Anne's Collection #1: Five Stories

by Anne Eton

  Margaret said nothing.

  “I like that you love working at that job where you’re fighting for casino mobsters—”

  “They’re not mobsters.”

  “—and you think it’s great,” Ricarda continued. “I like how you dress, so conservative and everything, like you actually think you’re fooling someone into believing that you don’t have that killer body.”

  Margaret laughed, despite herself.

  “I’m serious. Margaret, I really, really like you. And you might say I don’t know you, but I would disagree.”

  “You DON’T know me.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree.”

  “No we won’t.”

  “Whatever. Look, this call is costing me a fortune, I’m using a phone from a seat back here in business class and I used my credit card and passengers are staring at me and we’re landing soon, so just let me say two things, okay?”

  Margaret sighed. “What?”

  “You were half-right when you said I looked at you and said to myself, ‘Hey, it’s Christmas!’ Yeah, I did get excited, okay?” Ricarda paused. “But I want you to know that I see a lot of women, every day. A lot. And there’s no way I would have gone to the trouble of writing to you, and sharing my art, and letting you into my life, if all I wanted was a mattress connection. I can get that, no offense, with much less trouble than you think. You’re not the only built, beautiful girl out there, trust me.”

  “Is this supposed to be making me like you more?”

  “Just listen. I was attracted to you in the very beginning by what I saw, you’re right about that. But I like you. I really, really like you.”

  Margaret was quiet for a while. Ricarda did not speak.

  Finally, Margaret asked: “What’s the other thing?”

  “You said once that I made you question all the principles and values you never questioned before.”

  “Well?”

  “Don’t you think this is something you could question, too? The premise that you and me, it could never happen?”

  Margaret leapt up and began walking through her apartment, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Ricarda, that’s different. We’re not talking about a principle or a value. It’s ME. I have never, ever, not once, ever been attracted to a woman.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Margaret gasped in outrage, speeding her steps. “How dare you.”

  “Almost everyone has wondered about it, at some time or other,” Ricarda said in a calm voice. “Someone as intelligent as you? Yeah. You’ve wondered.”

  “Wondering about it and wanting it are two different—”

  “How many opportunities have you had?”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “Here’s MY point. If you don’t like my personality, or my figure, or my job, say so and I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re discounting even the possibility of the two of us sharing something beautiful, just because you’re unwilling to even think about being with any woman, IN PRINCIPLE, you should take a good hard look at all of the premises you run your life by.”

  Margaret stopped walking and tried to breathe calmly.

  “Sir, would you mind not staring?” she heard Ricarda say.

  The captain’s voice buzzed over the cabin speakers.

  “Are you landing?” Margaret asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You better go.”

  “Not until you promise to at least think about it.”

  “I can’t. Ricarda, I just can’t.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, then. I don’t care if I get fired.”

  “I’ll hang up.”

  “I’ll call back.”

  “I won’t answer.”

  “I’ll keep leaving messages.”

  “Don’t try to pressure me. I negotiate for a living.”

  “Don’t hang up.”

  “What do you want? Ricarda, I…”

  “Just at least promise you’ll think about it. Not that you’ll change your mind, not that you’ll change anything about how you feel. Just that you’ll at least give it honest consideration.”

  Margaret closed her eyes. “If I say yes, will you get off the phone and not get yourself fired?”

  “Yeah!”

  The giddy happiness in Ricarda’s voice made Margaret laugh. “Okay. Fine.”

  “Yay!” Ricarda had a muffled conversation with another flight attendant: “…be there in a minute.” Then, to Margaret: “I gotta go.”

  “Good. I’m exhausted.”

  “Write me tomorrow. Promise?”

  “No more promises. Hang up now and do your job.” Margaret pressed the end-call button on her phone. Looking around, she saw that she had walked back into her office. She tossed the phone onto her desk, dropped into her chair, and rubbed her face.

