Nice

by Jen Sacks

  I did the best I could with my apartment. I was down one lamp, but when I'd finished, that was about it. I had a strange energy that day, given what had happened and the shape I was in, but Sunday, it seemed to hit me.

  I couldn't get out of bed until after noon. And then I napped a couple times before dinner. Nobody called. I guess everyone was busy. So I felt strangely isolated. And my face was a wreck. My nose was a little swollen, and the area around the cut on my forehead was colorfully bruised. So was one side of my jaw. It should have been distressing, but I couldn't help looking in the mirror repeatedly, whenever I was awake. This is me, I kept thinking. I was in a fight. And I won. That had never happened before. I'd never fought with anyone in my life. I was a nice girl. It's not that I hadn't ever had the thought, but I had never acted on it. I could get hurt, I always knew. Well, so I had. And here I was.

  You know, for over ten years, I'd lived in a world without violence. Even in New York, none had touched me. But Friday night had gone and changed every tiling.

  "What happened to you?" She said it with a broad smile, almost a grin.

  "I got mugged."

  "Well, geez, what does the other guy look like?" No sympathy, of course, from Audrey. She just looked amused at my Technicolor face.

  You wouldn't want to know, I thought. "You wouldn't want to know," I said coldly.

  She looked a little taken aback as I calmly made my way to my desk. It usually took several sticks of dynamite to get her out of her office. Now Audrey followed me to my cubicle.

  "Were you able to identify him for the police?"

  "I'd never seen him before in my life."

  "You know what I mean."

  "Oh. Maybe you should phrase your question more specifically."

  She raised an eyebrow at me. I would have raised one back at her, but the eyebrow I can ordinarily do that with was in traction.

  "It's all taken care of, Audrey. No need for you to worry," I said, looking for the latest version of Pete's copy in its orange folder on my desk.

  "Uh, yuh," she said slowly. "Oh, hey, has Pete called in? I had a couple of questions for him on that piece," she said, gesturing with her bagel at the folder.

  "I haven't heard from him in awhile."

  "Yeah, well, that sounds like him. At least we've got it. They weren't major problems."

  "That's good," I said. She went back to her office. I went back to my work. Back to normal, give or take.

  20

  Sam

  I did not let her see me for about two weeks after our first face-to-face meeting. But I saw her. I continued to keep a watch on her. I confess I had no idea what she would do under the circumstances. I was a little concerned that she might react in some negative or self-destructive way to her rather jarring recent experiences. It was within the realm of possibility that she might lose control of her actions—go kill-crazy, in the parlance of my profession. More likely was the possibility that she would confess to someone—official or otherwise—what she had done, or, in lieu of an outright confession, somehow seek out some form of punishment, again via the authorities or perhaps through some means of her own.

  Nonetheless, I did not set up any electronic eyes in her apartment because, well, quite frankly, I could not countenance doing such a thing once we had met. I felt a little delicate about it. I even felt rather discourteous listening in on her, now that she was a person I actually knew. If you do not draw the line about that sort of thing, you can lose all contact with humanity. I had seen it happen. For such a person, everyone else ceases to be real; all people are merely targets, jagged lines on a readout, patterns to be assessed and anticipated. In a world like mine, such a path is always a hazard.

  But Grace was deliciously real to me. And I no longer wanted to know everything about her behind her back, as it were. I wanted to discover her personality from interaction, not examination. But I kept watch even so, because of my fears, because I did not know nearly enough yet about who she was and of what she was capable.

  Yet she seemed incredibly normal in the weeks that followed her violent encounter. She went to work each day. I would see her walk out to lunch with her colleagues. She stayed late at the office often. Occasionally, she would take in a movie with some friend or other—David or, more often, the two women I had first spotted her with. Or she would stay in and read or watch television. She slept alone.

  By the end of the first week, her bruises had mostly faded and the swelling receded.

  I was beginning to lose my mind for lack of actual contact with her. You see, I had touched her that night when I sat her down to disinfect her wounds. And not since then.

