A/N: 12/23/02: These are obviously not the "big plans" I promised I had.
They come a bit later. But this is still mildly fun nonetheless. ;)
I love reviews even more than sex toy ornaments (if you have to ask, go read "So This is Christmas"). Now *there's* something you don't see in Hallmark's Keepsake Collection. :P
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2.
The French toast shop-more specifically, an all-night diner whose cooks were cursed with the advertised promise of "Breakfast 24 Hours"-was about a 100-square foot hole-in-the-wall on 9th Street. My observation of flies hovering above the stove and soiled dishrags on the floor must have been palpably noticeable, seeing as the moment we received our meals, Mimi offered to eat outdoors. Despite the terribly inviting indoor table garnished with a solitary, lopsided folding chair... I consented.
We planted ourselves some twenty feet outside the diner, on the curb, leaning leisurely against the wall of a building; the neighborhood was, for the most part, deserted, save for the anonymous sounds of a distant karaoke bar, seeming to float from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
"I haven't done this in years," I remarked, dunking a slice of toast in sticky pancake syrup.
A twinkle illumined her eye. "We still talking about the kiss?"
I flicked a sprinkle of powdered sugar at her. "Shut up."
Her head rested on my shoulder, briefly, as she paused emphatically to bask in her own smartass-style of wit. "I do this once a month," she announced.
"What, breakfast at midnight?"
"All of this. A stop on the rooftop, breakfast, clothes shopping, a piano bar, a strip club..."
Bad time to be swallowing orange juice, Cohen. I choked and sputtered and gratefully accepted the napkin she'd been holding out a little too absent- mindedly for my comfort, as though she'd been expecting such an effect. "A strip club?"
She shrugged. "A girl's gotta have fun."
"But..." Oh, how to put it truthfully *and* tactfully? "You work at one."
An eyebrow arched knowingly. "Oh, but baby, that's not the same as *going* to one."
I immediately craved an elaboration on this, but bit my tongue. "So... who do you usually do all this with? Roger?" That's right. Keep bringing up the boyfriend. *That'll* keep you from drowning.
She shook her head. "Just me."
Hmm.
Egotistic speculations stirred within me. "Then why am I here?"
Another shrug, but I sensed that more was coming. She reclaimed her flimsy plastic knife and fork and began the strangely obsessive ritual of cutting her toast into six flawless squares-a process I'd been studying since her first slice five minutes ago. "I was watching you tonight," she stated simply. "At the party."
Um. "...And?" Yes. That.
"And... I..." Another shrug. They were getting progressively more bashful and, inevitably, adorable. "Something in your eyes told me you needed this."
"This..." I echoed contemplatively.
"This."
I couldn't resist: "We still just talking about French toast?"
She blushed. She actually blushed. The girl who, night after night, marches out onto a stage in front of an audience of gawking men and strips off every item of clothing she bears. And one smart comment from a passive, nerdy filmmaker brings a flush to her cheeks.
"You just need to see what's on the other side of the camera, I think," she decided, busying herself with an already-shredded napkin.
"You know," I sighed melodramatically, "contrary to popular belief, I'm not just some diffident, antisocial geek who can't possibly survive one ounce of the real world unless he's seeing it through a lens." [A/N: /tribute to Rentfic's Classic!Mark]
"You have syrup on your pants."
I looked down. She was right. And now she was laughing. "Shit," I mumbled, groping for spare napkins. As I swiped clumsily at the stain, napkins began to shred, and the spot only expanded.
"No, no, no," she grinned, prying the napkins from my fingers and giving my hand a light squeeze. "This is perfect."
A bold, slightly distracted side of me allowed my hand to remain in hers. "Is it, now?"
She nodded solemnly, adding a wink-the only sign that her intentions were still as lighthearted as they'd begun. "We're going shopping."
