Kissing in Manhattan

by David Schickler

  “Do you . . . want to hurt me?” she whispered.

  “I want you to look at yourself,” said Patrick, “till you see what I see.”

  Rally glanced at the mirror. She had obviously fallen in with a pervert, or a prophet. She studied the cant of her hips, which she thought looked impressive, given the running she did three times a week. She also thought her biceps had some decent muscle on them. If she hauled off and smacked Patrick’s face, she figured she’d leave a respectable mark before he strangled her to death. Rally giggled.

  “Don’t laugh.” Patrick applied pressure to her wrists. “Just look.”

  “All right.”

  Patrick made a contented noise. He stared at the mirror.

  Rally breathed in and out.

  “All right,” she promised. “I won’t laugh.”

  The next morning Rally sat around her loft in a daze, unable to focus on her writing. Patrick had held her half-naked for an hour the night before, then dressed her in some clean sweatpants and a T-shirt of his, and sent her home in a cab without even a peck on the cheek. The night had been glorious, then kinky, then over.

  “What the fuck?” said Rally, out loud, to no one. She said it several times.

  Rally stared at her computer, which showed her tentative Five Kingdoms itinerary for France in November. Rally intended to write a piece not about Beaujolais nouveau, the wine itself, but about the culture surrounding the annual release of the wine, the way it was hailed and imbibed so quickly, for one short November week, then forgotten. However, on this particular morning Rally couldn’t focus on wine. She was thinking about how she’d had four thousand dollars of Patrick’s interest wrapped around her the night before, and there’d been no sex whatsoever.

  “What the fuck?” said Rally.

  The phone rang. It was Sabrina.

  “Well?” demanded Sabrina. “How was he?”

  Rally wondered what to say. Normally, she shared her dirty details with Kim and Sabrina. But this time, thoughshe was dying to spill everything—especially the price of the Narciso Rodriguez—something told her not to.

  “He didn’t kiss me,” said Rally.

  “Huh,” said Sabrina. “Well, how’s the wine trip looking? Got your reservations? You psyched?”

  “We didn’t kiss,” said Rally absently.

  Rally saw Patrick seven Fridays in a row. Patrick never called Rally during the week. He phoned her each Friday, met her at Saks, spent thousands on her, took her to dinner, took her home to his bedroom, cut up her dress, and held her. Patrick, Rally discovered, followed unspoken rules in this ritual and expected her to follow them too. The dresses were always simple, pure-silk affairs by Badgly Mischka or Pamela Dennis. They were solid-colored dresses—black, midnight-blue, maroon—and they came chastely to Rally’s ankles until they were cloven in two and wrapped around her throat in the moonlight. Patrick crossed Rally’s wrists behind her back each time and held her in place for an hour. He never kissed her, never fondled her, never tried to remove her undergarments, never spoke crudely to her, and when the hour was over, Patrick sent Rally home in a clean pair of his sweatpants and a clean T-shirt.

  Rally was frustrated and intrigued by Patrick. On their third date she tested his parameters. When she donned her dress at Saks, Rally kept her bra on but left her underwear behind. That night, when Patrick ripped her dress in two, he snorted and backed away from Rally, dropping the dress. Rally turned around and came close to him, tried to kiss him, to coax his hand to her lap.

  “Come on,” she whispered.

  Patrick glared at her, pushed her away.

  Rally came at him again. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Have me.”

  “No,” hissed Patrick. He crossed his arms on his chest.

  Rally stood tall and vicious in her heels. “What the hell’s this all about, then?”

  Patrick stared at her. “It’s about you doing what I say. Seeing what I see.”

  “Oh, really?” Rally crossed her arms now too. “What about you doing what I say?”

  “If that’s what you want, leave.”

  Rally felt embarrassment coming, or tears.

  “I don’t understand.” Rally made her voice meek. “Aren’t we ever going to . . . kiss? Make love? I mean . . . don’t you want to?”

  “Right now, I want you to leave,” said Patrick.

  Rally’s mouth was open. “This isn’t normal, Patrick.”

