“Triple-J should be here any minute,” said Hogan. “Last update was he detoured to pick up Magnet.”
“Your namesake,” she whispered, squeezing my hand.
“Ah,” I said, smiling, assuming that Hogan, by “Magnet,” had meant “a Magnet,” as in “a copy of No Please Don’t”—a copy I would likely be asked to sign—and that Fondajane, in calling No Please Don’t my “namesake,” was either being precious or making a joke about novels being their authors’ offspring. That latter assumption didn’t really add up, since the novel’s title wasn’t Magnet, but had Fondajane whispered, “Goo goo g’joob,” instead of “Your namesake,” I doubt my response would have been any different. Had she whispered, “I’m being held hostage,” or “Run!” I doubt my response would have been any different. I was starstruck, reader. Charmed. Entranced. No little bit aroused. I thought I’d better sit.
“May I sit?” I said.
She let go of my hand and patted the seat of the stool between us. I sat, set the box of Crunch on the hibachi, scooted in til the counter was pressing my ribs. Now: where to look? The cost or benefit of using the counter to hide my lap was it put my face within inches of hers, which made the need to lap-hide all the more pressing.
The sound of Hogan’s footsteps receded behind me. I turned and waved. He descended the stairs to the elevator vestibule. When I heard the doors to the elevator shutting, I realized I hadn’t yet stopped waving, and that on top of committing what was probably a low-to-medium-grade faux pas (i.e. waving to the help), I’d kept my back to Fondajane for what had to have been about a quarter-minute, and the only thing I could think to do to repair the offense I feared my rudeness had caused was to push the faux pas, to increase its saliency, the hope being that, in doing so, I would—instead of coming off like a slouching moron packing a hard-on—appear eccentric, or eccentrically mischievous, and so, toward that end, I, still waving, called out, “Goodbye, Hogan. Have a great day!”
Fondajane chuckled. In- or authentically? At me or with me?
“Jonboat’s on a call with Dubai,” she said. “Some business requiring his immediate attention. Sunday, in that neck of the woods, is rather Monday. Hopefully the call won’t keep him long, but you don’t mind too much, do you, Belt?”
I turned back around to say I didn’t mind, and perhaps add something semi-pithy like, “What’s another few minutes after twenty-five years?” but there were her eyes, below them her mouth, below that her neck and the caron of sun-bronzed, unblemished sternum stingily revealed in the V the open portion of her track jacket’s zipper formed. Or maybe stingily revealed isn’t what I mean at all. Generously exposed would be no less accurate. Even remembering this makes me giddy, but that delicate divot in the center of her collarbone, that dip in the flesh where her chest became her throat—even looking at that divot (unless I mean, especially looking at that divot) seemed indecent of me, improprietous. All I managed to say was, “I don’t.”
And then she said, “Belt, there’s no need to be nervous. We’re never going to act on what you’re thinking about. You don’t have to worry you’ll blow your chance.”
“Oh Jesus,” I said. “I’m so—”
“No, no, let me finish. I’m glad to see it’s what you’re thinking about—that’s how I should have started. I’m glad. The fact is, I’m thinking about the same kinds of things, and even if I weren’t…Belt, do you have any idea how much we paid for my suprasternal notch?”
I must have made a face that conveyed my confusion.
She pointed at her divot. “That’s what it’s called. The suprasternal notch. Do you have one?” she said.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
She hooked a pinkie over my collar and pulled.
“No,” she said. “You don’t. I didn’t used to either. I mean, of course I had one, and of course you do, too, but mine was as invisible as yours til ten years ago. It was my first-anniversary present from Jonboat. I’d wanted a prominent one my whole life. I’ve always thought it to be an extremely underrated body part, perhaps the most underrated body part of all, especially now the cosmetics companies have begun, in their ads, to direct the consumer gaze at the philtrum. Have you noticed that?” she said.
I said, “I hardly ever watch TV.”
“The ads I’m thinking of are mostly in magazines. Probably not the kinds you read, though, I suppose. Anyway, as far as sex appeal goes, for me the well-formed suprasternal notch has always been on par with great big, gravity-defying breasts, high round asses, bulging pelvic muscles, shiny-smooth purple coronas of glans…I’ve never understood how it is that the notch hasn’t been celebrated the way those other parts have—not even the way that armpits, feet, or freckles have. And what I really like, what I really find fascinating about the suprasternal notch, is how ungendered its sexiness is. What’s good for the goose is but exactly as good for the gander. And all of this to say that I’m not only thrilled to see you’re so taken with mine, but I believe I would even be a little bit hurt if you weren’t, Belt. A lot went into it. And the fortune it cost isn’t even the half of it. Notch enhancement’s never been a very popular procedure, and Jonboat didn’t want anyone butchering his bride, so he actually found women—half a dozen of them—for the surgeon to practice on before it was my turn and—oh Belt, you’re so scandalized. You could rupture your capillaries, blushing like that. Your breathing is a visual phenomenon, Belt. I’ve made you so uncomfortable.”
“No,” I said.
“I have. I’ve made you uncomfortable and I’m making it worse, talking about it. Would it help if I told you I’m trying to do just the opposite? I mean, would you believe me?”
“Yes?” I said.
“I am. I really am. I’m not a bully. Not at all. I hope you’ll believe me. I come on strong, I know, too strong sometimes, but if I’ve come on too strong this morning, it’s only in order to spare you the discomfort I imagine you’d feel if I didn’t talk this way. Do you understand? I know you must already know a lot about me—more, by far, than I know about you—and you don’t have to pretend that you don’t. And what’s going on between us, this powerful mutual attraction we have—you don’t have to pretend that it isn’t there, either. I mean I won’t pretend—that would make me uncomfortable—so why should you? What I want you to understand, above all, Belt, is that you don’t have to watch what you say around me. I’m an open book. And I’m emphatically not waiting with bated breath for the next opportunity to be offended, and I’m certainly not looking to trick you into offending me. I know that’s the fashionable MO lately—the seeking out and taking of offense—but I think it’s unfortunate. More than unfortunate. It’s counterproductive. Ugly, even. It goes against just about everything I worked toward during my days as an advocate and activist. It’s one of the reasons I retired from teaching.”