And with little warning, she tossed our plates and napkins into the trash and began dragging me by the hand, several blocks south, her energy keeping her a couple strides ahead of me for the first while. But once I settled into her rhythm, we walked side by side, half running off the sugar high of French toast, half falling into each other and giggling as though we were drunk. I was somewhat less demonstrative when it came to the latter, but I smiled and held her hand and shook my head at her craziness, occasionally blushing a shade not unlike that of a tomato, when she would make some wicked comment about alternative uses of hair gel or interesting bathtub activities.
To this day, I'm unable to determine what made me interpret 'shopping' in the way that I did. My mind held the distinct image of an outrageously vintage clothes shop, my worst fear resting in the chance that I would walk out in a pair of golf pants or bellbottoms. Even as we turned a sharp left into the door of a shop boasting lace corsets and leather thongs in the display window, it didn't quite hit me. For all I knew, she was stopping in to ask directions.
Twenty minutes later, however, found us in that same shop: me, standing stiffly and doubtfully in front of a full-length mirror, and Mimi, standing behind me to smooth out the back of my shirt and peek over my shoulder.
"They're fabulous," she announced, running her fingers along the top of the pants.
"I can't move," I reminded her.
"You'll get used to it."
"They're hot! They're like... sticking to me."
She rolled forward on her feet, stepping up onto her toes. Her hands slid up the back of my shirt until they rested on my shoulders. I forced myself to look in the mirror again, wondering how Roger could tolerate those favorite leather pants of his as often as he did.
"Yeah," she agreed, lips brushing almost intentionally against my ear. "But they're wickedly sexy."
...And now we're through wondering.
She was right, though. They would have made a rather clashing statement with my raggedy black sweater, but with the new crimson dress shirt she'd selected in the fifteen minutes I'd spent trying to get the pants on... she was right. I looked... well, not myself. But irresistible.
"Come on," she tugged on my sleeve, pulling me toward the register. "You can wear them home."
"Mimi, I can't afford this!"
"It's okay, I've got a, uh... sort of a credit here."
"I don't want to know, do I?"
She grinned. "Absolutely not."
That collection of spandex and glitter sauntered over to the register, leaning far enough over the counter to offer some magic words (and a rather pleasant view) to the poor, defenseless kid behind it... and I was beginning to learn that the room changed every time she stepped away from me. Not the room itself... but my impression of the room. She had a presence... she *was* a presence. When she was by my side... that's all I saw. Her touch was the only thing I felt, and her voice the only thing I heard.
And one would think, when she stepped away... I would be able to see other things, hear other sounds, feel other sensations. But no. My entire world turned blank when she was gone-I simply watched her and was oblivious to everything. Well, everything but her... much as I tried.
She's Mimi. How can you be oblivious to that?
As she turned back around to face me, leading me out the door with a confident wink and a nod, she'd lured me back into her presence.
"Mark, look."
We'd been walking for what had likely been close to an hour... but it felt like mere seconds to me. Conversation found us the minute we left the store, and had latched on securely. It seemed, in fact, that there weren't even enough streets in all of New York to accommodate us. Twice we'd gone in circles, once gotten lost, and received at least one whistle or wink on every street corner... although I assumed those were directed mainly at her. Every time I went far enough out on a limb to say something even remotely daring, she found it amusing enough to fall against my side, giggling, and latch herself onto my arm for a few fleeting seconds.
Our hands had brushed together more than once-more than a dozen times, probably-and every time my heart jumped just a little higher, and I hated myself just a little more, because every time I'd realize that the person effecting these embarrassingly juvenile reactions in me was none other than my best friend's lover.
I lifted my gaze from the ground. "Hmm?"
She gestured subtly toward a stunning blonde walking in our direction. "Not bad, huh?"
I shrugged. "She's all right."
"Go talk to her!"
"No!"
"Mark, that is the fourth girl you've refused to hit on in your new pants."
She was right. She'd spent a cumulative total of ten minutes during our walk, lecturing me on how I need to take more initiative with women. And every time, I found myself choking back yet another way of saying that she was the only person I wanted to be with tonight. That, selfish as it seemed, I was having far too much fun with the rampantly jealous looks I was getting from every guy who passed us.
