MIRABELLE’S FIRST DILEMMA IS THE valet parker. She can’t afford to pay someone three-fifty plus tip to whisk her car away. But parking is restricted and she will have to leave her car several blocks away if she doesn’t. She decides it is inelegant to arrive on this first date looking windblown, and she slides the car to the curb and takes the check the valet hands her, praying that Mr. Ray Porter will take pity on someone who is currently carrying only eight dollars in cash. The car vanishes and she pulls on the restaurant door but it won’t open, then she pushes, then realizes she is trying to open the hinged side, then she pushes on the correct side, then pulls, and the door finally gives way. She enters a darkened little cave, certainly not the hip spot in town, and sees a jury of older diners wearing gold-buttoned blazers and big shirt collars. There is a saving grace, though. A young actor from a hot television show, Trey Bryan, sits in the corner with several producer types, and his presence saves the place from being complete squaresville. The maître d’, a once dashing Italian, approaches her with a “Buona sera,” and Mirabelle wonders what he said.
“I’m meeting Mr. Ray Porter,” she chances.
“Ah. Nice to see you again. Right this way.”
He leads Mirabelle past several red leather banquettes and around a lattice. In a booth too large for two people sits Ray Porter. He is looking down at a notepad and doesn’t see her at first, but he looks up almost immediately. The incandescent lighting, filtered through the red lampshades, warms everybody up, and to him, she looks better than at Neiman’s. He rises to greet her and guides her into the booth, and sits her to his right.
“Do you remember my name?” he asks.
“Yes, and all the exciting times we’ve had.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Red wine?” she questions.
“Do you like Italian?”
“I’m not sure what I like; I’m still forming,” says Mirabelle.
Ray Porter is relieved that he can desire her and like her at the same time. The waiter attends them and Ray orders two glasses of Barolo from the wine list, as Mirabelle plays with her spoon.
“So why did you go out with me?” He cascades his napkin open and lays it on his lap.
“I think that’s an impolite question.” Mirabelle puts the right amount of coy in her voice.
“Fair enough,” says Ray Porter.
“So why did you ask me out?” says Mirabelle.
The fundamentally simple answer to that question is rarely spoken on any first date ever. And the real answer doesn’t occur to Ray, Mirabelle, or even the waiter. Fortunately Ray Porter has a logical reply that prevents a silence that would have been awkward for both of them.
“If it’s impolite for me, it’s impolite for you.”
“Fair enough,” says Mirabelle.
“Fair enough,” says Ray Porter.
And they sit, each in a tiny struggle about what to say next. Finally, Mirabelle succeeds.
“How did you get my address?” she says.
“Sorry about that. I just did, that’s all. I lied to Neiman’s and got your last name, then one call to information.”
“Have you done that before?
“I think I’ve done everything before. But no, I don’t think I’ve done that before.”
“Thank you for the gloves.”
“Do you have anything to wear them with?”
“Yes, plaid shorts and sneakers.”
He looks at her, then realizes she has made a joke.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean besides work at Neiman’s?”
“I’m an artist. I draw. I can draw.”
“I can’t draw a line. A sheet of paper is less valuable once I’ve scribbled on it. What do you draw?”
“Usually dead things.”
At this point, Ray Porter imagines an entirely different iceberg beneath Mirabelle’s psychic waterline than the one that actually exists.
The wine arrives. The waiter pours it as they sit in silence. When he leaves, they speak again.
She asks him about himself and Mr. Ray Porter tells her, all the while his eyes drifting down the line of her neck to her white starched blouse, which, as she breathes, bellows open and closed. This half inch of space allows him a view of her skin, just above her breasts, which nestles into the white of her bra. He wants to poke his hand in and leave a light, pale fingerprint on her. His glances toward her take place between Mirabelle’s own glances toward him, so that these looks to each other are effectively woven together, yet never intercepted by either.
They make it through to the end of the evening, with the conversation lasting just until the check comes, at which point they run out of topics. Then they deal with the business part of the evening, that part where phone numbers are exchanged and hours indicated when it is best to call. Ray Porter gives her his Seattle number as well, the direct line, not the office. As they leave the restaurant, he places his hand on the small of her back in a gesture of assistance as she passes through the door. This is their absolute first physical contact and does not go unnoticed by either’s subconscious.
Mirabelle’s car comes first, and she troops around to the open door, where she begins to fumble in her purse for a tip. “It’s been taken care of,” says the valet.
She drives home, not sure of what she is feeling, but filled with what is probably the first truly expensive meal of her life. When she gets home, there is a message from Ray Porter asking her to dinner next Thursday. There is also a message from Jeremy asking her to call him back, that night. Her responsibility gene kicks in, and she phones him, even though it is twenty-five minutes short of midnight.
“Yeah?” Jeremy believes this is a clever way to answer the phone.
“You wanted me to call?” says Mirabelle.
“Yeah. Thanks. Oh, hi. What are you doing?”
“You mean now?”
“Yeah, wanna come over?” says Jeremy.
Mirabelle thinks of Lisa. She wonders how he can be addicted so soon. They hardly did it and she hardly cut it off. One sloppy evening of flaccid sex and Jeremy is begging for another soggy dog biscuit. Lisa’s phone must be ringing off the hook. She must have endless messages of coercion on her machine from sad-eyed lovers.
“Come on over,” continues Jeremy.
