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I stare down into my almost-empty plate. “You know how I’ve got a sensitive nose?”
He nods, eyebrows furrowing as I look up.
“That makes intimacy difficult.”
He puts a hand on mine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“My longest relationship was with a guy who showered compulsively. Before that, I had a few very short, gag-inducing flings.”
He pulls his hand away. “What about me? Do I make you gag?”
I shake my head vehemently. “You’re a rare exception—a bit like the members of my family, at least when they don’t wear perfume.”
He looks relieved. “I hate the idea of you finding me disgusting.”
He does? Why? Since I’m not brave enough to ask that, I go for something that I’m just as curious about. “What about you? Have you lost track of the number of ballerinas you’ve dated?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Hard to lose track when the number is close to zero.”
“Close to zero?” Is it because they’re so thin they’re a fraction of a regular woman?
“Well, I had a couple of casual encounters with ballerinas, and even those led to so much drama that I now avoid them at all costs. There’s a Russian saying: ‘Don’t spit into the well. You might want to drink water from it.’ And since I work with them…” He shrugs.
I chuckle. “The English version of that is even less poetic: ‘Don’t shit where you eat.’”
He cringes. “As vulgar as that sounds, it fits the situation even better.”
“So, if not ballerinas, who? And don’t tell me you haven’t dated a million women.”
That would be impossible to believe.
“I’ve dated,” he says. “But not millions, and it’s never amounted to anything serious. My longest relationship was with an opera singer.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is she famous?”
He tells me her name, and I take out my phone to look her up.
Wow. Very pretty. Also, undeniably curvy.
Hmm. Dare I have hope?
“Now you have to give me the name of one of your exes to stalk,” Art says when I look up.
I give him the name of a guy I dated in college. “He isn’t as talented as your ex, and he was a sweater.”
“Warm and fuzzy?” Art takes out his phone and types in the name.
“No, he sweated a lot.”
Art frowns at his screen. “He’s a lawyer. I hate lawyers.”
Has he always hated lawyers, or has he developed those feelings just now, the way I’ve suddenly developed a dislike for opera singers?
“Anyway,” I say. “What movie are you making me watch today?”
“The Caucasian Captive. What about you?”
Oh, yeah. He chose that yesterday. I tell him my pick, and we go to the living room and start the marathon—cuddling on the couch as we do.
