Disgust and Desire (ch 13-14)

Chapter 13/14

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash

13.

Laura and Dylan sat back against their seats in the far rear corner table at Bull and Bear, outside. The tables were all filled now. The place was packed. A loud, buzzing chatter permeated the night. Honking from cars on Lexington sometimes bleated like angry sheep. Laughter cut through the air. They’d finished eating. She’d destroyed a $25 burger, and he’d chomped down a fancy $55 Rib Eye steak, medium-rare, drenched in seasoning and butter, with a small patch of green parsley on top. They sipped their third glass of white wine. Dylan lazily dug at his teeth with a beige toothpick the waiter had brought over.

“Hey,” Dylan said, eyeing her, smiling. He looked so sharp in that suit. She guessed that suit cost him close to fifteen-hundred dollars. It was one of those Armani Collezioni’s, wool and dark blue. It made him look sophisticated. “Where are you?”

She lifted her wine goblet. Her head was in the clouds. She was thinking of her nightmare that morning.

“Sorry,” she said. “Just feel a little distracted.”

He grinned, slowly twirling his wine glass by the thin stem. “Distracted by…”

She sighed. “Well. Work, for one. It’s been busy. And…”She felt insecure, embarrassed. “My boss keeps harassing me.”

“Greg?”

She nodded. “He just makes me feel so uncomfortable sometimes. His eyes scan me like I’m subhuman.”

He stopped twirling the glass. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Want me to talk to him?”

She laughed. “God, no. I don’t want any trouble. I threatened him though. Said I’d file a formal sexual harassment complaint if he didn’t stop.”

Dylan lifted his wine glass. She did, too. “To filing sexual harassment suits against bosses.”

She chuckled. They clinked their glasses. They drank.

“There’s something more, though, isn’t there?” he said.

“What makes you say that?”

He looked away for a moment, scanning the crowd of customers. He pushed his seat back a little, crossed his legs. “I can tell. It’s in your eyes. And in your tone. And the edgy way your voice deepens. It’s kind of sexy.”

She remembered a few months into their relationship, last year. The first time he’d been an asshole. They’d had plans to go see the movie Joker in Midtown, at the Rooftop Cinema Club. She’d been darkly fascinated by the premise of the film and she loved Joaquin Phoenix. Several hours before they were going to leave they had sex in his bed. She could still vividly envision his white top-sheet and white bed-sheets and white comforter; they all smelled pure and fresh, almost like Irish Spring Soap. He’d been on top of her, pounding away, regular missionary position, and she’d felt profoundly bored. Distracted. During it she’d thought of Joker, and imagined not Dylan but Joaquin Phoenix on top of her. She even adored his harelip. It made him look mildly tough in a sexy, masculine way.