  Over the next week, Margaret and Ricarda exchanged easy-going emails, never broaching their phone conversation. Ricarda told Margaret about finding a “really cool Buddha-incense-holder store in Beijing (that’s all they sell!).” Margaret griped to Ricarda about all the overtime she was expected to pull during the short weeks before the holidays. “It’s a good thing I don’t have a family, because they’d have left me by now,” Margaret wrote.

  Then Ricarda emailed: I put up some new stuff on Deviantart. You should check it out.

  If you drew me, I’ll kill you, Margaret wrote back.

  Duuuh, I know that, besides, I’d never put a drawing of you on the net, Ricarda replied. You’re too hot and I want you all to myself. I just tried something new. I worked hard on it. It’s in the Adult folder. Margaret had not visited Deviantart since the night Ricarda called. She logged in, returned to Ricarda’s portfolio, and double-clicked the Adults Only folder.

  Under a subheading that read, “Mile-High Club,” Ricarda had posted sketches of women having sex in airline bathrooms. The drawings showed inventive poses in the confined spaces. None of the women were curvy.

  So are you bending over backwards not drawing shapely girls like me, now? Margaret wrote.

  Absolutely, Ricarda replied.

  Is this mile-high thing something you’ve actually done?

  Um… I don’t remember.

  Are you trying to make me jealous? ‘Cause it’s not working.

  I just wanted to try something new. Don’t you like all the detail? I’ve been studying those bathrooms.

  Not very romantic.

  You’re right about that. I can try something more so next time.

  A few days later, Ricarda asked Margaret to visit the Adults Only folder again. When Margaret did, she saw a sketch that took up an entire portfolio page.

  It displayed two naked women in a four-poster bed. Their legs were scissored together, and the woman on top was staring into her lover’s eyes and touching her face tenderly. Wind through the room’s windows billowed the window curtains and the satiny material on the bed’s upper crossbars.

  Three words: Harlequin romance cover, Margaret wrote.

  Jeez, it’s a tough crowd, Ricarda responded.

  If Ellen DeGeneres ever writes a trashy novel, you’re set.

  I’m not talking to you any more.

  Some days after that, Ricarda emailed: Okay, check the folder again. I usually don’t do arty stuff, but I have a vague memory of some German Expressionist paintings and I figure if I want you to try something new, I should try something new, right? :)

  Opening the folder, Margaret saw the new sketch immediately. It showed a car parked in dark woods. Through the windshield dimly two women could be seen, grappling in the front seats. One had her head between the other’s legs and had pushed up her skirt. With the contortions and the low light inside the vehicle, the dynamic was not clear.

  Is the one sitting up trying to help her, or stop her? Margaret wrote.

  Aha. It’s ambiguous, Ricarda emailed back.

  Margaret studied the sketch a long time.

  It’s really good, Ricarda, Margaret finally typed. It’s
art.

  Wow. Thank you. I guess I was really nervous doing it, I didn’t add any detail or anything (and I love tiny little details, I think I’m part engineer). Your praise means a lot. Whew!

  The following week, Ricarda wrote: I want to draw you and me.

  I’m not ready for that, Margaret replied.

  Why?

  I’m just not. Please don’t push.

  I know you don’t want to. But do you want to want to?

  Margaret hesitated before replying: If you mean, do I want to feel the hunger for you that you seem to feel for me, no. I’m just scared. It’s a huge cliff to jump off of and I don’t know what’s under it. Does that make sense?

  Ricarda did not reply that night. Nor the next day. Nor the day after.

  Hey! Margaret finally wrote. So, what’s up? Are you mad at me? I thought we were having a nice art-critique thing going. I was actually really proud of myself, it probably didn’t seem much to you but moving an inch forward for me is like anyone else moving across the world. Does that make sense (again)?

  Ricarda still did not answer.

  Two evenings later, Margaret staggered into her apartment late after her firm’s annual holiday party. She smelled of alcohol. Casting her coat onto the floor, she stepped unsteadily into her office and logged in to her email. She saw no message from Ricarda.

  Margaret clicked “New Message,” addressed it to Ricarda, and began typing.

