like a gaping at him like a goldfish, unable to find a way to start the conversation.

  ‘Professor, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I sent you the draft of that research paper you requested,’ my colleague intervenes, breaking the silence. If I had any power in here, I would award her a contract for three centuries.

  ‘Yes, I saw, but I didn’t want to talk about that. I need to to confer with Dr. Doria.’

  Balls! What have I done now?

  ‘Confer?’ mimics Eleonora in a low voice. To be honest, the professor does sometimes speak like a butler. And now I look at him, he stands a bit like one too…

  ‘In private, if you don’t mind.’

  Eleonora seems about to leave, but then she stops. The office is starting to feel claustrophobic.

  ‘I’ll come out straight away,’ I reply, moving towards the professor, who holds the door for me.

  Once inside his office, I take a deep breath and look around: this is it.

  ‘Professor, I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a few days. I must apologise again for losing my head at the …’

  ‘There’s no need for you to apologise. I’ll admit it was a little unorthodox, particularly considering your renowned seriousness, but it has gained us an important collaboration and I can only thank you.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything, I…’

  ‘On the contrary, you have done a great deal. If our subject gains popularity it will be thanks to you. I’m the one who should be apologising. For being… let’s say… a little undiplomatic.’

  The professor apologising? To me? I pinch myself behind my back and feel the pain. Apparently I’m not dreaming.

  ‘That’s really not necessary, nothing important has happened.’

  ‘In fact, something important has happened. Doctor, sometimes a shock is all it takes to make us notice what is right in front of us.’

  I swallow, uncertain how to interpret his words.

  ‘I… I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say yes.’

  I open my eyes, but the leap of my heart that I would have expected does not arrive. I’m on guard.

  ‘Yes to what?’

  ‘I would like to take you out to dinner.’

  Oh no, I’m not falling for this again! I know it will just be to exploit me for some more research he needs.

  ‘The article we were talking about isn’t ready yet, professor. Do we have some presentations imminent?’

  The professor laughs softly and puts his hand on my shoulder. The hold is unexpectedly affectionate. ‘No, Sara. Can I call you Sara? We have no presentations, I’m asking you out.’

  Now, I know that right now my brain should be in turmoil like a hamster running on its wheel, but no fireworks break out, and I wonder why. Here I am being offered my erotic dream of the past few years and I can’t decide whether to accept or not.

  ‘What?’ I ask, hoping to have misunderstood.

  The other hand also lands on my shoulder.

  ‘Thursday evening. There is a Japanese restaurant on Via Toledo that I would like to try.’

  How can I tell him that I hate raw fish? The temptation to decline the invitation is strong, but then…

  Why shouldn’t I go out? What’s holding me back? Fear? Insecurity? Or something else? There’s a creeping suspicion in the back of my mind and I don’t like it one bit. Memories of a night pierced with stars flash through my mind. I must return to the comfort of normality.

  ‘Thursday is perfect, professor,’ I reply with a smile, trying to display enthusiasm that I don’t feel.

  ‘Good,’ he replies. ‘And call me Cristoforo,’ he adds in a low, hoarse tone.

  I should be excited, but the only thing I can think of is the cruelty of a mother who decides to call her son Cristoforo. A bit like my older sister who called her son Bartolomeo-Jacopo. It’s child cruelty.

  ‘All right, Cris… Cristoforo.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up from your house,’ he promises in a suggestive voice. His desk is a few steps away. What should I do? Once I would have imagined pushing him backwards and playing doctor. And now? I don’t feel ready… I have to digest the news. With a smile I leave and head straight to my office, but I don’t go inside.

  I lean heavily against the door and sigh. It’s a date! A real date, not like the gala evening, and not even like that disaster organised by Teo…

  Disaster? I can’t recall an unpleasant moment, though God knows I’d like to, but…

  OK, I either need to lobotomise myself or take the situation in hand. I will go out with my professor, I will wear total heart attack underwear and I will show him that semiotic interpretations aren’t the only clever ways I can use my tongue. I will, I swear on my life.

  Coming back into the room, I can’t miss Eleonora’s curious look. ‘Well?’ she asks, predictabl
y, ‘How many other articles do you have to write in his name?’

  I throw myself into my chair, distraught. ‘He asked me out,’ I confess.

  ‘Shit! Are you sure you understood him right?’

  ‘Of course I understood him right! We’re going to eat sushi.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ she exclaims, but her sarcastic air does not escape me. ‘Isn’t that great?’

  I take my head in my hands. ‘I don’t know, is it? I mean, I guess so. I have been fantasising about this moment for years and now…’

  ‘It’s not what you thought?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There is silence for a few minutes, but finally Eleonora speaks.

  ‘Why do we give up happiness for doubt?’ I hear her murmur. I lift my head and see her crouching beside me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said it. Fear can block us, preventing us from finding happiness. You dreamed of a possibility and that possibility was the image of perfection in your head. Then that possibility came true and suddenly you are not so enthusiastic.’

  ‘I made too many castles in the sky, you think?’

  She nods, looking down. ‘Maybe, yes. Or maybe what you were looking for was not what you really need.’

  I still don’t get it. ‘Sorry, but I’m not following you.’

  ‘Well, Sara, have you ever thought about changing perspective?’

  What does she mean? Change perspective how? Considering other men, perhaps? I will never consider other men.

  In some films certain scenes take place in slow motion. I have always thought it was just a visual device. I never imagined that real life could also take place in slow motion. It happens without warning, but it happens. Eleonora’s hand rests on my cheek and her face gets closer.

  ‘Why don’t you consider other options?’ She whispers. Her voice grows distorted in my ears and I don’t have the time to reply, because she looms over me, taking my face in her hands. The next thing I feel is her tongue stuck in my mouth. The shock paralyses me. I should pull back, struggle, but I stand still like a pillar of salt, letting Eleonora play hockey with my tonsils. And then, because just lately my life seems to have turned into a b-movie, the predictably unpredictable happens: the door opens wide, making the show public. Is it no longer fashionable to knock?