  Patrick’s eyes lit up hard. “I said, leave.”

  So Rally left, and expected never to hear from Patrick again.

  “Is he a good kisser?” asked Kim.

  She and Rally were at home, on the couch.

  “He’s wonderful,” lied Rally. Patrick had still never once pressed his lips to hers.

  Kim stared at Rally’s French braid, which had become a constant. Kim thought the braid was a shame. She thought Rally’s hair had opportunities.

  “You’ve seen him three times,” said Kim, “and you’re always coming home in his clothes. Are you guys doing it?”

  It, thought Rally. It.

  “Yes,” she lied again.

  Kim watched her friend. She waited for details, got none.

  “Hey, Rall,” she said. “You haven’t said any more about France. You still going?”

  Rally rubbed her forearms. They’d looked slender in Patrick’s mirror the night before, like a ballerina’s arms. She’d liked how they looked.

  “Rall?”

  “Hmm? What?”

  “France. Are you still going?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Rally. “Sure, sure.”

  To Rally’s delight Patrick called the next Friday, as if there’d been no breach between them. He ordered Rally to Saks and Rally went. She couldn’t explain to herself why, but she went and didn’t try any tricks that night as she stood before his mirror, her abdomen exposed, her knees cold. The torn dress around her neck was pale blue.

  “Do you want me to dance for you?” whispered Rally.

  “I want you to look at yourself,” said Patrick.

  Rally stared at her body. Outside the window red police lights flashed in the night. A fire truck blared by.

  “Do you want me to speak?” asked Rally.

  Patrick squeezed her wrists. “You know what I want.”

  By the fifth week Rally looked forward to Friday night. She understood that she couldn’t call herself Patrick’s lover, but she felt unique, like she was modeling something intimate and perfect for him, something that could only be achieved by the mix of her body with the colors Patrick wrapped her in. There was something flattering and lavish about Patrick’s obsession with her. When she stood in the darkness, half naked in heels, held by him, not talking, Rally watched her form in the mirror and tried to behold what he beheld. She thought of little dollars transferring electronically from Patrick’s bank account to the bank accounts of Saks and Duranigan’s.

  “Why me?” she asked him once, but Patrick laid his finger over her lips.

  On their sixth Friday, Rally experimented with clichés. She sucked in her gut, thrust out her chest, pouted her lips, made her face scared but attentive. When Patrick didn’t rape her, Rally changed tacks. She let her stomach sag, and her face slacken. When again Patrick didn’t react, Rally ignored him and focused on the mirror. She studied the woodwork ofthe mirror itself, the thorns that surrounded the glass. Then she honed in on her image: the lift and fall of her ribs as she breathed, the slung-up poise of her breasts, the strapping of her ankles in her high heels. She loved how most of her skin was free to the air, but some of it was trapped and contained. She thought of the weave of her braid, that carefully wrought spine of hair.

  Rally smiled. I’m good, she thought to herself.

  The next morning, a Saturday, Rally went alone to the Cloisters museum. France was just two weeks away, and Rally always visited the Cloisters before a big trip to tone her people-watching skills. She considered people-watching a duty for a travel writer, and the Cloiste
rs was perfect for practice. It was part museum, part church, part castle on the Hudson, and when people studied the art there, or strolled the ramparts, or just held hands, Rally found they were less self-conscious than in other places in New York. She could study strangers’ demeanors and seek wonder—kissable wonder—among their faces and habits. Plus, the Cloisters was quiet, and Rally needed time to ponder Patrick Rigg, to decide whether he was wonderful and maybe her soul mate. A dangerous charm attended Patrick, and he dressed like a king, and he could laugh. The bewildering part was that whenever Rally started now to think about Patrick, she switched in her mind to thinking about herself, about her body in Patrick’s mirror. She couldn’t help it. When she dreamed at night, Rally saw herself as a nymph in a viny midnight wood, all breasts and legs and psychedelic eyes. She sometimes woke in the early morning, while it was dark, and crept into the bathroom of her and Kim’s loft and stripped to her underwear. Patrick wasn’t there, but Rally held her wrists behind her anyway, imagining Patrick’s force upon them. She wore her bathrobe sash around her neck to simulate a torn silk dress, and admired her reflection until, to Rally’s horror and delight, her groin went slick. It went slick, but where were Patrick’s hands when she needed them?

