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“But—”
“Greenwich Street.”
I get out at the phone booth on the corner. My fingers are trembling as I search for a dime and drop it into the slot. The phone rings several times. A sleepy voice says, “Yeah?”
“Capote?”
“Yeah?” He yawns.
“It’s me. Carrie Bradshaw.”
“Yeah, Carrie. I know your last name.”
“Can I come up?”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“Please?”
“All right.” The light goes on in his window. His shadow moves back and forth, back and forth. The window opens and he throws down the keys.
I catch them neatly in the palm of my hand.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I open one eye and close it. Open it again. Where the hell am I? This must be one of those bad dreams when you think you’re awake but you’re still actually asleep.
I don’t feel asleep, though.
Besides, I’m naked. And it kind of hurts down there.
But that’s because . . . I smile. It happened. I am officially no longer a vir
gin.
I’m in Capote Duncan’s apartment. I’m in his bed. The bed with the plaid sheets his mother bought him. And the two foam pillows (why are guys so chintzy about pillows?), and the scratchy army blanket that belonged to his grandfather. Who got it from his father, who fought in the Civil War. Capote is very sentimental. I can hear Patsy Cline still crooning softly on the stereo. “I Fall to Pieces.” From now on, every time I hear that song, I’ll think of Capote and the night we spent together. The night he kindly took my virginity.
I guess I’m lucky, because it was pretty much the way I’d always hoped it would be. And while we were doing it, I honestly felt like I was in love with him. He kept telling me how beautiful I was. And how I shouldn’t be afraid. And how happy he was to be with me. And how he’d wanted to be with me from the beginning, but he thought I couldn’t stand him. And then, when I started dating Bernard, how he figured he’d lost his chance. And when I actually managed to write a play, he decided I’d think he wasn’t “good enough.” Because he hadn’t managed to write much of anything.
Yow. Guys can be so insecure.
Naturally, I told him he’d gotten me all wrong, although it is true—which I didn’t tell him—that I didn’t find him terribly attractive at the beginning.
Now, of course, I think he’s the most gorgeous creature on earth.
I peek at him. He’s still asleep, lying on his back, his face so peaceful and relaxed, I actually think I can detect a slight smile on his lips. Without his glasses, he looks shockingly vulnerable. Last night, after we kissed for a bit and he did the sexy librarian thing and took off his specs, we stared and stared into each other’s eyes. I felt like I could see his entire history in his pupils.
I could know everything about him in a way I’d never known anyone before.
It was a little eerie, but also kind of profound.
I guess that’s what I found most surprising about sex: the knowing. How you can understand a person completely and vice versa.
I lean over the edge of the bed, searching for my Skivvies. I want to get out while Capote’s still asleep. A deal’s a deal, and I said I’d leave first thing in the morning.
I raise myself slowly, sliding carefully off the bed so as not to jiggle the mattress. The mattress itself is about a hundred years old, left here by the original owners. I wonder how many people have had sex on this bed. I hope a lot. And I hope it was as good for them as it was for me.
I find my clothes splayed around the couch. The Chanel bag is by the door, where I dropped it when Capote grabbed my face and backed me up against the wall, kissing me like crazy. I practically tore his clothes off.
