Page 73 of Twice
“All right,” she whispered.
Nicolette rose, rubbing against me, her skirt rising as we made contact before falling gently back onto her thigh. I’m embarrassed to say how excited I was by this woman. Two minutes later we were at the elevator and Nicolette was swaying, humming that song to herself.
“Make... someone happy... Make one person happy...”
When we got in, we pressed our respective floors—hers was the penthouse, I was on eighteen—and she reached out and intercepted my hand and placed it firmly on her hip. She pressed against me, kissed me hard, and grabbed my belt and began to undo it.
“Lemme see, lemme see,” she murmured.
I was dizzy from the drinks, dizzy from the idea, and so aroused that for a moment my muscles tightened and I couldn’t move, I just let her do what she was doing. But there are planks that we walk and planks we jump off, and finally, at the sound of my zipper, I stepped back off that plank and said, “I can’t, Nicolette, I’m married. You know?”
She pressed her eyes closed and spun away as if dancing.“Right” she said, and then, “Right... right, right,” kind of singsongy-drunk, and then the elevator pinged and the doors opened and I could all but touch the freedom in the air of the eighteenth floor. I backed out fast and blurted, “Thanks-a-lot-see-you-OK.” As the doors closed, she was straightening her skirt and not even looking at me.
I staggered to my room as if walking through a wind tunnel. I let myself in. I saw the envelope from Gianna on the bed. I opened it. It was a Valentine’s Day card, with a photo of the two of us inside. I hadn’t even remembered it was Valentine’s Day. I put it down and called our apartment.
Gianna’s voice was groggy with sleep.
“Alfie?” she mumbled. “What time is it?”
“Time to come home,” I said.
Nassau
Gianna Rule, dressed in a bra and shorts after a shower, spread her various camera lenses across the hotel bed. She’d already been out yesterday on a day-long shoot and was planning a few more hours this afternoon. The sea life in the Bahamas was incredible, and she’d photographed some creatures she had never seen before. Rock iguanas, for one. They were an endangered species and the reason she was here, a magazine story on proposed oil drilling that threatened the island’s marine life. The hope was that the beauty of her photographs would inspire opposition.
“Time, time, time,” she mumbled, searching for her phone. She lifted a dirty T-shirt and a paperback book, then finally found it under a pillow.
“Ahh, no,” she moaned. It was nearly two o’clock. The car was supposed to meet her in five minutes. She called her assistant but got no answer. She pulled on her sandals.
Suddenly, her room phone rang, and the shrill noise startled her. She stared at it, thinking about the news she’d gotten yesterday, that her ex-husband was here on the island. Her assistant had seen him wandering around the lobby. At first, she wondered if he was stalking her again. He’d never liked the way things ended.
But maybe it was just a coincidence. There was a big new casino here, drawing lots of tourists, and her ex had become enamored with gambling over the years. Either way, if thiswas him calling, she wanted no part of it. She let the phone ring until it stopped.
She hurried to the mirror, slapped on some moisturizer and a little makeup, then tousled her hair. She was proud, maybe a bit surprised, that at her age, she didn’t have much gray. It helped her look young, which, much as she hated to admit it, also helped her in the photography business. She yanked on a long-sleeved cotton hoodie to protect her from the sun, then grabbed three lenses and shoved them in her camera bag. She did her typical spin around the room, making sure she wasn’t forgetting anything.
As she pulled the door shut behind her, the room phone started ringing again.
The Composition Book
It’s obvious by now, Boss, that I’ve hidden many things from you. I am sorry. Secrecy is a loan against your better judgment. You pay the interest in regret.
I have kept my illness under wraps. This will make you mad, and perhaps sad. But please don’t feel sorry for me. I knew this was coming. For what it’s worth, I know how my life will end. I’m already having trouble walking. Next, I’ll have a stroke. I’ll lose my ability to speak. After that, I’ll need to be fed and bathed. And soon my brain will stop communicating with my lungs. When they fail, so will I.
That stroke is coming soon. I’ve suffered it once. I will suffer it again. Despite my remarkable power, I’ll die like anyone else, having done what I could with what I had.
So, please, keep reading. And let me correct the biggest mistake of my life.
?
The six months after I returned from California were, for Gianna and me, like a second honeymoon. We had money from the film option, so I didn’t take any new assignments, and I encouraged Gianna to cut her work schedule at the camera store. For the first time in a long while, we had unhurried hours together. We took weekend trips. We stayed up late watching movies. We brought food to the alley cats in the morning and ate breakfasts in half-empty diners aftermost people had gone to work. We visited the Bronx Zoo many times, Gianna bouncing along, snapping photos while I carried her equipment over my shoulder.
We made love often during that stretch. The first night after I returned, I’d been so attentive to her body that afterward Gianna purred, “You should go to California more often.” I smiled at her, but deep down I knew my focus—that night, and for much of the time that followed—was forged in guilt, perhaps the world’s strongest motivator for man’s temporary good behavior.
When thoughts about Nicolette Pink arose, I suppressed them. Nothing really happened with her, or at least what did happen, I had resisted. That’s what I told myself. And what you tell yourself long enough becomes, like new paint on an old wall, the only color you see.
?
The movie finished filming and was scheduled to be released in late November. We received an invitation to a premiere in Los Angeles. It came in a large, expensive-looking envelope and had red felt lining and embossed lettering.