  “What are you thinking?” said a man’s voice.

  Rally started, blinked. She turned around, got her bearings. She was in the Cloisters’ tapestry hall, standing before a tapestry at which she’d apparently been staring. Beside her was a slender young man with sleepy blue eyes and straight teeth.

  “I’m sorry?” said Rally.

  “I was just, um, wondering what you were thinking.” The young man nodded at the tapestry. “You seemed so . . . engrossed.”

  Rally blushed. She focused on the tapestry. It showed a unicorn being hunted by men and dogs. The unicorn stood in a green clearing by a fountain, with two spears sticking out of its ribs, and blood trickling down its hide. The dogs and men surrounded the unicorn. The dogs had open jaws and the men, armed with more spears, looked grim and dedicated. The unicorn was obviously doomed to death or capture, and the pain in its eyes was anything but magical.

  “It’s terrible,” said Rally.

  The young man with the sleepy eyes studied Rally. He looked gentle, and doubtful.

  “Is that really what you were thinking?” he said.

  Rally looked away.

  You’re a stranger, she thought. I’m supposed to watch you.

  “I like it,” sighed the young man. He gazed sadly at the unicorn. “I—I probably shouldn’t. Instead, I should think it’s awful. Right?”

  Rally paid attention suddenly to the sleepy young man, to the need in his voice. She reached out and touched his shoulder, just barely.

  “No,” she said. “No, not right.”

  For Friday number seven with Patrick, Rally wore very white underwear and a very white bra. Her dress was the color of light silver. It hung off her shoulders, a layer of thin, insubstantial armor. It was early November now, and cold in the city, so Patrick had bought Rally a black cape to go with tonight’s dress. But Rally found herself anxious to get to Patrick’s apartment, to shed both the cape and the silk. She ate her dinner at Duranigan’s impatiently, and kept sneaking to the bathroom to admire the taut pull of her braid.

  At the table, whiskey in hand, Patrick grinned like a wolf.

  Rally touched her cheek, tested its softness. She was worried by Patrick’s grin.

  “What?” she asked.

  “It’s working,” said Patrick.

  “What is?”

  “You know what.” Patrick looked Rally up and down.

  Rally sniffed haughtily. “What, you think I’m in love with you?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Au contraire,” he said.

  That night, after he split her dress and made it a scarf on her neck, Rally told Patrick to cinch it tighter to her throat.

  “And let it fall straight down between my breasts,” whispered Rally. “Like a man’s tie.”

  Patrick obeyed.

  Rally stared at the mirror.

  “I like how smooth my calves are,” she whispered.

  Patrick squeezed her wrists. He made a noise that could have been a snicker.

  “And I like how they painted my mouth tonight.” Rally turned her head side to side, profiling her lips in the mirror. All at once a great urge struck Rally as she stared at her lips. She could feel the urge deep in her diaphragm, even see it in her reflection. She sucked in her breath.

  Patrick felt the change. “What?”

  Rally shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Patrick’s grip tensed. “You have to tell me.”

  Rally watched color rise in her cheeks. “It’s not right. It’s—”

  Patrick moved closer to Rally. For once, her hands brushed his pants, felt an urgency there.

  “I want to kiss myself,” whispered Rally.

  Patrick exhaled. He sounded like someone who’d been waiting a long time.

  “I want to . . .” Rally loved her jawbone, the arc of her hips. She imagined her body in a wind tunnel, the kind they test vehicles in. She imagined air scooping over her, defining her.

  “I want to kiss myself,” she said. “All over.”

  Patrick pushed himself up closer to Rally. Her shoulder blades were against his chest now, but Rally kept her eyes on herself. Her groin tremored.

