“Explain.”
I turned toward him, propping my head up on my hand. “Your art, our memories, the memories people have of us . . . it makes us immortal. When you love someone, whether it be your family, friends, partners, whatever, it’s like planting a little seedling of yourself inside of their hearts.”
“I like that,” he said. “Tell me about us. How’d we meet?”
I searched his eyes. “I can’t believe you don’t remember.”
He smiled as if to say, you know I do. “I just want to hear you tell it again. I love the way you tell it.”
“We met at a museum . . . the Getty.” I had to think on my pudgy toes, but I was getting a chance to describe exactly what I wanted. My fantasy.
“The Getty . . . right. Go on,” he said.
“We were both completely mesmerized by that Edvard Munch painting. What is it?”
“The Scream?”
“No, Starry Night,” I said.
“That’s Van Gogh, kitten.”
I reached across him for my phone on the bedside table. “I swear to god, Munch also painted a Starry Night and it’s at the Getty. We met in front of that exact painting.” I Googled it and handed him the phone. He stared at the screen.
“Yes, I remember now. What were you wearing?”
“A red dress. I had my hair up, Audrey Hepburn style.”
“That’s right. And you were staring at the painting for a long time.” He closed his eyes. “I wanted to kiss the back of your neck.”
“You didn’t, though; you just said something absentmindedly like, ‘It’s not as starry as the Van Gogh version.’ ”
He laughed. “Sounds like something I would say.”
“I agreed with you and then you asked me out on a date. I politely declined.”
“How could you?”
“I was playing hard to get.”
“Of course you were.”
“But then you followed me through the whole museum, making silly comments about the artwork. We played I Spy in the Italian Romanticism section. You kept hinting at boobs and penises. I told you to grow up, so you disappeared for a bit and then you found me a little while later, staring at the illuminated manuscripts. You tried to act cultured and sophisticated. You pointed out some crap about the fine brushwork detail and we both started laughing. That’s when you asked me out again and I said yes.”
“And for our first date I took you to—”
“Pink’s Hot Dogs!” I shouted.
“Gross.”
“I know, I was deeply disturbed, but you just kept saying it was an institution.”
“You know I don’t eat pork, silly,” he said.
“They’re all-beef hot dogs,” I quickly replied.
“After Pink’s, I brought you here and we made love.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You were the perfect gentleman. You drove me home, walked me to the door, and kissed me on the cheek. Then you asked me out on a second date.”
“It’s because I really liked you.”
“I pulled you inside my apartment and had sex with you on my kitchen floor.”
He turned and looked at me with wide, shocked eyes. “You did not.”
“I know, I’m teasing. We ended up going out the next night. And we’ve been together ever since.”
“Didn’t I take you to the Griffith Observatory a couple of months later?” he asked.
“Are you being silly? That’s where you told me you loved me for the first time.”
I expected at some point for him to start laughing like it was all ridiculous, but he didn’t.
“I didn’t forget that. I was just testing you,” he said.
“Remember you were looking into a giant telescope and you pulled away and said, ‘Darn, there’s not enough,’ and then I said ‘What?’ and you said, ‘There aren’t enough stars up there to match the reasons why I love you.’ ”
“God, I’m romantic when I want to be.”
“Yes, you are.”
He leaned over and kissed me. “I’m sure I’ve told you a million times, but I’ll tell you again. Your body is perfect.” He smoothed his hand down my side to my hip as we lay face-to-face.
I traced my finger along his chest muscles across the small tuft of hair. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Do you know why I paint?”
“Because you’re damn good at it.”
He laughed once. “No, that’s not it.”
I pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around my body. I went to the window and bent near a stack of canvases propped against the glass. “You painted this one because you liked the color of this woman’s hair.” The woman in the painting was standing in front of Adam’s building.
“Maybe,” he called out from the bed.
“You must enjoy it?”
“I do.”
“Have you ever tried to get a show or sell any of these?”
“Not really. It doesn’t really matter to me.”
“They’re beautiful, Adam. The world should see them.” Glancing at the clock, I noticed it was almost three. “Shit, I need to text Helen.”
I stood up, facing the window, and turned to find Adam standing right behind me. His eyes were wide. “What are you doing?” I asked.
He blinked. “Painting,” he said, but he wasn’t. He was just watching me.
“There you go, being romantic again.”
“Guess so.”
“I need to call Helen.” I tried to walk past him, but he pulled me against his body and kissed me.
When he stepped away, he said, “Who’s Helen?”
“My roommate.”
He smirked. “You mean I’m not your roommate?” He was still playing. Maybe we’ll do this all night. I wouldn’t mind.
“No. Remember we decided to live separately?”
“I can’t imagine why,” he said earnestly.
A quiet alarm went off on Adam’s phone. He stared at it.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“Nothing. No big deal. I’ll be right back.” He went off to the bathroom and I texted Helen.
Me: Staying here tonight.
Helen: You okay? Code word?
Helen and I had code words for everything. It was usually an old pet’s name or a line from one of our favorite movies. Growing up, Helen’s family had Maltipoos. It’s a mix between a Maltese and miniature poodle . . . damned dog people and their overbreeding. Anyway, they had a little black Maltipoo named Major. He would have been adorable if he weren’t an incessant humper. It was just vile; truly, the dog was persistent and fanatical about humping. Witnessing Major molest everything in his path was traumatizing. He was constantly in motion, his little butt pumping in and out. There was clearly something wrong with him. He humped everything from stuffed animals to vacuum cleaners to any leg he came in contact with. Helen and I hated that dog. We called him Major Humperdinck. After high school it became our code for I totally want this guy to hump me. I know, we were disgusting girls.
Me: Major.
Helen: Major What?
Me: Don’t . . .
Helen: I’m calling the police.
Me: Major Humperdinck
Helen: I knew it. Well, have fun . . . slut.
But I wasn’t a slut. I was Adam’s long-term girlfriend that he had met at the Getty. When I put down the phone, I noticed he was standing near the window, gloriously naked. I lay back on the bed and watched him look out onto the street.
“Oh my god, honeybuns, you should see this. There’s a couple down there. I think . . . I think they’re falling in love,” he said.
“What if they look up and see you flashing them? Isn’t that voyeurism or something? You could get arrested.”
“It’s exhibitionism, not voyeurism. They can’t see me anyway. They’re too busy being all crazy in love with each other to notice anything else.”
“What are they doing?” I didn’t get up. For some reason, something kept me there, on the bed, watching him in all his innocent wonder.