  I am only attempting to explain why> after two weeks of such surveillance, I found myself face-to-face with her one evening in a public place, why I had to dance with her that night.

  21

  Grace

  "If you're feeling classical," the club's logo goes. I was, as a matter of fact. Although mostly like a Bach fugue, to be specific. But my friends would not let me off the hook. Classical was the new hot place and I was ordered to put in an appearance.

  "You never come out anymore," said Marie.

  "I go out more than I should," I said.

  "Look, you're supposed to dance at this place. Which I am really looking forward to. But it's definitely a case of the more the merrier, the less inhibited. And all we've done is movies for the last few weeks."

  "Emphasis on 'we.' You go out to a club almost every night."

  "Yeah, well, after this, I'm gonna stay in for a while and write," Marie promised, faithlessly. I hear this every week.

  "Yeah, right."

  "No, really."

  "Yeah, right."

  "You have to come. Connor has promised to dance with every one of us."

  "How'd you get him to do that?"

  "He lost an argument." She added, "And there are scattered reports cool guys might be there."

  "Heaven forbid."

  "Eight o'clock. We'll get there early so we can get a table."

  "The most sensible thing you've said yet," I said, giving way.

  "Okeydokey, sweetie. See ya there." She hung up.

  It'll be okay, I thought. I won't meet anybody. Marie goes out every night, and you can count the number of truly cool guys she meets on the fingers of one elbow.

  I got there late because I hate to wait alone. Clare and Connor were already seated at a fairly decent table. Marie was at the bar, for some reason. The place was gorgeous. Brocaded curtains all around the walls, fairly real-looking Louis something or other furniture. The waitresses wore long gowns. It was the opposite of every other place in town: a brilliant idea. The clientele was even mixed in age, but mostly people thirty to forty-five. I don't know about Marie's notion of meeting men, because most of the people there seemed to be in couples or groups. And wonder of wonders, there were actually people dancing to the classic and obscure collection of waltzes the DJ played. The lighting was very gentle; the price of the drinks was pretty harsh. But it was worth it.

  Clare and Connor danced together first. Clare was wearing a long, full green taffeta skirt with a tight, pale yellow T-shirt. It was a beautiful sight. I gazed at them dancing and found myself settling back into my chair, half watching them, half daydreaming, mindlessly. Despite all the activity around me, or maybe because of it, I felt a kind of peace. The only disturbance was when Connor insisted on taking me out on the floor. The last time I had touch-danced was several years ago on a business trip to New Delhi, of all places. With a coworker. It felt a little awkward dancing now with my friend, just because we normally have a cat-and-dog relationship, bickering warmly when we get together. And I guess I just felt strange being in a man's arms, although I was glad we were not dancing the way he and his wife had. My right hand was in his left and his right hand touched me only lightly on the back. We were mostly looking at each other's feet, trying to match our steps.

  "I think what I should do is step on your feet," I
suggested.

  "Why would you want to do a thing like that?"

  "That's the way every little girl learns to dance. Standing on her dad's big shoes as he swings her around. That's what I'm used to," I explained, smiling.

  Connor smiled, too, very warmly. And he said sweetly, "If you do, I will have to kick you. These are new shoes."

  "Well, it's the thought that counts. We'll get through this somehow."

  "I'm enjoying this, except for the company," he joked.

  "I think I need more practice."

  "Well, that can be arranged. The night is young."

  "But I am old," I said as the music ended and we wended our way back to our table. "Thank you, sir," I added, curtsying in my long black satin skirt. I had bought it at a thrift shop years ago but had never had occasion to wear it.

  "A privilege and a pleasure," Connor replied, affecting a bow as he extended his hand to Marie.