This inquiry reverses every electron in Mirabelle’s body, causing her attraction to Jeremy, which was at one time a weak North-South, to become a strong North-North. It is the perfect wrong time for Jeremy to do to Mirabelle what she had done to him — call him up for a quick fix — because, in a sense, she is now betrothed. Her first date with someone who treated her well obligates her to faithfulness, at least until the relationship is explored. She does not want to betray this unspoken promise to Ray Porter. But Mirabelle is polite, even when she doesn’t have to be, and she thinks she owes Jeremy at least a conversation. After all, he wasn’t so awful, and she continues:
“It’s too late,” she says.
“It’s not too late,” he counters.
“It’s too late for me. I have to get up.”
“Come on.”
“I can’t.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“It’s not too late.”
“No.”
“Want me to come over there?”
“It’s too late.”
“I can be over there in ten minutes.”
“No.”
“Wanna meet somewhere?”
“I can’t.”
“We could meet somewhere.”
“I have to hang up.”
“I could come over and then leave early so you could sleep.”
Mirabelle convinces Jeremy that no way, not now, not tonight, not ever, is he getting her in bed when it isn’t her idea, and finally she gets him off the phone. This incident has sullied the events of the evening, and she has to concentrate to get herself back to her earlier buzz.
She putters around the kitchen, remembering this or that about her dinner with Ray Porter, also noting that this was one of the first evenings in a long time that hadn’t cost her anything. She is pleased that she had been her best self, that she had entered a new world and had been comfortable in it. She had given something back to the person who took her out. She had made jokes, she had been wry, she had been pretty for him. She had turned him on. She had listened. And in return, he had put his hand on the small of her back and paid for her parking and bought her dinner. To Mirabelle this exchange seems fair and good, and next time, if he asks, she will kiss him.
Ray Porter’s faithfulness ratio is somewhat different. While he also had a good time, meaning that the evening was charged with little invisible ions of attraction, this does not mean that any devotion is in order at all. What it does mean is that they will have several or many dates, and until something is indicated or promised otherwise, they are independent of each other. But this is such a routine thought for Ray Porter that he doesn’t even bother to think it. He had called her from his car phone with an invitation for Thursday not only because he liked her but also because there is a riddle in his mind. Upon reflection, he cannot tell if the surface he glimpsed under Mirabelle’s blouse was her skin or a flesh-colored nylon underthing. As he weighs the evidence, he decides that it had to be a nylon underthing as what he saw was too uniform, too perfect, too balanced in color to be skin. On the other hand, if it was her skin, then she possesses his particular intoxicant, a heady milk bath he can submerge himself in, and soak in, and drown in. He knows that this riddle will probably not be solved on Thursday, but without it, there will be no Saturday, which is the next logical step in its solution.
He gets in bed, and instead of letting the streams of data pour through his mind, he lets the symbols of sex form their own strict logic. The white blouse implies the skin which implies the bra which implies her breasts which implies her neck and her hair. This leads to her stomach which necessarily invokes her abdomen which leads to her inner thigh which leads to her panties which leads to a damp line on white cotton that he can press on and gain a millimeter of access to her vagina. This access leads to further access and implies taste and aroma and a unification of his self made possible by the possession of his very opposite. This logical sequence is plotted against a series of intermittent days that spread over several months. The entire formula is a function of whether the square inch in question is skin or nylon, and if it is nylon, what then is the true texture of the square inch hidden beneath it?
gloves
MIRABELLE STRIDES CONFIDENTLY PAST THE working stiffs on the first floor and heads to her sanctuary on the fourth. She takes the stairs two steps at a time, and oddly, she is in the mood to work. She is even thinking of ways to sell more gloves by laying a few out on the end tables and display cases throughout the store. Then she gets to her department, takes her post, crosses her legs at the ankles, and stands there. And stands there. No management comes by all day for her to spill her idea to. There is more for her to look at, however, as the pre-Thanksgiving nonrush means more people pass by her counter on their way to somewhere else. Lunchtime comes, and she has a definite feeling that she has not moved for three and a half hours.
She decides to take a two-hour lunch. This is accomplished through lying. She explains to her immediate boss, Mr. Agasa, that she has an appointment for a female problem and that she tried to schedule it for another time but that this is the only time the doctor can take her. Mr. Agasa stammers while she adds that things are slow and that she has asked Lisa to keep an eye on the counter, and he nods a concerned okay.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I think I’m okay, but I should be checked.”
And she leaves the store. Hitting the flats of Beverly Hills, she pops into a yogurt shop on the premise that she can have an entire meal for three dollars, and she takes her brimming cup outside and vacations in the sun on Bedford Drive. In the hard sunlight, her hair shines a deep maroon. She angles her wire chair toward the low-rise that houses all the Beverly Hills shrinks, hoping to spot a few celebrities. This is the building where she goes to renew her medication, so she recognizes a few of the nurses and receptionists who file in and out. Next to her sits a woman so repulsive that Mirabelle has to turn her body uncomfortably so as to edge her out of her peripheral vision. The woman converses on a cell phone while shoveling in contradictory amounts of low-calorie yogurt. Her fat droops over the chair and hides all but its legs. Her hair is brassy from chemicals designed to make it look golden, and her smoker’s face has a subtle gray cast. However, what she speaks about on the phone is in fact quite gentle. She is concerned about someone who is ill, which makes Mirabelle squirm a little over her lie to Mr. Agasa. The woman speaks, stops, then after what must have been a long speech by the person on the other end of the line, says,
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