With her eyes glued to his, she slowly lifted her hand. Her short, unpainted nails grazed his fingertips. The smooth pads of each finger brushed along his calloused tips, pausing at each knuckle, mapping the indentations. She traveled over the next little hill, leaving trails of tiny sparks in her wake, like that sizzle after the boom of a firework. At his palm, her fingers spread, exploring the broad, lined surface. She broke their gaze to watch his Adam’s apple bob, riding the wave of a gulp. She looked down as her hand disappeared into the abyss of his palm. He squeezed it, held it still, like a maverick he had finally corralled.
For a moment they both just stood there staring, the intense intimacy of the platonic act unnerving. Then, with a sudden moment-shattering motion Tox pumped their hands in one definitive shake and pulled away.
“That was amazing, so thanks.”
Calliope wasn’t sure if he was talking about the date or the handshake. So she said nothing. He turned her by her shoulders and pushed her to the door.
“Get inside.”
She fumbled with her keys and finally let herself in. Tox trotted down the steps and gave a motionless wave over his shoulder. After she disabled the alarm, she went to the sidelight and looked out. Coco muscled in and hopped up to see what was so interesting. Tox paused at the bottom of the stairs as if sensing her gaze. He looked over his shoulder, caught her eye, and then…he winked.
Infuriating man.
When his taillights had disappeared around the corner, Calliope turned and rested her back against the front door. Wow. She pulled in her lips to fight the smile that inevitably broke free and headed to the kitchen to get some water and let Coco out the back to do her business. As she stood at the open back door holding her glass and watching her dog, a void of black fur in the darkness, she had a curious thought.
In this odd courtship ritual of pursuer/pursued, she and Tox seemed to be alternating roles, and, admittedly, she liked them both. It wasn’t a tug of war they were engaged in. This felt more like a fencing match. Parry, thrust, retreat, the competitors equally matched, their movements balanced.
She locked up, reengaged the alarm, and headed upstairs with Coco hot on her heels, all the while imagining what would happen when Tox plunged.
Calliope had barely slept a wink. A handshake? Who ends a date with a handshake? Once in bed, she had thrust her hand between her legs and given herself a disappointing orgasm. It had helped. Orgasms are like pizza that way: even when they’re not very good, they’re still pretty good. She managed to doze for an hour or so only to be slapped awake, pulled from some pulsing dream, by the frustrating reality of that. damn. handshake.
She untangled herself from the sheets and stomped to the shower, a plan already forming. He had shown up on her doorstep. Why couldn’t she? She also had the perfect contrivance.
An hour later, she unzipped the collapsable nylon pet carrier, hooked Coco to her leash, and headed out of the Delancey Street subway station and over to Avenue D. She could feel the heat penetrating the little brown bag in her hand, the smell of cinnamon a subtle plume under her nose. Tox’s block was quiet; the night creatures had scurried, the nine-to-fivers not yet active. The only presence other than a semi-obsessed woman and her cheery rottweiler was a homeless man asleep in the alcove of a vacant barber shop across from Tox’s building.
Coco caught wind of the vagrant and her little stub of a tail gyrated with glee. She tugged on her leash, eager to lick the man good morning. Calliope puzzled as she brought Coco to heel; she was an extremely friendly dog, but even for Coco, this was an exuberant reaction. The man didn’t move or wake at Coco’s animated barks. In fact, he was preternaturally still. Calliope watched him for a minute until she saw the side of his ribcage expand on a breath. Phew.
“Gurl, you are too Dorothy from Oz to be on this block at this hour.”
Calliope nearly jumped out of her skin, but Coco simply turned her canine welcome wagon in Foxy’s direction.
“Oh, hey. You startled me.”
“You gotta know what’s going on around you, presh. Tox calls it situational awareness.”
She normally had it, in spades. Six-and-a-half feet of bottled up man was addling her brain.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m a little distracted.”
Foxy adjusted the halter strap on her sky-blue dress and nodded to the brown bag. “That smell would distract anyone.”
“Wait’ll you taste it.”
Calliope reached into the bag and withdrew what looked like a fat cigar wrapped in bakery paper. She passed it to Foxy.
Foxy bit into the treat, flakes of puff pastry falling onto the paper like snow. “Oh my lord, it’s still warm.”
“It’s sort of a cross between a churro and baklava,” Calliope explained. “The bakery across the street from me makes them.”
“I’m moving to your neighborhood,” Foxy joked between bites.
The grinding of gears interrupted them as the steel garage door entrance to Tox’s home lifted. Calliope enjoyed the slow reveal: those big, booted feet, faded denim over thick thighs, a worn Green Day t-shirt. Finally, his stubbled beard and suspicious brown eyes appeared.
There were only two things that could distract Tox from food, Calliope and danger, and they were both present. He scanned the street, clocked the homeless man asleep on his side with his back to the street. That in itself was suspicious. In his experience, homeless people tended to sleep facing out; it was a less vulnerable position. Nevertheless, the man seemed harmless enough, so he directed his attention to the second distraction.
God, she was spectacular. Standing there with a rottweiler on a leash eating pastries with a trans prostitute, it was like something out of a trippy dream. Both women were staring at him, but he was only staring back at one.
“Break’s over. See you, kids.” Foxy blew a kiss and disappeared around the corner.