  Okay, time for a heart-to-heart. Do I think you’re beautiful? Yes. I looked up into your face that first day we met and I thought, what a knockout! But Ricarda, oh my gosh, I have been with exactly three men in my whole life. One was a one-nighter, I never saw him again. Hooray for booze. One lasted two months, the other a year but it was off and on. What I’m trying to say is that I’m extremely sexually uptight, and that’s just with men. What would it be like with a woman? I’d disappoint you for sure and then our whole friendship would be kabooom… Yes I spelled that with three os. Emphasis. Anyway. I’m Catholic, I’m conservative, I’m shy, I’m scared, I think you believe I’m way hotter than I am and once you saw me naked you’d realize you’re wrong, oh God Ricarda there’s no way this could work, even if I wanted you like you want me it still would go kabooom (three os)…

  Margaret kept typing for almost an hour. Then she clicked “Send.”

  A few minutes later, her computer beeped. A new message from Ricarda had arrived in Margaret’s inbox. Margaret opened it.

  Here is a drawing of us, Ricarda wrote. Listen to me. There’s a million reasons why we shouldn’t. And there’s only one reason why we should. But the million reasons don’t matter if that one reason beats them all. I want you, I need you, and I need you to jump off that cliff. Get into bed, turn off the lights, think of us together and touch yourself. Say my name. I’ve been saying yours since the day we met.

  The email had an attachment. Margaret stared at the words, not moving her mouse. Then she rose to her feet and walked to her bedroom while removing her clothes, letting them fall on the hardwood floor. When she was naked, she turned to a big mirror over the dresser in front of her bed.

  Her reflection showed a tall, strong woman in her thirties who still looked like she was in her twenties. Margaret studied her breasts. They were big and round, heavy, but with little sag. Her stomach was smooth and flat, the product of a disciplined gym regimen. Her thick brown pubic hair made an almost perfect triangle between her legs.

  “Why does she like me,” Margaret said out loud. She sighed, and her body seemed to deflate.

  She brushed her teeth naked, then powered down her computer and turned off the lights in her apartment. Slipping under her bed covers, she felt around in the dark before lifting an iPad from her bedside table. She accessed her email again, her face illuminated by the screen’s glow.

  Ricarda’s sketch showed her and Margaret from the side, naked in a bed. Ricarda’s head was between Margaret’s legs. Ricarda had raised her foot playfully over her own butt, the toes curled, as she lay on her stomach. Margaret’s strong thighs hid most of Ricarda’s face. The couple’s hands were locked together. Margaret had turned her own face to the viewer. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her expression could have been despair, or ecstasy, or both, or neither. It was ambiguous.

  Margaret stared at the drawing. After a long time, her right hand slid down under the covers toward the space between her legs.

  * * *

  Margaret stood in her business clothes: suit jacket, white blouse, charcoal skirt. She scanned the casino floor. A mass of Chinese people moved through the tables and slot machines like an ocean current, passing through a room so vast that the opposite wall appeared tiny. Margaret pulled her phone from her pocket and re-read emails. The first was one she had sent to Ricarda: Hey! Short notice, but I’ll be in Macao tomorrow night if you’re around and would like to get a bite to eat. Would that work?

  Ricarda had replied: I can make it work. Yeah! Where and when?

  Margaret: How about Pun Yao Restaurant at the Veronese, 8 PM?

  Ricarda: Sounds good. I’m doing cart service right now, so I gotta run but see you there!

  Margaret replaced the phone and looked around again, trying not to bounce up and down in her expensive business shoes. She glanced up. The restaurant’s sign was illuminated in white lights. Pun Yao Chinese Cuisine, Macao Veronese Hotel and Casino was written in both Roman and Chinese letters. An Asian man in a tailored suit stood deferentially near Margaret, clasping and unclasping his hands nervously.

  Turning again, Margaret spotted a woman in stylish glasses who was wearing a navy blue flight attendant uniform. The woman approached through the throng: it was Ricarda. She pulled a rolling carry-on with a trademark sassy, hip-swinging gait. Margaret beamed and waved at her.