  I was actually a little winded from the stress, but before I could sit down, I felt someone come up behind me. He took my arms and swept me back to the dance floor. I'm sorry, there's no other word for it. I was so stunned that I did nothing as he took my hand in his and,- unlike Connor, put his other arm around me quite solidly, pulling me in to him until our whole bodies were touching. It was Sam. He looked down at me, and I made the mistake of looking back up at him. Somehow, he held my eyes there; I couldn't even think about how I was moving, but I didn't have to. The effect was the same as if, indeed, I had been a little girl standing on my father's shoes. An incredibly hypnotic waltz was playing; it struck me as being half dance, half carnival. It built, if you know what I mean, into something more and more dramatic, like a ballet. I shouldn't have looked into his eyes; he wouldn't let me look away, it felt. And we spun and we spun and we spun. And I felt dizzy—and breathless—in his arms.

  "It is called the 'Masquerade Waltz'" was all he said. And we just turned and turned around on the dance floor, and everything else was a blur. That waltz was, in fact, four minutes and eleven seconds long, but it felt as if I were in some timeless place. I could feel his large hand around my much smaller one, and the warmth of his body. He didn't let me go for one instant.

  I would say I was discombobulated, but it's not a lovely enough word to describe the sensation. Disoriented, I think, deeply and dazzlingly disoriented. Dazed even. When the song ended, he let his hand run up my back to my neck for a second. I shivered. I broke away from his gaze finally, but it meant nothing by then, because he was already guiding me back to my table. He left wordlessly, without even a smile. And I sank into my chair. Clare and Connor were on the dance floor again, but Marie was there. I tried to smile, no big deal, but all she said was, "He looked pretty cool."

  "Way,"' I said.

  "Mysterious stranger," she said dreamily: then, more sensibly, "As they say, sometimes you just gotta dance."

  "I guess," I managed to reply.

  For the rest of the evening, no one could get me back on that dance floor. I was still stupefied, emotionally paralyzed. But I didn't want to replace that feeling with anything else.

  22

  Sam

  "Why did I pay good money for a Medico lock?" Grace asked, not unreasonably.

  "A sound investment," I assured her.

  It was a week since we had danced. She had opened her eyes, and there I was. I stood over her as she lay in bed with the covers pulled up around her neck. Then, what possessed me? I threw myself on the bed next to her, on the inside, near the wall. I was lying beside her on top of the blanket. She just looked at me with wide eyes and a little pulling-back gesture. It was well done, but it was not her.

  "Wipe that innocent look off your face," I ordered.

  She looked at the ceiling as if at an audience and shook her head a couple of times.

  "Geez," she murmured, "God, what was I thinking? Whoa. Sorry about that. GET THE FUCK OFF MY BED," she shouted in a complete change of tone.

  "Please," I said, ignoring her. "It is understandable where you got the notion, but it does not have to be the way you think it ought to be." I drew the stereotypical picture for her. "We meet in some low-key way, in the course of your job, say. Perhaps we arrange to have lunch, next time, dinner, the first kiss, which gradually builds, and then after we have become better acquainted, we make the gentle move into the bedroom. It can simply happen like this—because you want me and I very much want you. Without the preamble. Which we are well beyond now."

  "And you'll still respect me in the morning? And someday you'll surprise me with that engagement ring?" she asked sarcastically.

  "They are not in—, in— Damn, what is the word?" I looked around, at a loss.

  "Oh, I know what you mean, in— Do you ever have that happen? Where you catch someone else's inability to think of a word? You know exactly what they mean and the word just disappears from you the way it disappears from the other guy?"

  We lay thinking about it for a moment.

  "Incompatible. Mutually exclusive," she said in triumph.

  " 'Mutually exclusive,' " I repeated. "They are not… I know what your problem is."

  "I know what my problem is. What do you think my problem is?"

  "You think there is something wrong with wanting sex—plain and simple."

  "Plain and simple," she said, then nothing.

  "It would be rather charming, if it were not confusing you a bit. And ruining the evening."

  Nothing.

  "I must say, you are not the kind of woman with whom I typically become involved. Usually, these are women who 'deal the sex card,' as a friend of mine once put it, right off the top of the deck. No qualms for them at all. You seem to think I would prefer a virgin."

  "Gee, and I thought we were talking about me," she muttered. "Guess what? I don't want to play cards. I want to date. I want to stare across the table at someone who's looking me back deeply in the eyes. Holding my hand across the table. Or under it," she added.