But, of course... I couldn't tell her that.
"I don't like blondes," was my latest excuse, and I was surprised I hadn't played that card yet.
"You dated Maureen."
"Yeah," I grinned. "That's why I don't like them."
She whacked me playfully on the arm. "All right. In all seriousness now, 'kay?" I nodded, mock-solemnly. "How many people have you slept with?"
Much as I wanted to pretend to be offended, there was one point I couldn't ignore. "I find it a little disturbing that you use the term 'people' rather than 'women'."
She raised an eyebrow, the corresponding corner of her mouth following it upward. "How should I know?"
"Mimi!"
She giggled, falling against my side-a gesture I was quickly learning to anticipate, in every sense of the word. "I'm kidding. Now tell me."
"No."
"Yes."
"No!"
"Yes!"
"Seven."
I hadn't even realized she'd been holding my hand, swinging our arms back and forth the way children do at the park, until she stopped abruptly in her tracks, and, by the laws of physics, I was spun around to face her.
She blinked, and with that simple gesture, every feature on face seemed to soften. "Really?"
I shrugged. "Broom closet at the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center, disastrous senior prom, three in college, Maureen, and... some girl from the coffee place a month after Maureen left me."
She blinked again, some small, odd variation of a smile flashing briefly across her face. "Oh."
"Expected less?"
She shrugged, fighting off the imminent blush, and resumed walking, her hand still clutched around mine. "Maybe."
I smiled. "All right. Your turn."
"Um... I don't think so."
"Ohhh, no you don't!" It was my turn to halt to a stop without warning, spinning her around. "It's only fair. You know it is."
"Mark, you don't want to know."
I grinned. "Like hell I don't."
She sighed, unable to conceal the tiniest of grins. I liked this-I'd found a new way to make her smile: being my rarely-displayed aggressive self. "All right," she consented. "Guess."
"That is *not fair*!!"
"Why not?!"
"Because!" I whined. "If I guess too low, I'll be underestimating you. If I guess too high, I'll be insulting you."
She grinned-a full-sized, genuine smirk. "Try me."
My first instinct was to continue walking for another half-hour, mentally analyzing every aspect of the situation, taking into account all factors- her age, her occupation, her personality, her... Mimi-ness. But I quickly got the feeling that would only complicate my natural intuition, if I even had any on the matter. And so I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.
"Ten."
Her hand fell from mine-not out of shock, not out of offense-out of hysteria. The moment the syllable left my mouth, she was doubled over in laughter.
"All right, all right, apparently not," I chuckled nervously. "I get one more chance, okay?"
Miraculously, she managed to nod through her giggles, and plopped down on a brick wall at the edge of the sidewalk, as I began to pace back and forth, starting up the analysis that had initially tempted me.
A solid thirty seconds rebuilt my confidence, and I stopped pacing long enough to face her. "Sixteen."
Bad, bad choice, Cohen. The laughter rang out again, evil, and delighted by my helplessness. She hardly seemed insulted, or even terribly surprised. She was simply... amused. Highly. And it was maddening.
"Twenty-five!" I whined, feeling as though I were simply falling through quicksand. "Thirty. *Forty*?"
Forty was the turning point; she hopped down off the wall, stumbling over to me, half-heartedly forcing back her laughter. "Mark-" she choked. "Stop. Just-stop."
I sighed, my arms flopping to my sides. "I'm sorry."
"Hey." Her hands cupped my face, gently, just to bring my eyes toward her. "Don't feel bad. No one's ever been able to guess."
I shrugged, feeling utterly defeated, utterly childish... and not really giving a shit about either.
"You really want to know?"
My mouth opened, prepared to blurt something to the effect of, 'Hell yes, after THAT?!' But instead, only silence filled the air around us, with the occasional taxi whizzing by, or the sounds of a restaurant floating past us.
I took a deep breath, released it, and shook my head. "Not really."
The warmth from her hands vanished as her arms fell limply to her sides. "Okay," she whispered.
