“WELL, that was a riot,” says Matthew once they’re inside his apartment. He sniffs. The odor is back. Damn. It’s in its rotten-banana phase. And there’s some other smell, too. What is that? He takes Leila’s coat, watching her nose. He sees nothing to suggest that she smells anything that offends her, no flaring of the nostrils, no wrinkling. “I’m going to make myself a drink,” he says. “Would you like something?”
“I would, yeah. But I don’t know what. Daddy taught me how to make all those drinks, but I don’t really like the taste of any of them.”
“I’m going to have a Scotch. Do you like Scotch?”
“No.”
“I’ll bet you’d like a Black Russian.”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you’ll like it.”
“Whatever.” She wanders past the kitchen and turns the corner. The view has its usual effect. “Oh, wow,” says Leila. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“It’s amazing. This is the most beautiful apartment I’ve ever seen.” She’s standing as close to the windows in the living room as she can, as if she were standing outside a shop window, looking in at something she wanted.
Matthew starts his favorite Coleman Hawkins tape, the bluest, throatiest. Leila doesn’t respond to the music, as far as he can tell. He returns to the kitchen to make the drinks. He hesitates over Leila’s.
You know, Matthew, says BW, it is possible to get a lot of alcohol into a girl pretty quickly through a well-concocted Black Russian.
I’m not going to descend to that.
He puts lots of ice into a lowball glass and pours less than a shot each of Kahlúa and vodka. He carries the drinks to the living room. He understands for the first time ever just what seething means when it is applied to emotions.
“You’ll like this, I think,” he says. “But don’t let it fool you. It’s stronger than it tastes. Go slow. I’ll be right back as soon as I change.”
[to be continued]
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