Evan Hunter: Candyland

"Your father can't be forty-three."

"But he is!" she says, still finding it funny, reaching for a paper napkin on the bar, dabbing at her eyes with it.

"If you're twenty-five, how can your father…?"

"He got married when he was seventeen."

"That's very young."

"Well, he's still very young."

"Oh, sure, make amends," he says, smiling. "Well, he is. Forty-three is very young."

"But I remind you of him, huh?"

"Not at all!" she says, and bursts out laughing again. "I mean it. You definitely do not remind me of my father! Did I say you reminded me of him?"

"Well, I mention I'm forty-three and next thing you know your father's in the conver… "

“Stop it!" she says. "Would I be sitting here flirting with you if you reminded me of my father?"

"Are you flirting with me?"

"Well, what do you think all this leg show is about?" she says, and kicks up her legs, and then hooks the rung of the stool with her heels again.

"They're very beautiful," he says.

"Thank you, I know," she says. "My best feature actually."

She shows them again, hands flat on her thighs, toes pointed, looking at them admiringly. Brings them back, hooks the bar stool rung again. Looks at him. Serious look now. Almost a solemn look. Green eyes steady.

"So?" she says.

This has turned into a different sort of game.

He would have preferred her to be a hooker. There is no uncertainty about hookers. You determine the playing field, and play the game, and that is that. With a respectable woman, you have to take time. True enough, he has all the time in the world — well, at least till six-thirty tomorrow morning. But, yes, he has the time. He's just not sure he has the energy. Once upon a time, he had the energy. Once upon a time, long ago, he thought it was all about love. Now he realizes it is only about fucking. That is somewhat sad, he supposes.

"You don't really want to eat here in the dining room, do you?" he asks.

“I am hungry," she says.

"I know, but the dining room?"

"Too stuffy, huh?"

"Very.”

"Then where?"

"Where would you like to go?"

"You're the man."

He looks at her.

Almost says How about my room?

Hesitates. Again almost says it. How about my room? Karen? Would you like to come to my room?

"There's a very good Italian restaurant right around the corner," he says.

"You twisted my arm," she says.

He asks for a corner booth and a waiter immediately leads them to one. He watches her walking ahead of him, and cannot detect a panty line, which ordinarily he finds very sexy, except when he's entertaining thoughts of Irish nakedness under the dress. He does not know whether or not she is in fact Irish — well, the red hair and the green eyes any more than he knows for sure that she isn't wearing panties under the black dress. He likes to think she's Irish. He likes to think he can slide his hand up under the dress and discover her open and exposed. He is beginning to like the idea that she's not a whore, though she probably is.

The normally packed restaurant is virtually empty Perhaps this is because it's still raining. Or perhaps it's because the rain has done nothing to cool the steaming streets and people would rather stay home in this ridiculous heat. Or perhaps it's because this is July and many New Yorkers are in the Hamptons or on the Vineyard. Or perhaps it's simply because JFK, Jr. was a New Yorker and the locals are staying home out of respect. Whatever the reason, he is grateful. The booth is cramped and intimate. He can feet her thigh alongside his on the leatherette seat, can feel the occasional glancing touch of her knee under the table.

Once, in Seattle, he picked up a girl in the hotel bar, and when they got to his room, she asked if he would mind her ordering something from room service since she hadn't eaten since breakfast and was truly very hungry. They had already negotiated five hundred for the night, and he didn't think another fifty or so for a sandwich and a beer would destroy him. Instead, the girl ordered one of the pricier items on the menu — duck A l'orange, if he now remembers correctly — and then went to sleep immediately afterward, still wearing all her clothes. It was raining, as he recalls. Well, it's always raining in Seattle. Grace called while the girl was still asleep on his bed. He had by then taken off her panties and unbuttoned her blouse, the girl snoring right through it. That was the time Margaret was thrown from a horse at camp. She was eleven, hated camp. She still hated everything. He hopes Grace will not call tonight.

He feels relatively certain that Karen will be sharing his bed tonight, and he does not want Grace interrupting with news that someone else has fallen from a horse. Her mother dying would be the only reason she'd call, he figures, so he hopes her mother doesn't die. Aside from the fact that she's a very nice lady whom he likes a lot, he doesn't want her spoiling his night with Karen. He has already convinced himself that he has never known a girl as desirable as this one in his entire lifetime. He knows for certain now — or guesses he knows for certain that she is not wearing panties under the black dress. As they study the menu, her thigh warm against his, he fantasizes raising the dress above her hips to discover no panties — he was right! — and a flaming red bush. He visualizes himself dropping to his knees before her. Her head is thrown back, tier hands are holding the bunched dress above her hips, her legs are widespread. She moans. He feels her legs beginning to buckle. She screams.

"Tell me what's good here," she says.

He recommends the linguini puttanesca.

"It means whore-style," he says, testing her.

"Yes, I know," she says, and their eyes meet and lock, and he thinks This girl is definitely a hooker, what's wrong with you? In which case, why hasn't she told me how much she wants for the night? Or is she going to eat a good dinner and then go to sleep like the one in Seattle, who finally woke up at midnight, By which time, he had fucked her twice, feeling somewhat like a necrophiliac each time. Rain pouring down outside. Yawning, she asked him if it would be all right if she went home now. He told her Sure, go ahead. Now, ten years later, he still doesn't know if she was a hooker or just some kind of hippie who'd swallowed a handful of whatever it was before he picked her up in the bar. No more than he knows if this redheaded Irish girl who's not wearing panties under her black dress is a hooker or just somebody hungry who's come in out of the rain.

She orders the veal parmigiana.

He orders spaghetti with tomato sauce and basil.

"Shall I order a bottle of wine?" he asks.

"I'll be useless," she says, and again their eyes lock. "Can I just have a glass?"

"Red? White?"

"Red, please."

He orders two glasses of the better Merlot. They sit sipping the wine, the restaurant inordinately still.

"So how often do you come to New York?" she asks.

"Every six months or so."

"That's not a lot."

"Sometimes more often. I was here just this past April, for example. It depends," he says.

"Do you travel a lot?"

"Most of our work is in California. But, yes, we have clients all over the United States. And, of course, there are lectures. I do a lot of lectures. "

"Are you famous?"

"No. I'm just a good architect, I guess,"

"Would I know you?"

"I doubt it."

"Michael what?"

"Thorpe."

He figures that's safe. Michael Thorpe. Relatively safe.

"Where do you lecture, Michael?"

"Schools."

"Here in the East?"

"Well, on the East Coast, yes. New York, of course. Boston. Lots of colleges in Boston."

"That's not far, Boston."