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Roger
Igreet her at the door with a glass of wine.
“Your friend said you’d already had dinner, so I figured we’d skip ahead.”
Natalie takes the wine and steps into my apartment. There’s a guarded look in her eyes as she takes a sip. Then her eyes flick over my shoulder and she freezes.
Sometimes I forget the effect my penthouse can have on people.
“Would you like a tour?” I ask.
She tries to play it cool and gives me a shrug, “sure.” She takes a big gulp of the wine. Her awe is cute.
I offer her my free arm as I take a sip of my own wine and give her the grand tour.
The first floor has an open-floor plan, so you can see pretty much straight through from the door. The wraparound floor-to-ceiling windows give you a view of most of Manhattan. The Swarovski crystal chandelier over the twelve-person dining room table dominates half of the space.
“And… how many crystals are in that?” she asks.
“Oh, I forget. I think it’s somewhere around ‘a lot’.”
She takes another gulp of wine.
At the window, I show her the gold-plated telescope. She looks through it. “See anything?” I ask.
“Some stars are coming out. I’m just glad it’s not pointed at some girl’s bedroom window.”
“I angled it when I knew you were coming,” I kid.
She looks at the grand piano. “You play?”
“Not a note. You?”
She shakes her head, another gulp of wine. I guess itisa little weird to have a grand piano when you don’t play, but the interior decorator said I needed one, so…
I gesture up the stairs. “The bedrooms are up there. And my study.”
“Of course,” she says. She finishes the wine. I grab the bottle and pour her another glass.
Instead of taking her up that way, I say, “Let me show you my favorite part of this place.” I offer her my arm again and lead her into the kitchen. “I’ve had chefs come over and cry when they see this.”
I flip on the lights.
“You gotta be kidding me,” she says, finally dropping her cool.
The kitchen is mycoup de grace. It’s all white subway tile, marble and stainless steel. My pots and pans hang from iron hooks over the Italian-marble island in the middle of the Spanish-tiled floor. The double-stove and oven are top-of-the-line. There are Michelin restaurants that can’t afford this shit. All the appliances are blended into the walls and cupboards. And sometimes evenIcan’t find the refrigerator. Steel-and-glass floor-to-ceiling windows off to the side have a door that leads to a walled-in, ivy-covered garden.
I pull two stools out from the island and we settle in. I top off our glasses.
There’s a pregnant pause between us. I feel like I should say something. Apparently, she does, too, because we both start speaking at the same time.
We share a laugh, then she says, “You go.”
“I… don’t have anything that interesting to say,” I admit. “So, you go ahead.”
“OK,” she takes a breath. “Why did you vanish?”
Oof.“Maybe I should’ve gone first,” I stall. “I was gonna bring up the Yankees.”