We continued walking-slower, though, and in silence. Her hand once again found mine, an assurance that she was neither irreparably insulted nor disappointed. It was the first time all night that I was unable to read her, and it drove me crazy. But at some point, during my frantic guessing and her infuriating laughter, I'd decided I didn't want to know. I wasn't sure why, but I just didn't. I don't know what I was afraid of-it's not like she was *my* girlfriend, after all. For all I knew, Roger might not even-
Hmm.
"Does Roger know?"
She looked up at me and, slowly, shook her head.
My jaw dropped, but what could I say? What would I possibly have to say that was insightful or appropriate? He didn't know. That's all there was to it. I assumed he'd nagged her enough, and she refused, or gave him a fake number. It was just like him. It probably drove him crazy for a grand total of five minutes, and then he gave up. I smiled at the thought.
"Why not?" I ventured.
She shrugged. "He wouldn't tell me his number, so I didn't tell him mine."
I grinned. "It's twenty-four."
"Roger?!" Her eyes widened, a shocked laugh escaping her lips as she shook her head, sighing melodramatically. "God! What a slut."
"Totally," I smiled.
With this and a thousand other things in mind, I stopped, looking down at our hands, and then at her. "Tell me."
"Really?"
I nodded.
"Three."
It was a fully drawn-out ten seconds before I believed her.
"...Wow."
She smiled, realizing our situation's emotional control had been tossed into her court. "Expected more?"
"Um." My tongue found itself suddenly lodged in my throat. "No. I mean-yes. I mean-no?" She nodded, encouragingly, eyebrows raised in anticipation of my finally completing a coherent sentence. But I knew she was little beyond amused. *Very* amused. Far more amused than she had right to be. "I mean- yes," I finally decided. "Not because-I mean, I don't think you're-"
"A slut?"
"Yes. I mean-no! I mean-who?" That's it, Cohen, you're catching on. Turn the questions back to her.
Her composure and level of amusement remained intact. "Benny and Roger, and Matt... my boyfriend from high school."
Ah, I remembered Matt. I remembered how she and Roger had come home fighting one afternoon because they'd ran into "Matt". Yes... yes, I was familiar with Matt. And by this point, names were putting me at ease-we'd progressed from numbers to actual people, and finally everything was somewhat less ambiguous and shocking.
"But..." I moved slightly forward, looking both ways before leaning in toward her. "Don't you remember that night we got drunk at Roger's gig?"
The sound of her laughter made all the remaining tension vanish. She swiped at the sleeve of my shirt, and it was likely my imagination, but she appeared to be blushing. "Shut up, Mark."
I smiled triumphantly at my joke, shrugging her off and starting back down the street. I'd barely made it three paces before a large, powerful force hurled itself at me, climbing up for a piggyback ride, as the impact sent me stumbling forward two superfluous steps.
"Mimi!" I gasped, half-laughing as I reached my arms around to support her.
"You think you're so cute," she whispered into my ear.
"Perhaps."
"See if you're still as cocky once we get inside The O."
I nearly dropped her. "Excuse me?"
"The club I'm taking you to." Her tone was nothing if not smug. She was quickly learning how to structure just the right phrases that would send me off into a fit of tripping or speechlessness. Or in this case, both.
We reached a door on the side of a building, quite possibly the least likely club entrance I could have imagined. There were no signs-either or life, or for the establishment itself-but merely a door. Mimi hopped down off my back and began fumbling with the zipper on the back of her dress.
"Could you-" she began, pointing vaguely.
I stepped forward, brushing her hair away until I found the zipper, and stopped-the reality of the situation finally closing in. "Mimi, um... what are we doing?"
She smiled. "Jeez, I was wondering if you were going to ask. Just get the top hook undone. That thing's a bitch."
"But why?" I whined.
"In case."
"In case of *what*?" I asked, somewhat pointlessly, seeing as my fingers were already deftly detaching the tiny hook at the top of her dress, essentially without question. I trusted her far more than I should. God, I was so easy.
