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Wow. I could pay a lot of rent with that amount of dollars. But this is insane. I can’t marry him, can I?
I shake my head, but it doesn’t feel any clearer.
“Okay, how about if I raise it fifty percent?” he asks, clearly mistaking my headshake.
How does he even have that kind of money? Do ballet dancers make bank?
Too stunned to speak, I look down at my phone and type into the search bar “how much do ballet dancers make?”
Nope. According to the article I see, ballet dancer salaries are usually in the low-to-mid five figures, though some may make a bit more. Given the diets they have to adhere to, lots of them are “starving artists,” both literally and figuratively.
He sighs. “You’re a good negotiator. How about if I double it?”
I’m even more speechless. With this new offer, I’ll be able to pay off my credit card debt, and I won’t have to worry about my rent for a good long while.
Clearly, he’s not operating on a dancer’s salary. So where is this money coming from… and do I care?
Well, I care if it’s illegally gained, which is where my mind goes.
“Are you in the mafia?” I blurt.
Dumb. So dumb. At best, he could answer in the Godfather style: “Don’t ask me about my business.”
He cocks his head, lips twitching. “What gave you that idea?”
“The amount,” I say. “And John Wick.”
“Another movie?”
Feeling silly, I examine the table between us. “He’s an assassin who works for the mafia. Russian. At the place where he trained, they practiced ballet.” Art chuckles as I add defensively, “Dancers are often portrayed as violent in fiction—just look at West Side Story. I’m not crazy.”
I’ve also seen Russians do ballet in a spy movie that Blue made me watch. Could Art be a spy? Maybe Russia wants American masturbation secrets from me? But no. Blue cleared him of that. I wonder if she also checked the mafia database.
“I’m not in the mafia,” he says patiently. “I’m an investor.”
“An investor?”
“You know, I buy things and sell at a profit. Legal things, like stocks, bonds, options, crypto, real estate.”
Whatever “hackles” are, I feel mine rising. “I know what an investor is.”
“Great. Then what do you say to my proposal?”
A “no” is on the tip of my tongue, but then I remember the amount of money in question and I almost say “yes.” In general, my thoughts are like molasses in Siberia.
With great effort, I manage to string a sentence together. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course.” He steeples his strong fingers. “I don’t expect you to make such a big decision lightly.”
Right. Sure. Marriage is not something you decide lightly—an understatement the size of the bulge in his ballet tights.
“How about we get the check?” he suggests. “You can think it over at home.”
I nod.
He slides open our door and waves.
One of the questions frozen in my head finally makes it past my lips. “Why not find a real woman?”