  “I want to . . .” Rally fixated on the mirror. She tried to free her hands, to move toward herself.

  Patrick redoubled his pressure on her wrists.

  “You can’t,” he said simply.

  Rally bit her lip. She closed her eyes, but when she did that, she couldn’t see the nymph anymore. She opened them again, saw what she wanted. It was an impossible, wavering, trapped woman’s body. Rally lurched toward it.

  “I can,” she whimpered. “I want to.”

  Patrick sniggered. His teeth flashed in the mirror, while his hands clutched Rally’s wrists.

  “Nope,” he said.

  Rally wrenched back and forth. Pressure built in her eyes and groin. She squeezed her thighs together, gritted her teeth, felt herself giving in to something unnameable.

  “I can,” she hissed. “I’m going to.”

  Patrick kept laughing. Rally’s nails were digging at his hands now, clawing him. Her eyes were wide in the mirror, and her leg muscles were hard, twitching.

  “Please,” breathed Rally. “Yes. Yes.”

  “No,” ordered Patrick.

  Rally whimpered and fought. She had sweat on her brow, felt pleasure rising in her thighs.

  “Please,” she begged. Patrick stood firm, telling her no.

  “Please,” cried Rally.

  But then, just as Rally’s breathing hit its stride and her begging found a new pitch, Patrick released her wrists with a cackle. Rally stumbled forward, tripping to her knees, one of her heels flying off. Rally’s hands splayed on the ground, arresting her fall.

  “Ow.”

  Rally looked up at the mirror. She saw herself on her hands and knees, panting, her braid thrown forward over one shoulder, her breasts, cupped in white, pointing neatly down. Her scarf was still tight around her neck. It extended down to the floor and coiled there, but it looked awful to Rally now, like a leash. Patrick stood over and behind Rally, chuckling, his hands on his hips.

  “Ow,” said Rally again.

  Patrick made no move toward her. His eyes blazed with a pleasure and a triumph Rally had never seen before.

  “I hurt my knee,” said Rally.

  Patrick nodded. “I expect you did. You can go home now.”

  The lust drained from Rally’s mind.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “You heard me,” said Patrick sharply. “Go home.”

  Rally stayed on her hands and knees, wondering if he wanted her that way. Angry tears filled her eyes.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “I’m going to have a drink,” explained Patrick, “a
s soon as you skedaddle.”

  “No,” snuffled Rally. “What are you doing to me?”

  “Go home,” ordered Patrick.

  Rally sat up. She turned her eyes from the mirror.

  “Is this what you think about during the day?” she said savagely. “Doing this to me? Making me want . . . this?”

  Patrick pulled sweatpants and a T-shirt from a drawer, dropped them on the floor near Rally.

  “During the day,” he said, “I think about money.”

  Rally got to her feet. She yanked the silk from her throat. She got furiously, shakily dressed, her mind throbbing with a redness, a color that could have been blood.

  “Does it turn you on?” asked Rally. “Sending me home at midnight, then calling me again next Friday and doing it all over again?”

  “I won’t call you next Friday,” said Patrick. “You’ll be in France. Now, get out of here.”

  Rally’s chin was quaking.

  “You’re a fucking nutbag,” she said.

  Instantly, Patrick was in Rally’s face. He had rage in his eyes. He hammered one hand on his suit coat, thumping his chest over his heart.

  “Do you know what’s going on here?” yelled Patrick.

  Rally gasped, backed away. She stared at the bulge in Patrick’s coat, the lump she still thought was a gun.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered.

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” Patrick’s voice was splitting. His shoulders were hunched like a bear’s.

  “Ye—yes. I mean, no.” Rally ran from Patrick’s room, out his apartment door, sobbing, No, no, no.

  “Cut it off,” ordered Rally.

  Kim sat close to Rally on the couch. On the coffee table beside them were Kim’s scissors and other salon weapons. Rally’s hair was wet and she had a towel around her shoulders.

  Kim stroked Rally’s hair, which fell clean to the couch cushions, even covered them a little.