"Nothing," she grinned, taking my hand and swinging the door open. "Come on."
I love reviews even more than sex toy ornaments (if you have to ask, go read "So This is Christmas"). Now *there's* something you don't see in Hallmark's Keepsake Collection. :P
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2.
The French toast shop-more specifically, an all-night diner whose cooks were cursed with the advertised promise of "Breakfast 24 Hours"-was about a 100-square foot hole-in-the-wall on 9th Street. My observation of flies hovering above the stove and soiled dishrags on the floor must have been palpably noticeable, seeing as the moment we received our meals, Mimi offered to eat outdoors. Despite the terribly inviting indoor table garnished with a solitary, lopsided folding chair... I consented.
We planted ourselves some twenty feet outside the diner, on the curb, leaning leisurely against the wall of a building; the neighborhood was, for the most part, deserted, save for the anonymous sounds of a distant karaoke bar, seeming to float from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
"I haven't done this in years," I remarked, dunking a slice of toast in sticky pancake syrup.
A twinkle illumined her eye. "We still talking about the kiss?"
I flicked a sprinkle of powdered sugar at her. "Shut up."
Her head rested on my shoulder, briefly, as she paused emphatically to bask in her own smartass-style of wit. "I do this once a month," she announced.
"What, breakfast at midnight?"
"All of this. A stop on the rooftop, breakfast, clothes shopping, a piano bar, a strip club..."
Bad time to be swallowing orange juice, Cohen. I choked and sputtered and gratefully accepted the napkin she'd been holding out a little too absent- mindedly for my comfort, as though she'd been expecting such an effect. "A strip club?"
She shrugged. "A girl's gotta have fun."
"But..." Oh, how to put it truthfully *and* tactfully? "You work at one."
An eyebrow arched knowingly. "Oh, but baby, that's not the same as *going* to one."
I immediately craved an elaboration on this, but bit my tongue. "So... who do you usually do all this with? Roger?" That's right. Keep bringing up the boyfriend. *That'll* keep you from drowning.
She shook her head. "Just me."
Hmm.
Egotistic speculations stirred within me. "Then why am I here?"
Another shrug, but I sensed that more was coming. She reclaimed her flimsy plastic knife and fork and began the strangely obsessive ritual of cutting her toast into six flawless squares-a process I'd been studying since her first slice five minutes ago. "I was watching you tonight," she stated simply. "At the party."
Um. "...And?" Yes. That.
"And... I..." Another shrug. They were getting progressively more bashful and, inevitably, adorable. "Something in your eyes told me you needed this."
"This..." I echoed contemplatively.
"This."
I couldn't resist: "We still just talking about French toast?"
She blushed. She actually blushed. The girl who, night after night, marches out onto a stage in front of an audience of gawking men and strips off every item of clothing she bears. And one smart comment from a passive, nerdy filmmaker brings a flush to her cheeks.
"You just need to see what's on the other side of the camera, I think," she decided, busying herself with an already-shredded napkin.
"You know," I sighed melodramatically, "contrary to popular belief, I'm not just some diffident, antisocial geek who can't possibly survive one ounce of the real world unless he's seeing it through a lens." [A/N: /tribute to Rentfic's Classic!Mark]
"You have syrup on your pants."
I looked down. She was right. And now she was laughing. "Shit," I mumbled, groping for spare napkins. As I swiped clumsily at the stain, napkins began to shred, and the spot only expanded.
"No, no, no," she grinned, prying the napkins from my fingers and giving my hand a light squeeze. "This is perfect."
A bold, slightly distracted side of me allowed my hand to remain in hers. "Is it, now?"
She nodded solemnly, adding a wink-the only sign that her intentions were still as lighthearted as they'd begun. "We're going shopping."
And with little warning, she tossed our plates and napkins into the trash and began dragging me by the hand, several blocks south, her energy keeping her a couple strides ahead of me for the first while. But once I settled into her rhythm, we walked side by side, half running off the sugar high of French toast, half falling into each other and giggling as though we were drunk. I was somewhat less demonstrative when it came to the latter, but I smiled and held her hand and shook my head at her craziness, occasionally blushing a shade not unlike that of a tomato, when she would make some wicked comment about alternative uses of hair gel or interesting bathtub activities.
