I looked back at my mom, smiled, and let out a long breath through my nose. Here goes.
“His name is Aiden. He’s a native New Yorker.”
Mom nodded.
“Those are rare, native New Yorkers, you know? Usually, everyone you meet is from somewhere else.”
“Like Wyoming.”
I chuckled. “I didn’t meet anyone from Wyoming. Those are even rarer.”
“Sounds like you and Aiden made quite a match, then.”
“We did, at first. Everything was new and different. It was exciting.” I paused trying to recall those first few weeks together, wondering how much I should divulge: definitely not the intimate parts, the sex in public places—that was Aiden’s thing. And it was quite a rush—in the stairwell of a building on 10th Avenue we’d snuck into; the back of a movie theatre; the bathroom at the MOMA; afraid someone would catch us; perhaps wishing someone would.
“Where did you meet?”
I snapped myself from the reverie, straightened in the chair, and crossed my legs. “Um, we met through the agency. Greta—she runs the agency with her brother…”
“I know who Greta is,” Mom reminded me.
“Right, well anyway, she had spotted him. I don’t know from where.” I looked at my mom wide-eyed. “He’s really good-looking.” I bit down on my lower lip and shook out my shoulders to emphasize the point. “Tall, sharp cheekbones, dark skin but freckled, dark eyes, big crazy hair.”
“Crazy hair?”
I laughed. What a terrible description. “He’s half and half, you know, so he had an afro, but not a tight one; the kind with locks that jet out in all directions and hang a little like bangs. He looked like a rock star. Definitely Handsome’s material.”
“So he’s a model?”
I shook my head. “No. Sometimes the look doesn’t translate well in 2D. Or maybe, like Greta said, his eyes are too kind, which clashes with the hipster rock star look he was going for. But he came in for a shoot, so I got to hold the camera and order him around.” I chuckled.
“Order him around?”
I blushed. “You know: turn your shoulder this way; look at me like I’ve hurt you; sneer;
lean back with your hands behind your head; flex; stretch out your leg. That sort of thing.”
Mom raised her eyebrows. “Sounds fun.”
I nodded. “Yeah, ordering hot men around is fun.” I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat. Though Mom and I got along so well that I considered her almost more of a sister and a friend, I had to remember she was my mother. Go easy on the details, Ruby.
“So what does he do, this hot, kind-eyed, rock-star-haired young man?”
“Oh, he’s a vet. And he runs an animal shelter.”
Mom put her hands out, open palms up. “Well, that’s something the two of you have in common. You love animals.”
I nodded. “Right. We have a lot in common, but…”
“But?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, Mom. It’s hard to explain.”
“It’s okay, dear.” She patted my hand.
I seized her hand by the wrist, and she jumped back, startled.
“For one thing,” I said, excited and pointing at her hand, “it’s the hands.” I let go of her wrist, and she looked at her hand then at me bewildered.
“Men in New York have such icky hands,” I said with a sour look on my face.
“Huh?”
“Not icky, but,” I waved my hands in the air hoping I could conjure the words I needed. “It’s hard to explain. The guys in New York, they have such clean hands, not like the guys in Wyoming.”
She looked at me like I was crazy. And I was sounding crazy; I wasn’t making any sense.
“They don’t get dirty, work the land, work the wood or, you know, mold things with their hands. Even a vet, like Aiden. He gets manicures.” I looked at my mom, but she wasn’t getting the point I was trying to make. “Manicures, Mom!” I shook my head then looked down at the table, thinking if I avoided eye contact maybe that would help me get my words out. “I’m not saying I like dirty guys. But I want to see traces. I want to see… like the calloused palm of a rider who is used to gripping and controlling a leather rein. Or the nicks and scars on a rancher’s hands that you know is no stranger to tools. The traces of rope burn. The…” I looked up at my mom. “You get what I’m trying to say.”
She cocked her head to the side then nodded. “I think so. Like a real man, a Wyoming cowboy.”
I pointed at her. “In fact, I’ve come home to take some photos of Wyoming cowboys for Greta.”
“Really?”
I immediately regretted having said that. Already in five minutes, I had told my mom more about what I thought of men, what I wanted in men than I had in my entire life up till then. I thought I had given her just about as much as she could handle. If I started talking about the sexy cowboy calendar I was planning to shoot, she might faint from shock. I looked back at the oven. “Are the cookies ready yet? I sure would love to try one.”