But as he read through the questions River had chosen, the disappointed knot in his stomach turned quickly into a clench of anticipation. Because, as it turned out, River had quite a saucy idea of exactly what ‘getting to know each other’ entailed.
Where would you most like to kiss me? it began, and Cohen’s mouth ran dry. The words danced before his eyes, and he contemplated his reply while taking a fortifying sip of his pint. He’d never known a work questionnaire to begin quite like this. Eventually, when the first of the alcohol had hit his bloodstream, he pulled a pen out of his pocket and put ink to paper.
Anywhere you’ll let me, he wrote. I want to start with your mouth, I want to suck on your lips. I want to run my tongue over your cheeks and nibble on your ears. I want to bite gently into your neck and lick the hollow of your shoulders.
He shifted in his seat. He’d never been a particularly verbose man. He was infinitely better at transcription, or at the small simple acts of writing his work demanded of him: hard words of warning, endless demands for more money or the brutal phrasings of mostly one-sided negotiation. He was unused to writing words of affection. Words of love. He nibbled on his pen, before going back to the paper.
I can’t use my mouth to tell you how much you mean to me, how much I want you, he stated truthfully. So, let me use my mouth to show you how much you mean to me, to show you how much I need you.
The second question made him shift even more awkwardly, an old feeling of guilt rushing down his spine.
My mama says you’ve been married before?
He ordered another pint, knowing he was going to need it if he was going to get through this questionnaire without dying of shame halfway through.
Sipping thoughtfully, Cohen considered her question, wondering how much honesty River was looking for here. Momentarily, he contemplated watering down his answer. Doing a light edit job so he wouldn’t scare her away.
But with another steadying sip of lager, he discarded that thought easily.
He wouldn’t lie to River. He wouldn’t be anything other than who he was.
After all, she was the only one who’d ever asked.
Yes, I’ve been married before. Cohen took a deep breath, a surge of anger going through him, as it always did when he thought of Christine. My ex-wife is an actress, although maybe I should say she was an actress. These days she mostly lives off my alimony payments. She never loved me; I always knew that. But without a doubt, she loved my money.
And God, did that hurt to write down. Cohen swallowed hard. I don’t hate her. Or at least, I try really hard not to hate her. Mostly, I hate myself for ever marrying her. I hate myself for ever thinking I could make love just another business transaction. Just another deal to negotiate. When we divorced, I told myself I would never marry again. That marriage isn’t worth my time or effort. Mostly I think I’m just scared to make that leap again. But lately … I don’t know.
Cohen paused.
Lately, I’ve been thinking that if I do ever marry again, it will be worth my time and effort. Lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe I could make that leap again.
Cohen almost smiled.
Lately, I’ve been thinking that another marriage might be more special because I’ve made that leap. Because I’ve put in that time and effort. Or maybe it might be more special because next time, I might actually be in love with my wife.
The third question was a change of pace, and Cohen exhaled deeply.
Your earliest memory?
Cohen put his pen down, reaching back through time, searching for the earliest fragment of an image he could recall.
Was it Esther’s smile?
His old dog Tam’s bark?
His father finally coming home, after four months of unexplained absence, apologies on his lips and another woman’s lipstick on his neck?
Cohen sighed.
I think I might have been two or three. My parents were screaming at each other. My mother was crying, and my father left, slamming a door. I always thought he left because of me. I always thought it was because I was a bad son. A bad child.
Years later, I asked my mother about that memory, and River, I’d never seen her go pale so fast.
Turns out she’d had a miscarriage, and they just didn’t know how to deal with it.
So, they dealt with it like they dealt with everything else: raised voices, angry shouts and slammed doors.
Cohen sat back, letting sorrow briefly wash over him. He didn’t like to think of these things, normally. He didn’t like to imagine his mother’s pain or his father’s guilt. He couldn’t bring himself to picture the brother or sister he’d never had.
Home Alone or It’s a Wonderful Life?
Sorry. Don’t hate me. Hate the questionnaire.
Now he laughed.
I first saw Home Alone on a transatlantic flight with my mother. She spent the entire flight loudly laughing and nudging me in the shoulder, asking if I’d heard that.
Actually, the whole damn flight could hear her chuckling and the flight attendant came by – at the captain’s request – to ask if she would consider toning it down. Apparently, her laughs had drifted via the air system into the cockpit. She was given two ‘complimentary’ glasses of red wine and passed out just before Kevin broke the teeth of Joe Pesci.
I’ve only ever seen It’s a Wonderful Life once. I was with my first girlfriend. Her name was Kate and we met at a ‘Future Leaders of Enterprise’ summer camp in Massachusetts (it was my mother’s idea). I had my first kiss with her during a showing of It’s a Wonderful Life.
I still can’t hear bells ringing without thinking about Kate’s braces.
After that first kiss, she asked me if I wanted to sneak away and do more with her, but I was fifteen and awkward and you know something? I really did just want to watch the movie. What can I say? I just really admire James Stewart and Donna Reed.
But even so, James Stewart and Donna Reed can’t compete with the fact that Home Alone made my mother laugh.
So, for me at least, it’s going to be Home Alone, every time.
Cohen smiled. Even now, on Christmas Day, after he and his mother had conversed awkwardly over Chinese food, he’d slip Home Alone onto the television. And every year, without fail, Esther would make some snide remark along the lines of, ‘Oh, is this goyim nonsense on again?’, all the while chuckling when she didn’t think anyone was watching.
Do you only want to sleep with me? Is that all this is? Because I’ve been wrong about this feeling before.
Cohen felt his heart thump hard within his chest. If this were any other woman, he would write some airy remark about only wanting to have sex when she felt ready, about her needs coming first, about how he was happy to wait. A nicer version of, ‘oh yes, of course I’ll call you tomorrow’.
But this was River.
And he needed to be honest.
River, he admitted. You’re so beautiful, so wonderful, and so sexy that I’ve wanted to touch you from the moment I met you. Ever since I met you I’ve fantasised about you, about the things I want to do to you and the things I want you to do with me.
I want to do so much more than sleep with you. I want to love you. I want to pleasure you. I want to feel all the hidden corners of your body. I want to feel your bare skin under my hands.
But that’s not all this is, River. Not even close. More than anything, I want to know you. I want to know your favourite foods and your favourite memories. I want to know why, when you smile, you wrinkle your nose ever-so-slightly. I want to know how you get all those ribbons in your hair.