  "And I would not want to do that if you jumped on me now, correct?"

  She jumped on top of me. "Hey, Sam," she said in a mean voice. "Since we're being so honest"—she made the word seem like a curse—"with each other, what's your real name?" she whispered roughly.

  I could not speak for a moment. "Aleksandr. Aleksandr Galynin." I tried to say it easily, and, as usual, with no accent, but I may not have been able to keep my face a blank.

  "That's just great. My Comrade Right," she uttered dolefully.

  "Former comrade. So let us do something to take your mind off of the ugly truth," I suggested. "Off of many ugly truths."

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you? But I have to think."

  "Do not think."

  "But I have to think about whether not to think."

  "Not really." I took her left hand from my shoulder, where it was supporting her as she crouched on top of me. She had apparently forgotten to move away after her interrogation. I kissed her hand. She did not pull it away. "Maybe you will be surprised. Maybe I will still respect you in the morning."

  "Maybe you'll be surprised. And you'll damn well respect me more in the morning. And don't presume to think you understand me."

  "That is the spirit," I said encouragingly, pulling her down on top of me.

  I could see her mouth start to form words. I think they were Wait a minute, but they never left her lips. I felt a thrill as she began to respond to my touch. I could hear the little sounds she made now with my own ears, firsthand. I kissed her tenderly on the lips, on the edges of the lips, all over her face. She moaned into my mouth. She kept her eyes closed. When I moved to her neck—the skin so delicate, I feared I would leave marks— her body arched toward me and then away. I moved my hands along her side, lightly at first, and she started wiggling. I fondled a birthmark on her hip. Moving my mouth to her shoulders, my hands found their way to her breasts. She nearly broke my teeth with her collarbone as she writhed in response. She was very sensitive there. The more lightly I stroked them, the more
vivid was her reaction. I had to taste them, though apparently I was taking my life in my hands. Her sounds were something approaching a purr. One second, she held me close as I teased her; at another, she would try to push me away. With my tongue, I continued to explore other places—her belly, her arms, her back, her sides—but I had to return again and again to her breasts just to experience that response. Although even when I kissed her a few inches above her hip on one side, she kicked out wildly. I think I may say that she seemed very excited.

  She became uncharacteristically still as I moved down below her hips; she knew what was coming next. A little fearful of my physical safety, I moved my head between her legs after nipping a bit at her inner thighs. Her body became quieter now, although her breathing was ragged and loud. I tasted her, diving deep with my tongue. Her hips moved the most when I flicked her clitoris gently, but I could not help sampling the nearby areas as well. I am a born experimenter. I wanted to go on in this way for a long time, but I had the impression she would not last through much more. I may have lingered too long. With several deep, deep groans, she came. Her wiggling slowed but did not stop. I pulled off my shirt and slacks, stopping to fish a condom out of one of my pockets, placed there earlier in anticipation, if not certainty.

  As she lay panting, I quickly put it on, then gently began to guide myself into her. Now again I could look at her face, eyes closed, one lip a little bitten. I was raised up above her, and she put her hands on my shoulders. She was tight but not unwilling, so I slowly increased my thrusts, controlling for as long as I could. But watching her from this close distance, I lost what composure I had left and found myself pushing almost roughly into her. She cried out, over and over. With every thrust, she seemed to catch her breath and let out something between a groan and a sobbing noise. I think I had in my mind some nonspecific theory involving varying our positions, but that would have to wait for another opportunity. I could not bear the thought of stopping this for a second. I delayed as long as I could, but after a few minutes I let release wash over me. I lay on top of her for a brief time. She was covered in sweat from my efforts. She stroked my back, seemingly without thinking. I kissed her face along the softly cut jawline. Now she had one hand over her eyes. I hoped dearly that what she was feeling was not regret. I wanted still more, but I could not bring myself to pull put of her quite yet. I knew that at some point I would have to, however, and so, rolling onto my side next to her, I broke the connection. Temporarily.