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She sets two glasses of water on the table, along with menus, a teapot, two empty cups, and two steaming bowls of savory-smelling liquid.
“Water, miso soup, and green tea.” She points ceremoniously at each of the items before departing.
Art and I reach for the teapot at the same time—and our fingers touch for a moment.
Gulp. The sexual zing is on par with what I felt when the toothbrush was on my clit.
Is he affected too? His expression is hard to read, so I have no clue. Probably not, though. Why would he be? He juggles beautiful ballerinas for a living.
Pulling his hand back, he loosens his tie by a millimeter and pours us both tea before saying, “To finish my thought, ballet is definitely an art form. A sport requires competition.”
Resisting the urge to fan myself, I taste my soup and nearly burn my tongue. “If you say so,” I say after a big sip of water to cool my mouth. “I don’t know much about ballet, but in Black Swan, it looked very competitive.”
He ladles a spoonful of soup, and unlike me, he blows on it—which makes me want to suck on his puckered lips. “That isn’t my favorite ballet-related film, but the part about ballerina competitiveness is accurate—which still doesn’t make ballet a sport. Painters are competitive too. Musicians even more so.”
“Not as competitive as dancers, though. Just look at all the contestants on So You Think You Can Dance.”
“That’s like saying the movie-making business is a sport because of the Oscars.”
Skunk. How did we stray so far from the conversation I meant to have—sleuthing out the reason for this dinner? Well, no time like the present. I slurp down some soup for bravery, barely tasting it, then blurt out, “So, Art, why did you ask me to dinner?”
He regards me with an inscrutable expression. “In Russia, talking business is considered bad for digestion.”
So there is business to discuss? Shit. What is it?
Swallowing the next spoonful of soup with difficulty, I say, “Why don’t you just tell me?”
“No.”
“We’re not eating solid food just yet.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but the paper door slides open and the waitress walks in.
Damn it. The perfume stink is back, and she’s interrupted him just as he was most likely about to tell me what our “business” is.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks.
Art picks up his menu. “I’ll be ready in a second.” He looks at me. “How about you?”
Anything to get rid of the interruption and get clean air. I open my menu to a familiar page and point. “I’ll have the sweet potato roll and the salmon-avocado-mango roll, with sweet chili and eel sauces on the side.” I glance at Art. “Ready now?”
His lips twitch. “Wow, sweet on top of sweet. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to drizzle the rolls with chocolate syrup as well?”
Grr. Not this again. Everyone is a critic when it comes to my food preferences. But hey, at least he didn’t say I’m about to have “sushi dessert,” which is what Gia called my favorite entrees the last time we came to this place.
I give him a smile as sugary as my order. “Why, yes, thank you for that idea. I’ll be sure to add that next time.”
Art laughs, shaking his head, and places his own order—a very boring and healthy-sounding platter of sashimi and nigiri pieces. He seems especially excited about tobiko, masago, and ikura. Thanks to Olive, my marine biologist sister who rants about the cruelty of the seafood industry and is thus the worst person to bring to this place, I know that those sushi pieces are made from flying fish roe, capelin fish roe, and salmon roe respectively. Or as she puts it, “innocent unborn babies.”
“Too bad they don’t have caviar sushi,” I say. “I bet you’d get that.” Blue always talks about how much Russians love their caviar, vodka, and bears.
Art lifts an eyebrow. “I actually did order caviar. The Japanese borrowed the word ikura from the Russian language. What you know as caviar is just one of many types of ikra we enjoy. The black kind you’re thinking of comes from sturgeon, but we also call salmon roe ‘red caviar.’ It’s very popular.”
The waitress seems to be writing all of this down. Does she think there will be a quiz about Russian culture before we leave her a tip?
“Anything else?” she asks, looking at Art with too much admiration for my liking.
We both shake our heads, and she departs, reluctantly sliding the paper door closed on her way out.