To this day, I'm unable to determine what made me interpret 'shopping' in the way that I did. My mind held the distinct image of an outrageously vintage clothes shop, my worst fear resting in the chance that I would walk out in a pair of golf pants or bellbottoms. Even as we turned a sharp left into the door of a shop boasting lace corsets and leather thongs in the display window, it didn't quite hit me. For all I knew, she was stopping in to ask directions.
Twenty minutes later, however, found us in that same shop: me, standing stiffly and doubtfully in front of a full-length mirror, and Mimi, standing behind me to smooth out the back of my shirt and peek over my shoulder.
"They're fabulous," she announced, running her fingers along the top of the pants.
"I can't move," I reminded her.
"You'll get used to it."
"They're hot! They're like... sticking to me."
She rolled forward on her feet, stepping up onto her toes. Her hands slid up the back of my shirt until they rested on my shoulders. I forced myself to look in the mirror again, wondering how Roger could tolerate those favorite leather pants of his as often as he did.
"Yeah," she agreed, lips brushing almost intentionally against my ear. "But they're wickedly sexy."
...And now we're through wondering.
She was right, though. They would have made a rather clashing statement with my raggedy black sweater, but with the new crimson dress shirt she'd selected in the fifteen minutes I'd spent trying to get the pants on... she was right. I looked... well, not myself. But irresistible.
"Come on," she tugged on my sleeve, pulling me toward the register. "You can wear them home."
"Mimi, I can't afford this!"
"It's okay, I've got a, uh... sort of a credit here."
"I don't want to know, do I?"
She grinned. "Absolutely not."
That collection of spandex and glitter sauntered over to the register, leaning far enough over the counter to offer some magic words (and a rather pleasant view) to the poor, defenseless kid behind it... and I was beginning to learn that the room changed every time she stepped away from me. Not the room itself... but my impression of the room. She had a presence... she *was* a presence. When she was by my side... that's all I saw. Her touch was the only thing I felt, and her voice the only thing I heard.
And one would think, when she stepped away... I would be able to see other things, hear other sounds, feel other sensations. But no. My entire world turned blank when she was gone-I simply watched her and was oblivious to everything. Well, everything but her... much as I tried.
She's Mimi. How can you be oblivious to that?
As she turned back around to face me, leading me out the door with a confident wink and a nod, she'd lured me back into her presence.
"Mark, look."
We'd been walking for what had likely been close to an hour... but it felt like mere seconds to me. Conversation found us the minute we left the store, and had latched on securely. It seemed, in fact, that there weren't even enough streets in all of New York to accommodate us. Twice we'd gone in circles, once gotten lost, and received at least one whistle or wink on every street corner... although I assumed those were directed mainly at her. Every time I went far enough out on a limb to say something even remotely daring, she found it amusing enough to fall against my side, giggling, and latch herself onto my arm for a few fleeting seconds.
Our hands had brushed together more than once-more than a dozen times, probably-and every time my heart jumped just a little higher, and I hated myself just a little more, because every time I'd realize that the person effecting these embarrassingly juvenile reactions in me was none other than my best friend's lover.
I lifted my gaze from the ground. "Hmm?"
She gestured subtly toward a stunning blonde walking in our direction. "Not bad, huh?"
I shrugged. "She's all right."
"Go talk to her!"
"No!"
"Mark, that is the fourth girl you've refused to hit on in your new pants."
She was right. She'd spent a cumulative total of ten minutes during our walk, lecturing me on how I need to take more initiative with women. And every time, I found myself choking back yet another way of saying that she was the only person I wanted to be with tonight. That, selfish as it seemed, I was having far too much fun with the rampantly jealous looks I was getting from every guy who passed us.
But, of course... I couldn't tell her that.
