Растущий лес. Владимир Мясоедов

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      “Is a sweatshirt out of the question?”

      “Only if you were planning to wear the hooded one with the broken zipper and the bleach stain on the front.”

      I can tell by his expression that he was.

      “What’s wrong with that one?” he asks. “Too dumpy?”

      “Too Unabomber.”

      He scowls.

      “Don’t be mad, Jack. Come on. Cheer up. Do you want to invite somebody over, too?” I ask in my best toddler-soothing voice, thinking maybe poor Jackie wants a playdate, too.

      “Like who?”

      “How about Mitch?”

      Mitch is one of his college buddies who recently moved to Manhattan and doesn’t know many people yet. I keep meaning to fix him up with one of my friends, because it’s a sin to let a cute single guy go to waste in this town.

      “I can’t invite Mitch,” says Jack, who needless to say doesn’t share my views on cute single guys going to waste.

      “Why not? He’s probably sitting home alone.”

      “That’s better than being pounced on by a horny queen who thinks every single guy in New York is secretly closeted.”

      “Horny queen?” I echo ominously. “That’s really mean, Jack.”

      “It’s also how Raphael described himself in the last personals ad he ran.”

      That’s right. He did. And he meant it in a most complimentary way.

      He got a ton of responses, too.

      “Don’t you remember what happened when you invited Raphael over the night Jeff was in town?” Jeff is an old frat brother of Jack’s.

      Feigning Alzheimer’s, I ask, “No, what happened?”

      “For starters, Raphael gave him a lap dance.”

      “Oh, yeah.” I shrug. “I guess you won’t be inviting anyone over tonight, then.”

      “I guess not. You’re lucky I’m staying home at all.”

      I’m lucky he’s staying home? Is it me, or should he be wearing a wife beater and belching down canned beer when he says something like that?

      “I’m going to change,” he says, planting a cozy little kiss on my nose, and I promptly decide to let him off the hook.

      You can’t really blame a guy for being a little cranky under the circumstances. In fact, how many straight live-in boyfriends would shave, and put on a nice polo shirt and clean jeans for a horny queen?

      That’s exactly what Jack does.

      He emerges from the bathroom in a mist of air freshener just as I’m about to open the door for Raphael.

      “Is that Lysol?” I ask, sniffing.

      “Room spray. Gristedes was out of Lysol.”

      “Snoopy Sniffer is going to comment,” I warn him.

      Raphael’s nose is even more discriminating about scents—good and bad—than he is about fashion.

      Jack shrugs, and I open the door.

      First, I should point out that with his Latin good looks, Raphael is a dead ringer for Ricky Martin. Rather, Ricky Martin is a dead ringer for Raphael because, as Raphael likes to say, he himself is still hotter than hot and Ricky is more over than pink tweed bouclé.

      I should also point out that Raphael is dressed in red from head to toe this fine evening. Red leather jacket, tight red T-shirt, tight red jeans, and—

      “Are those red patent-leather spats?” I ask. Ay carumba.

      “Yes!” Raphael shouts joyously, and strikes a toe-pointing pose. “Tracey, do you love?”

      “Hmm…” I tilt my head. “I could possibly grow to love. Where did you get them?”

      “Either I bought them off a folding table on the Bowery, or at JCPenney when I was in Missouri on business last year. I forget which.”

      “My money’s on the Bowery,” Jack says dryly, draping an arm over my shoulders.

      “Mmm, I think it was Penney’s,” Raphael says decisively, and heads toward our kitchenette toting a couple of grocery bags.

      “What did you bring?” I wriggle from Jack’s embrace and follow him.

      “Everything we need for paella, including rum.”

      “Rum goes into paella?”

      “No, Tracey, the rum goes into us. We’re making mojitos. Oh!” He smacks his head. “I forgot something at the spice market. I knew I would.”

      “What is it?” I ask, opening the narrow cupboard where we keep your basic salt, cinnamon and garlic powder. “Maybe we have it.”

      I have no idea what we have, since this has become mostly Jack’s domain. It’s not that I don’t cook, or can’t cook. It’s just that ever since he cooked for me on one of our very significant first dates, it’s become our little tradition.

      “I need saffron,” Raphael reveals. “Got any?”

      I glance at Jack, who’s lingering on the outskirts of the kitchen because three adults can’t fit within the perimeter unless one of them is a waif.

      “No saffron,” Jack informs Raphael.

      “Jack!” Did I mention Raphael’s conversational style is liberally sprinkled with exclamation points and people’s first names? “Do you want to double-check? Maybe you have a smidge left somewhere.”

      “Nope. I haven’t bought a smidge of saffron since…hmm, let me think—ever. Can your recipe do without?”

      “It can, but…well, that’s kind of like making marinara sauce without tomatoes,” he says dramatically.

      Moment of silence.

      What to do, what to do…

      Jack asks, “Would they have it at the Korean grocer?”

      “Probably.”

      “Okay, then I’ll go down to the corner and get some.”

      I shoot Jack my most grateful, loving look. The look I usually reserve for situations involving my family. Or sex.

      “Jack!” Raphael screams joyfully. “Ohmygodthatwouldbegreat! But…are you sure it’s not a problem?”

      “Not at all.” Jack is already СКАЧАТЬ