This piece was originally produced by Tim O’Connor for the Readers’ Theater in Historic Nevada City, CA.
Julian was stunned when she called. “Uh, sure. Yeah, I’d, uh, love to, uh, get together.” How magnanimous of him. Adonis gracing her to share a cocktail…for old time’s sake. She could hardly wait to see the expression on his face. And then, everything she’d worked toward. Julian would want her. He would take her into his bed again. But this time he would long for her.
Eight-forty. Perfect. She’d told him eight. And he knew she was never late. Desperate girls neverer are. The thin spikes of her heals sank into the plush carpet of the lobby of the St. Francis. She stood coolly.
She felt him before she saw him. It had always been like that. His eyes moved across her like a whisper. And there it was– the look of a man noticing a beautiful, unattainable stranger. Nearly undetectable traces of appreciation around his eyes, his lips. A trace of, what was it? Hunger?
She tilted her head and let her eyes meet his. Her eyes were still the same, after all. She felt herself melt a little at the sight of him. Then, there it was—the flicker she’d been waiting for. “Elise? Elise, is that you?”
She waited for him to come to her. Another change she’d made. He held both hands out, inviting hers. He brought his warm lips to her cheek.
“Elise, you look…well, you look wonderful. I’d forgotten how beautiful you are. But then, it’s been what? Five years?”
“Six.” Forgotten? As if this was the face and body he left six years ago. It’s not you, darling, it’s me. I’m just not ready to give you everything you want, he’d said. She had hoped he was deeper than that. He wanted more than a dainty face and long legs under a pleated white tennis skirt, didn’t he? When he left her, it confirmed what she had always suspected.
Elise kept her voice cool and level. “How nice to see you again, Jules.”
“Your call was so–unexpected. I’d heard you moved to Boston just after we…And then your Grandmother passed away. I was sorry to hear.”
“Yes, well. I came back to San Francisco last week. My work was finished in Boston.”
“Your work sure agreed with you. You look…I mean. You’ve always looked– But I mean–” His eyes studied her as though searching for an answer to a question he couldn’t quite phrase.
All the inheritance Nona had left her had been invested to evoke exactly this babbling effect. Men were so easy to manipulate when you occupied the largest portion of their simple brains with such visual distraction. Use the money to make yourself happy and to secure your future, the will had said. All the surgeries. All the hours with the trainer. All the time she’d been unable to work. Thank you, Nona.
Through cocktails she watched Julian watching her. Elise was now both the audience and the star of the play she’d written. During all of her recovery time she’d revised this script, complete with stage directions. Perfectly manicured fingers stroked the stem of her wineglass. Her tongue moistened her plump lips.
His hand reached for hers. “It’s been too long.” The moves a man makes when he’s trying to charm a woman–all so that she’ll rock him to sleep. So predictable, the dialogue so cliché. Julian was not an actor in this play, but a mere prop to be used by the heroine in service of her drama. And what a perfect prop he was. Strong jawed. Dark, brooding eyes. Broad muscled shoulders.
His voice was smooth now, made velvety by three martinis–and his lust. “I’ve thought about you often, Elise.”
“And I’ve thought about you.” She narrowed her eyes. He must’ve broken his nose since she’d seen him last. That little bump had never been there. But it was small, easy enough to fix.
His thick eyebrows rose as his eyes scanned her then relaxed into an aha. “Your hair is different.” So polite. But his eyes took in more than her hair. No, the breasts were the same. Breasts and eyes were original issue. She’d salvaged what was worth keeping.
“Yes. I’ve changed my hair.” She smiled. Had his chin always been off-center that way? It gave his whole face a rather asymmetrical tilt. Rather unpleasant when one really looked closely.
“Speaking of hair,” she said, breaking his gaze, “what ever happened to the hairdo you got together with after you…uh, after we parted?”
“Hairdo?”
“The blonde with the measly backhand.”
“Oh, Tricia. Tricia and I were never together. Not like you and me.”
“Really? Did she know that?” Elise’s laughter sparkled and she ran her fingertip along the rim of her glass. He returned her laugh. Coffee stains on his back molars caused her to wince. Funny, in her memory his smile had always been so blinding. And now when he laughed the loose skin under his chin wobbled in a most unpleasant way.
He slid nearer to her on the cushioned seat they shared. His breaths were heavy in her ear. Nuzzling her neck, he breathed, “It’s so amazing to see you. I feel as though no time has passed at all. Wasn’t the Saint Francis one of those places we always wanted to, well, to try?”
Elise felt herself curdle away from his embrace. She turned her face to avoid the acrid sting of gin on his breath. She was repulsed. “Yes, well. That was a long time ago.” She inched further to the edge of the booth and reached for her beaded bag. “It’s getting late.”
His forehead creased. Was it a wince of pain she saw? “I just thought that, well that we were sharing a moment here.”
She stood and leaned down to kiss his sweaty cheek. “It’s not you, darling. It’s me. I guess I’m just not able to give you everything you want.”