"I don't like blondes," was my latest excuse, and I was surprised I hadn't played that card yet.
"You dated Maureen."
"Yeah," I grinned. "That's why I don't like them."
She whacked me playfully on the arm. "All right. In all seriousness now, 'kay?" I nodded, mock-solemnly. "How many people have you slept with?"
Much as I wanted to pretend to be offended, there was one point I couldn't ignore. "I find it a little disturbing that you use the term 'people' rather than 'women'."
She raised an eyebrow, the corresponding corner of her mouth following it upward. "How should I know?"
"Mimi!"
She giggled, falling against my side-a gesture I was quickly learning to anticipate, in every sense of the word. "I'm kidding. Now tell me."
"No."
"Yes."
"No!"
"Yes!"
"Seven."
I hadn't even realized she'd been holding my hand, swinging our arms back and forth the way children do at the park, until she stopped abruptly in her tracks, and, by the laws of physics, I was spun around to face her.
She blinked, and with that simple gesture, every feature on face seemed to soften. "Really?"
I shrugged. "Broom closet at the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center, disastrous senior prom, three in college, Maureen, and... some girl from the coffee place a month after Maureen left me."
She blinked again, some small, odd variation of a smile flashing briefly across her face. "Oh."
"Expected less?"
She shrugged, fighting off the imminent blush, and resumed walking, her hand still clutched around mine. "Maybe."
I smiled. "All right. Your turn."
"Um... I don't think so."
"Ohhh, no you don't!" It was my turn to halt to a stop without warning, spinning her around. "It's only fair. You know it is."
"Mark, you don't want to know."
I grinned. "Like hell I don't."
She sighed, unable to conceal the tiniest of grins. I liked this-I'd found a new way to make her smile: being my rarely-displayed aggressive self. "All right," she consented. "Guess."
"That is *not fair*!!"
"Why not?!"
"Because!" I whined. "If I guess too low, I'll be underestimating you. If I guess too high, I'll be insulting you."
She grinned-a full-sized, genuine smirk. "Try me."
My first instinct was to continue walking for another half-hour, mentally analyzing every aspect of the situation, taking into account all factors- her age, her occupation, her personality, her... Mimi-ness. But I quickly got the feeling that would only complicate my natural intuition, if I even had any on the matter. And so I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.
"Ten."
Her hand fell from mine-not out of shock, not out of offense-out of hysteria. The moment the syllable left my mouth, she was doubled over in laughter.
"All right, all right, apparently not," I chuckled nervously. "I get one more chance, okay?"
Miraculously, she managed to nod through her giggles, and plopped down on a brick wall at the edge of the sidewalk, as I began to pace back and forth, starting up the analysis that had initially tempted me.
A solid thirty seconds rebuilt my confidence, and I stopped pacing long enough to face her. "Sixteen."
Bad, bad choice, Cohen. The laughter rang out again, evil, and delighted by my helplessness. She hardly seemed insulted, or even terribly surprised. She was simply... amused. Highly. And it was maddening.
"Twenty-five!" I whined, feeling as though I were simply falling through quicksand. "Thirty. *Forty*?"
Forty was the turning point; she hopped down off the wall, stumbling over to me, half-heartedly forcing back her laughter. "Mark-" she choked. "Stop. Just-stop."
I sighed, my arms flopping to my sides. "I'm sorry."
"Hey." Her hands cupped my face, gently, just to bring my eyes toward her. "Don't feel bad. No one's ever been able to guess."
I shrugged, feeling utterly defeated, utterly childish... and not really giving a shit about either.
"You really want to know?"
My mouth opened, prepared to blurt something to the effect of, 'Hell yes, after THAT?!' But instead, only silence filled the air around us, with the occasional taxi whizzing by, or the sounds of a restaurant floating past us.
I took a deep breath, released it, and shook my head. "Not really."
The warmth from her hands vanished as her arms fell limply to her sides. "Okay," she whispered.