  Ricarda saw Margaret. She grinned and waved back.

  When Ricarda had finally arrived, she said something.

  “What?” Margaret shouted. She gestured around her. Over the machine noise, crowd chatter, and the roar of an artificial waterfall nearby, Margaret could not hear. She gestured for Ricarda to follow her. The hovering Asian man leapt into action, opening the restaurant door for the women as he smiled and bowed low.

  Inside, a surreal quiet pervaded the elegant dining room. Chinese couples ate and murmured over white tablecloths. Margaret’s guide led her and Ricarda to a small door at the back of the restaurant. An attendant opened it for them.

  Inside a small room, an ancient Chinese table, lacquered and beautifully carved, sat in the middle flanked by two chairs. Dragons and antique carved pagoda beams jutted out from all around the crown of the room near the high ceiling.

  The Chinese man turned to Margaret. “I hope you and your guest will have an excellent evening,” he said in a perfect British accent. “Chang will be your server. I shall be outside should you need anything. Please do not hesitate.” He nodded at Chang, a severe-looking fortyish Asian man dressed in a traditional uniform of a servant of the Emperor’s household.

  Margaret nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Wu.”

  Wu offered his best smile, bowed low again, and left the room. Ricarda looked around. “Can we smoke those?” she joked, pointing to ancient opium pipes among the antiques decorating the wall.

  “Of course,” Chang said.

  “Uh, no thanks. I was just kidding.”

  “But maybe a drink, huh?” Margaret said. She sat before Chang could pull the chair for her.

  “Love one!” Ricarda replied. She allowed Chang to seat her. “What are my choices?”

  “What is your pleasure, madam?” Chang asked.

  Ricarda glanced at Margaret. “Whiskey sour?”

  Chang looked to Margaret.

  “Patrón tequila,” Margaret said. “Añejo Special.”

  Chang disappeared.

  “I see you’ve developed a taste for that stuff,” Ricarda said.

  “I did. I blame you. That tequila’s expensive.”

  “I’ll bet it’s especially pricey
, here.” Ricarda looked around the luxurious private room.

  “Actually, tonight it’s free. Everything’s free. It’s on Murray.”

  “Who?”

  “The owner.”

  “He must like you a lot.”

  “He can afford it. So get whatever you want. It’s the best Chinese food in Macao.”

  Ricarda beamed. “I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve seen you since we met on that flight.”

  “I know. Crazy!”

  Chang returned with the drinks. After scanning the hand-written linen menus, Margaret and Ricarda ordered. Chang departed.

  “What was it you said outside?” Margaret asked.

  “When?”

  “Out there. Outside the restaurant, when you got here.”

  Ricarda touched her flight uniform. “Oh. I said I’d come straight from the airport and hadn’t had a chance to change. Had you been you waiting long?”

  “No. Well, I was early. A little.”

  Ricarda smirked. “Oh yeah?”

  “I like to be early.”

  Ricarda’s smirk turned seductive. “Early to bed, early to rise?”

  Margaret reached for her water glass and missed, sloshing ice and water all over the table and onto the floor. “Goddamn it!” she cried.

  “Whoa. It’s okay,” Ricarda said. “Just a spill.”

  Immediately, five restaurant staff employees were inside the room. One mopped the floor. The others cleared the table, wiped the lacquer surface clean, then rearranged everything as before. One brought Margaret a new water glass. They left as quickly and silently as they had come.

  “What just happened?” Ricarda asked after a pause.

  “Pretty amazing, huh?” Margaret forced herself to laugh, then downed a mouthful of tequila.

  “Do those guys… just stand outside, waiting for shit like that to happen?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen that before.”

  Ricarda looked around the room again. “Are they watching us?”

  “I don’t think so.” Margaret sighed. “But it’s possible. They often use this room for high stakes gambling. Really, really high stakes.”

  “Ah so.”