“Mexican food isn’t complete without chips and salsa, and I missed this salsa so much,” she says with a sigh. “Go ahead and have some.”
“No thanks. I’m trying to stay away from carbs.”
“Oh, right. You want to look good for the next photoshoot.”
“Something like that.” I want to look good when I see Melvin on Friday. Unfortunately, too many tortilla chips will ruin the effect. So it’s best I don’t even start.
She shrugs. “More for me.” She bites into another chip laden with salsa.
It fascinates me how she can eat such normal food with gusto, when she looks like she might actually be more comfortable with those gold flakes and caviar.
“So tell me something. Why do you want to work?”
She gives me a look. “For the same reason everyone else does. To support myself.”
“Okay, but I don’t pay enough to support…that.” I indicate her outfit. “Georges Hobeika and all.”
She smiles. “Actually, this is a Dior.”
“The point is, it’s expensive.” Like a few thousand bucks expensive. Like you don’t need a job expensive.
“Can I be honest? I feel like I might as well be if you’re going to react so oddly to the kind of outfits I wear.”
“Sure. I love honesty.” Here it comes. She’s going to tell me what she really wants is me, not this lousy temp job. Because somehow she found out she’d be working—and spending—all that time with me.
We’re interrupted by the server bringing our food. But as soon as we’re alone again, she takes a bite of her taco and sighs. I start eating my burrito and wait.
“My family wants me to get married. To a man of their choosing. I refuse, so that means I need to be gainfully employed and support myself with what I can make on my own. Which is why I got a job with you.”
Okay, this isn’t what I expected. “People still do arranged marriages?” Talk about cultural shock therapy. “I thought that kind of thing died out in the Middle Ages.”
“In some circles, yes. They still do.” Her mouth twists.
“What’s wrong with the man they chose for you?” Hopefully, he’s old, unhealthy, had his prostate removed years ago and can’t get it up. And has to wear diapers. All excellent reasons for turning him down and seeking a superior candidate.
Like somebody rich, hardworking and smart. With a face many a woman has swooned over, I might add.
“Actually, it’s more like men. There are a hundred of them. Or so.”
“A hundred?” My jaw goes slack.
I try to picture how that would work. A hundred men? Do they all get to have sex with her? If so, how many at a time? If it’s one by one, it’d take over three months before a guy had his turn again. Actually, more like four if we factor in menstruation. So that wouldn’t be a popular option.
And what about her? A woman always has her favorite—favorite lipstick, favorite purse, favorite shoes. Why not a favorite man?
And if she gets pregnant, how do they know who fathered the child? Do they need to run a hundred paternity tests?
And then, how does she manage having so many men around? How big of a house does she need? How does she decide who she’s going to have dinner or go out with? Most restaurants don’t have seating for a hundred and one.
But my mind keeps coming back to the critical question: sex. Do the men do rock-scissors-paper? It would take forever with a hundred guys.
A raffle? A lottery? Are the men going to be okay with only random chance?
Or maybe she’d have some type of reward system. After all, she isn’t going to sleep with a man she doesn’t like much if she has ninety-nine others at her disposal. She might adopt the system my kindergarten teacher used. Yuna could give men stickers every time they do something that pleases her, such as cleaning or cooking or something of that nature. And if they collect a certain number of stickers, they can redeem them for sex. Like airline miles.
Of course, none of that would matter if she had me in the group…
“So, it’d be like a kind of…reverse harem?” I say finally.