Leslie woke up the next morning, red hair matted, her midnight-colored mascara staining the pillow case in feathered streaks. Lying next to her in bed, on his side with his hands curled under his head, was Chip.
“Where’s Dale?” she had asked when they shook hands in introduction and he held on to her fingers long enough that she blushed.
“Dale resituated in Vegas where he blew his fortune on cards and the drink—terrible habits,” he said, winked and raised his martini to his lips. Soon after that he was being pressed against the bathroom stall door in a furious make-out session, interrupted shortly thereafter by a bartender who told them to find somewhere else to go.
She inched slowly to the side of the massive white spread and thought how atrocious it would be to have him wake, to see her without the cover of a bar’s sparse lighting. She rummaged for her clothing and dressed in the bathroom. The sunlight blazed in through the massive bay window that overlooked the park. She pulled on her underwear and considered hopping into the Jacuzzi bath, but thought it would be better to be invited instead. In the silver-framed mirror, she combed her fingers through her hair and regretted not bringing any make-up. She would crawl back into bed, fall asleep, and whenever he woke, he would find her, his princess, by her side.
“Darling, won’t you come with me this weekend to the Hamptons. Billy Joel is having a little thing,” he would say, before kissing her passionately and dashing off somewhere, allowing her to lavish the day away in the Jacuzzi tub.
She was back in bed, hot with the covers on, and chilled with them off. The alcohol was beginning to work its way out of her, and she thought maybe it would have been a better idea to just leave when she had the chance. Now she feared that any movement he would wake. But then he stirred.
He looked groggy, with swells under his eyes and a blurred look that last night was as clear as the night sky.
“Oh, hey,” he said. He stood up without saying more and trudged into the bathroom to urinate. Then she heard the shower turn on and she thought she might join him. The glass doors were already steamed up and inside she could see a smudged version of Chip. She turned on the faucet and rinsed her hands with cool water, then splashed some on her face.
“I’m going to go,” she said.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said, as if a hello and brief conversation was all that they shared. He didn’t ask for her number, or even to pay for a cab ride home.
She finished dressing and took the elevator down sixteen floors to the lobby, where the doorman, grey and proper, offered a good morning and she wondered if he kept a count of all of the women who had passed on other days—ones more attractive than her, and maybe with enough confidence to demand some breakfast. She walked out into the cool Autumn air, found the subway station a block away, and waited for the train to rumble into the station.