Every Little Thing. Pamela Klaffke

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СКАЧАТЬ I say. It’s kind of nice to be out, meeting new people, casually drinking on someone else’s expense account and talking about art. Well, talking mostly about TV, but that can be art—like the shows on HBO. And I don’t mind having Aaron’s arm around the back of my chair. There’s a feeling of safety and warmth that comes over me when a man has his arm around me. It’s not very feminist to admit this, but it is really comforting.

      Aaron asks me tons of questions about my life, my plans. I don’t have very good answers, but I try to make myself sound intriguing with a little exaggeration here and a purposely self-deprecating comment there. He seems genuinely interested in what I have to say and he looks straight into my eyes when he speaks. It’s almost too much, and every once in a while I have to look away.

      “I hope this is okay,” Aaron says. He’s leaning in and talking close. I can smell the scotch on his breath. After all that wine at the gallery and now the scotch that just keeps coming, I know tomorrow will be painful.

      “What’s okay?” I ask.

      “This,” he says and points first to himself and then to me. I don’t get it.

      “You? Me?”

      “Exactly.”

      “I don’t—oh.” This is a date. I am on a date with Aaron. I had no idea I was on a date. Can it have been so long that I can’t even recognize a date when I’m on one? Am I okay with this? Aaron is my ex-stepbrother and aren’t there rules or laws about that? No, I suppose not since we’re not really related. And my mother was married to his dad such a long time ago and for such a short time. I look at Aaron. He is attractive in a boyish, sensitive artist kind of way. I have dated so many assholes—I deserve someone nice. I could date Aaron, I think. For now, anyway, until I go back to Canada. It could be something to do; it might be fun.

      Another two glasses of scotch in and I’m resting my head on Aaron’s shoulder. I’m woozy and drunk. He has an arm around my waist. I notice Tamara giving me strange looks—and Nathan, too. They’re sitting across the table from us. “So, what kinds of things do you like to do?” I ask them. Maybe I can get some tips—places Aaron and I could go on dates, things like that.

      “What do you mean? Like in bed?” Tamara asks.

      “God, no! I mean, good places to go—restaurants, bars, shops, whatever,” I say.

      “I get you,” Tamara says, but she’s still acting weird. It could be that people like them simply aren’t used to being in places like this. I should make them feel more comfortable.

      “What’s your favorite, most romantic spot in the city?” I ask.

      “Why?” Tamara asks.

      “I think Mason’s looking for suggestions,” Aaron says. “I hope Mason’s looking for suggestions.” His voice is slurry. I laugh and he leans in closer, kissing me lightly on the lips.

      “Ew,” says Tamara

      “What?” I say.

      “I have no idea what kind of fucked-up incest shit you two are into, but I don’t want anything to do with it,” says Nathan as they collect their things.

      “Wait,” I say. “It’s not like that—he’s not my brother, not my real brother, well not anymore. It’s just that my mother—”

      “Really, you don’t have to explain,” says Tamara, as Nathan pulls her toward the exit.

      “But, we’re not—”

      Aaron laughs. “Forget it, Mason.”

      “It’s not funny.”

      “It sort of is,” he says.

      “What’s funny?” Edgar asks from the other end of the table. “Where’d your little art friends go?”

      “They got freaked out because they saw me kiss Mason and they think we’re siblings—it’s a misunderstanding.”

      It was embarrassing. Aaron and Edgar think it’s hilarious.

      “They certainly weren’t very open-minded. And they call themselves artists—tsk, tsk,” Edgar says.

      “I should go,” I say.

      “I’ll take you home,” Aaron says.

      “I’ll get a cab,” I say.

      “Use my car service,” says Edgar. “There’s a town car right out front. I’ll call my driver now.”

      “Oh. Okay. Thanks,” I say.

      “I’ll walk you out,” Aaron says.

      Edgar stands as he slips his phone back into his jacket pocket. He walks over to me and gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you?” he whispers. I can’t help but laugh, although I have no idea where this came from. He pulls me closer. “You know you are. Just be careful with him.” He nods towards Aaron. “He’s not like you and me.”

      SHOWTIME

      I’ve never seen one of Janet’s fashion shows. Before I left for Canada she was designing cargo pants and backpacks for a local eco-clothing company that went under after it was revealed they were using sweatshop labor and the press pounced all over them. Janet swore she didn’t know a thing about it, and she’s a person that’s hard not to believe. She really should be on TV.

      This is not like a big runway show or anything, just a tea-style presentation in her studio, which is way bigger than I could have imagined. And she has staff—there are stylish young men and women flitting around, chatting people up and handing out something they’re calling a “look book.” I flip through mine and pretend to be engrossed. I don’t know a single person here. Where is Seth?

      The “look book” is basically a catalog without prices and with better photography. The only giveaway that it’s not some fashion magazine insert is the subtle names and numbers tastefully printed at the bottom of the page: Annette blouse, #7395, Marion trouser, #2849, and so on. Naming every piece in a collection seems like a weird thing to do, but what do I know about the fashion business? I say: get a look and stick with it. It makes life easier and it worked for Andy Warhol.

      There are no assigned seats. One of Janet’s smiley staff told me that. She was cheery and wearing a beige linen suit—all the staff members are wearing sharply cut beige suits with black dress shirts, open halfway. I bet the suits aren’t beige, but ecru or sand. Fashion is so pretentious and everyone is so skinny. I feel like a lump. Maybe I should have asked Aaron to come with me—he called earlier to invite me on a trip to Edgar’s ranch in Montana for the weekend, leaving tomorrow. My first instinct was to say no—after the other night, and the kiss, and Edgar’s weirdness—but I fought the instinct. Is kissing your ex-stepbrother really that wrong? It’s not illegal. I looked it up online just to be sure. But it’s—I don’t know—it’s sort of wrong, but not in a bad way. Maybe I am naughty, like Edgar said. A smile creeps onto my face. I kind of like that idea, the idea of me as the mischievous coquette. What does the modern mischievous coquette wear on a ranch in Montana?

      I СКАЧАТЬ