The Apotheosis. Darrell Lee

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      Amira parked her SUV across the street from John’s building. The winter had been relatively snowless so the drive hadn’t been bad. Blue jeans, boots, thin jade sweater and a brown leather jacket seemed appropriate to her. When she entered the code John had texted, the door opened. She took the elevator to the top floor, the penthouse, of course. John opened the door with a big smile. He looked handsome and relaxed in his blue jeans, socks, and Patriots T-shirt.

      “Please, come in. I’m so glad you came.”

      Amira felt flushed again and stepped inside. She liked the way he looked at her. She let it soak in. John shut the door. She felt the uneasiness again, being alone with him.

      The ceiling was high. A spacious living room area spread in front of her, a fireplace with a flat-screen TV above it. A bay window showcased downtown Boston in the distance. The sofa was leather and the coffee table in front had three stacks of books covering it. The walls on each side of the fireplace were shelved and filled with books. More books rested on a low shelf below the bay window. Beyond the living room she could see the kitchen. The walls and ceiling were painted taupe, and all the trimming around the rooms were white.

      John led her to the kitchen. All the cabinets were aged white. A long counter with bar-height chairs separated the living room from the kitchen. The table, set for two, waited at the other end of the kitchen.

      “Have a seat and watch me prepare the best iron-skillet rib-eye dinner you will ever have,” John said, motioning to a chair at the counter. “Would you like some wine?”

      “That would be great.” She removed her jacket and placed it on the back of the chair at the end of the counter.

      John poured them some wine from an open bottle sitting on the counter by the stove. He handed her a glass.

      “To friends and life with passion,” he said.

      They touched glasses and took a sip. John moved back to the counter and continued to slice the mushrooms in a small pile. Resting on a metal pan were two marbled steaks covered with seasonings.

      This was the first time she had taken a long look at him. His shoulders were broad, it hadn’t been just the suit. His stomach was as flat as a board and his jeans fit him very nice and snug on his rear.

      Why didn’t she and Ethan cook this way? Part of it was certainly because of custom. Marriage is prone to be highjacked by custom and predictability. Custom carries its own security, its own comfort. It easily changes into laziness.

      And then there was being Jewish. It came with its own set of rules, regulations, and social pressure and structure. And the overriding fear of change. Ethan feared change in their pre-defined roles more than anything else.

      “I have salad, too. It’s already done and sitting in the fridge.”

      She watched him now, how he moved, even the simple act of slicing mushrooms. He went to the cabinet to get a pan to sauté the mushrooms, then reached for the cooking wine. He moved with precision and grace. Strong and confident. For the first time in a long time Amira felt herself getting aroused from just watching a man. He was talking, but she wasn’t paying any attention until he stopped.

      “Would you?” John asked again.

      “I—uh.”

      “Music?”

      “Yes, I guess so.”

      John swiped at a screen on the wall near the refrigerator and low, smooth saxophone jazz came from nowhere. Amira had told herself on the drive to his apartment that she could stop this any time she wanted. Could still stop it even now. But it was becoming bigger than she was, gaining its own momentum. Picking her up and taking her to the place she wanted to go so badly, but was afraid of at the same time. She was also afraid of silence and realized she hadn’t said much since she’d walked in.

      “What’s this gift you claim to have for me?”

      “You want to know now?”

      “Of course.”

      John stopped slicing mushrooms. “I was going to wait till after dinner, but if you insist.”

      He opened the cabinet near her and picked up two boxes wrapped in Valentine’s Day motif wrapping paper. “Valentine’s Day is only two days away, so they didn’t even ask how I wanted it wrapped. Sorry.” He handed her one of the boxes.

      It wasn’t light, but not heavy either. She pulled at the ribbon until it came loose, then tore away the red and white paper. She opened the box to find a book. She looked at the title and author: In The Half Moon Light by Joseph Clarke.

      “I’ve never seen this book.”

      “I know. Nobody has. It’s his latest. It won’t be at the bookstores for another month.”

      “How?”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