We continued walking-slower, though, and in silence. Her hand once again found mine, an assurance that she was neither irreparably insulted nor disappointed. It was the first time all night that I was unable to read her, and it drove me crazy. But at some point, during my frantic guessing and her infuriating laughter, I'd decided I didn't want to know. I wasn't sure why, but I just didn't. I don't know what I was afraid of-it's not like she was *my* girlfriend, after all. For all I knew, Roger might not even-
Hmm.
"Does Roger know?"
She looked up at me and, slowly, shook her head.
My jaw dropped, but what could I say? What would I possibly have to say that was insightful or appropriate? He didn't know. That's all there was to it. I assumed he'd nagged her enough, and she refused, or gave him a fake number. It was just like him. It probably drove him crazy for a grand total of five minutes, and then he gave up. I smiled at the thought.
"Why not?" I ventured.
She shrugged. "He wouldn't tell me his number, so I didn't tell him mine."
I grinned. "It's twenty-four."
"Roger?!" Her eyes widened, a shocked laugh escaping her lips as she shook her head, sighing melodramatically. "God! What a slut."
"Totally," I smiled.
With this and a thousand other things in mind, I stopped, looking down at our hands, and then at her. "Tell me."
"Really?"
I nodded.
"Three."
It was a fully drawn-out ten seconds before I believed her.
"...Wow."
She smiled, realizing our situation's emotional control had been tossed into her court. "Expected more?"
"Um." My tongue found itself suddenly lodged in my throat. "No. I mean-yes. I mean-no?" She nodded, encouragingly, eyebrows raised in anticipation of my finally completing a coherent sentence. But I knew she was little beyond amused. *Very* amused. Far more amused than she had right to be. "I mean- yes," I finally decided. "Not because-I mean, I don't think you're-"
"A slut?"
"Yes. I mean-no! I mean-who?" That's it, Cohen, you're catching on. Turn the questions back to her.
Her composure and level of amusement remained intact. "Benny and Roger, and Matt... my boyfriend from high school."
Ah, I remembered Matt. I remembered how she and Roger had come home fighting one afternoon because they'd ran into "Matt". Yes... yes, I was familiar with Matt. And by this point, names were putting me at ease-we'd progressed from numbers to actual people, and finally everything was somewhat less ambiguous and shocking.
"But..." I moved slightly forward, looking both ways before leaning in toward her. "Don't you remember that night we got drunk at Roger's gig?"
The sound of her laughter made all the remaining tension vanish. She swiped at the sleeve of my shirt, and it was likely my imagination, but she appeared to be blushing. "Shut up, Mark."
I smiled triumphantly at my joke, shrugging her off and starting back down the street. I'd barely made it three paces before a large, powerful force hurled itself at me, climbing up for a piggyback ride, as the impact sent me stumbling forward two superfluous steps.
"Mimi!" I gasped, half-laughing as I reached my arms around to support her.
"You think you're so cute," she whispered into my ear.
"Perhaps."
"See if you're still as cocky once we get inside The O."
I nearly dropped her. "Excuse me?"
"The club I'm taking you to." Her tone was nothing if not smug. She was quickly learning how to structure just the right phrases that would send me off into a fit of tripping or speechlessness. Or in this case, both.
We reached a door on the side of a building, quite possibly the least likely club entrance I could have imagined. There were no signs-either or life, or for the establishment itself-but merely a door. Mimi hopped down off my back and began fumbling with the zipper on the back of her dress.
"Could you-" she began, pointing vaguely.
I stepped forward, brushing her hair away until I found the zipper, and stopped-the reality of the situation finally closing in. "Mimi, um... what are we doing?"
She smiled. "Jeez, I was wondering if you were going to ask. Just get the top hook undone. That thing's a bitch."
"But why?" I whined.
"In case."
"In case of *what*?" I asked, somewhat pointlessly, seeing as my fingers were already deftly detaching the tiny hook at the top of her dress, essentially without question. I trusted her far more than I should. God, I was so easy.
"Nothing," she grinned, taking my hand and swinging the door open. "Come on."