She mulls that over, doing her best to keep her face impassive. “I know that you probably have hopes that you can change my mind, but that’s not going to happen. This is just one night.”
It might just be one night, but yes, she’s right. How could I not hope for something beyond that when everything in me is telling me that if all I have is these hours, then I’m going to give all of myself, and that’s not something that I can do easily or that I can even understand. It’s an impulse, an instinct, and erasing it is probably futile. I feel this driving need to hold this woman and assure her that there is still beauty in life. I want to laugh with her, talk with her, prove to her that neither of us is a dream. We’re both very real and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Even if we just spend the night talking about nothing, I’d still probably feel overwhelmed by this strange feeling that cuts through to the bones of me. Maybe it’s just that she’s a rare treasure, anyone could see that and there’s so much more to discover, and I know that I’m destined to lose said treasure and that’s not easy to process.
Whatever the feeling is, it’s so powerful it nearly knocks me down, and I’m not a small guy.
Just as I’m working on something perfect to say in response, a white and red cab pulls up at the curb, the sign on top the car glowing proudly in the night. Jane studies me from beneath her mask. She silently slides into the car, moving over to take the car seat. She doesn’t close the door after her. I think that’s about as clear of an invitation as I’ve ever received, and despite knowing how hard it will be to keep this to one night, to obey the rules of our unspoken, dream like contract, I already know that I’m agreeing, because I can’t not agree. I can’t just shut the door and send her on her way and never see her again.
So, I climb into the backseat beside her, and when the young, college aged guy in the front seat turns around and lifts a shaggy brow at me, I give him my address.
We stay silent on the ride, having said more than enough on the curb, I guess.
I still can’t believe that any of this is real, even as I open my front door and show Jane inside. God, it’s strange to think of her as Jane. It really, really doesn’t suit her. Try as I might, I can’t think of a single name that I can put to her, because nothing seems to do her justice. Not any of the historical Greek gods, not anything from history or mystery, literature, or art, song or dance.
The first thing that Jane spots in the massive living room is the piano. It’s baby grand, sleek and black. She rushes over and runs her hand along the closed lid covering the keys with such care and reverence it’s almost like she’s afraid touching it will make it shatter. She looks over her shoulder at me, angling quickly like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. I just smile at her softly.
“Your house is crazy nice,” she breathes. “From what I’ve seen.” She bites down on her bottom lip near the corner and frowns behind her mask. “Do you actually play or is this just for show?”
“No, I play. It was my grandma’s, but she actually got a new one, so I got this one. My brother and I, we both play.” I realize that I’ve violated the no personal details clause again, but Jane doesn’t reprimand me. She lifts her hand after her fingers linger on the shiny black wood for just a few more seconds.
I stand a few feet from the doorway, staring past her into the dark living room, at the leather couches and the pieces of artwork on the walls. I’m afraid to look directly at her now, for some reason. Maybe it’s nerves, or maybe I’m just shy. I feel her gaze on me, though, all the same.
“I knew you’d be rich,” she says, and laughs softly, surprising me.
“Well, the charity ball is mostly for- well- the tickets were expensive...”
She shakes her head, drawing me in, and now I’m wholly fixated on her once more. “It wasn’t that. It was your suit.”
“My suit?”
“I could tell it was wool before I touched it- when- we- uh- kissed. It’s a fine weave, which indicates a ridiculously high thread count. Inside is silk, I bet. People might not think wool and New Orleans mix, but wool is breathable and durable and is made for all different climates, even hot ones.”