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“No,” I say.
“You’re not thinking about that load of laundry you forgot to put in the dryer this morning? Or that you need to pick up bread and milk from the store? Or that your student loan payment is due next week? You’re not thinking about the dry cleaning you keep forgetting to pick up?”
I chuckle. “No.”
“Must be nice.” Her shoulder bumps against mine, though I don’t think it was intentional.
When we left the restaurant a few minutes ago, there was at least a foot, maybe two feet, between us. That gap has since closed, and neither of us has made an effort to restore it.
“I used to have anger issues,” I say. “As a kid, I mean. My parents put me in therapy for years, and while I don’t remember much of what we talked about, I do remember this trick my doctor taught me. When you need to ground yourself and quiet the storm in your mind, stop what you’re doing and engage with your five senses. It sort of . . . tricks your mind into being present.”
“Hm.”
“Right now,” I say, “name one thing you can hear.”
Margaux gathers a breath, stops in her tracks, and closes her eyes.
“Music,” she says. “There’s music coming from an apartment. Sounds like jazz. Old jazz, not new jazz. Like . . . Chet Baker, maybe?”
“Okay, good. Now, name one thing you can see.”
Opening her eyes, she scans the cityscape around us. “A bus stop.”
“What’s one thing you can smell?” I ask next.
Dragging a deep breath into her lungs, she holds it for a moment before exhaling.
“Your cologne,” she says. “It’s peppery. And musky. Different but in a good way.”
“What’s something you can taste?” My attention lowers to her pillowy lips as she presses them together. It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed anyone, but tonight I found myself flirting with the idea of what it would be like. Entertaining the notion, I suppose. Aunt Theodora would be beside herself with joy if she knew I was taking a mental step in that direction.
“My dessert from earlier. I can still taste the bittersweetness of the cocoa powder and espresso,” she says after a moment of contemplation.
“All right. Last one. Name one thing you can touch.”
Margaux faces me, squaring her shoulders with mine. Our eyes hold, and I lose my train of thought for just a second. With her lips cocked at one side, she lifts her hand slowly . . . cracking a full smile when she reaches her final destination.
Tucking her hair behind her left ear, she says, “The dent in my hair.”
“Wow,” I say, fighting a chuckle. “We’ve officially come full circle.”
She places her hand on my arm, bracing herself as she laughs. But just as quickly as she reached for me, she lets me go, and we continue on our walk.
I step ahead, catching up with her, watching her dress sway with each stride.
“It quieted my mind,” she says over her shoulder. “For the record. It worked.”
“Of course it did.”
We cross the street at the next corner and turn left onto Gansevoort.
“There’s a little gallery up ahead,” I say. “They have the best window displays in all of Manhattan.”
“The Landry?” she asks without pause. “Hard disagree. Riverside Modern Collective has the best displays. It’s not even a debate.”
“Riverside?” I sniff, amused. “Are they new?”
“I really hope you’re joking,” she teases with a smile.
“You certainly know your art galleries,” I tease back.
Hands clasped behind her back, she bites her lip. “I mean, I know some of them?”
“Are you a collector?” Surely it would’ve come up in conversation by now, but I have to ask. Only those in the know are familiar with these galleries. They’re off the beaten path, smaller and more curated than some of their more established counterparts.
“I wouldn’t call myself a collector, no,” she says. “I have a few pieces. And the ones you gave me, of course. But I can’t afford to play in the big leagues. I’m more of an appreciator of the arts than an accumulator.”
“I should show you my collection sometime.”
Margaux angles her head, turning her full attention my way. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”
“What’s your schedule like next week during the day? Think Theodora can stand to lose you for a couple of hours?”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
“I’ll have to look and let you know . . .” There’s a hint of reluctance in her voice, though I’m not sure why an “appreciator of the arts” wouldn’t want to check out someone’s private cache.
Maybe I’m coming on too strong, too fast. God knows I’m out of practice. I haven’t felt excited about getting to know anyone in years, and when I’m into something, I tend to go all in. That and between running a multi-seven-figure company and raising two little girls, I’m seldom told no. In my everyday life, I snap my fingers, and everyone immediately does what I want without faltering.
