Enough Commas for Lawrence

The gala-- one for something he didn't quite remember -- was winding down. He was winding down as well at the bar. His tickets had been purchased automatically, and he didn't really care about going, but something in the late winter night drove him from his apartment to mingle with the equally rich and bored. And now he was thinking it had been a poor inspiration.

"I've been warned to stay away from you," said a voice to his left. It was sweet, a little husky.

Eric looked up from his glass of rye. "It is probably good advice. Sometimes I wish I could take it myself." He looked her over, appraising.

She was tall, willowy, with a long fall of hair the color of good caramel highlighted with gold. Light brown eyes -- the color of a long pour of Hennessy -- and a striking face. He had a fleeting wish for his camera -- he could do remarkable things with that face. But even beyond that, it echoed for him.

He smiled. The self-deprecating smile, rather than the lightly flirtations smile, or the wry smile, or the seductive smile, or the challenging smile. He had many smiles.

"So," he said at last. "If you have been given such splendid advice, is there something I can do for you?"

"Ada."

"Ah, so, is there something I can do for you, Ada?"

"Aren't you interested in who warned me?"

"Not particularly. For such a large city, ours is more like a small town. Listen, I am many things, but I was raised to be hospitable at the very least. Can I at least buy you a drink, especially as you are eschewing the advice of your good friends?"

"Certainly," she said, taking the bar stool next to him. She glanced at his glass on the mahogany bar top. "I'll have whatever you are having." There was a challenge in her smile, and the way she held her head.

"Excellent." He polished off his drink and tapped the glass twice for the bartender, who was staying out of the way of conversation near the end of the bar. "One more, and one for the lady."

"Yes, sir," she said, and poured the whiskey into a pair of single old fashioned glasses.

"Rocks or neat, lovely Ada," he asked.

"However you are drinking it will be fine. And now I am lovely?"

"Oh, you were long before you came over," he said, paying for the drinks and a generous tip. 'Never undertip a bartender' was his motto. He had an aversion to running a tab.

"So, scotch?"

He smiled again, still the self-deprecating smile. "Oh, hell no. I have neither the ratified tastes nor the sense of masochism for that spirit. No, this is a good American rye, a Sarzerac 18-year-old. More spice, less bog water."

She reached for the glass.

"Smell it first, like tasting wine. Take a small sniff at first." He did as he instructed, breathing in the spicy smell of cinnamon and allspice. "Then we toast, then sip." He held his glass until she raised hers. "À nos amours." He tapped his glass to hers and drank.

She looked the whiskey over warily, then took a small sip, more than a drop on the tongue, but less than a full slug. He watched her eyes, which opened slightly in surprise, and the look of concentration on her face. And again felt an echo he didn't fully recognize.

She artlessly ran her tongue across her upper lip, then took a larger drink. "Interesting. There is a lot going on there."

"Yes, there is. Now take another sip, a small one, and hold it in your mouth and inhale, again, like wine tasting. Get your sense of that, then swallow and wait until you get the full finish." He did as he explained, and reveled in the slight pepper and burnt caramel tastes.

She swallowed, concentrating on the flavors, then smiled slightly again.

"Seemingly simple things can be far more complex than we realize," he said, sipping more.

Her smile was wry. "Why do I have a feeling this entire episode was a set-up for that truism?"

"No idea what you are talking about, lovely Ada. You were the one who chose your drink, after all."

"Touché. So aren't you even the slightest bit interested?"

"I have few virtues. One of them is patience. And you are dying to tell me, so all I have to do is wait."

"Fine," she said with a huff of air. "My friends say that you are not to be trusted. That you are a seducer, and a cad."

Eric put his elbow on the bar and set his chin upon it, tapping his index finger beside his mouth. "Fascinating. You know someone who actually uses the word 'cad.' Was your friend a British gentleman from World War Two, who also called me a bounder?"

She laughed, and it was lovely, and he decided to put that on the list of things he wanted to do again.

"Neither," she said. "They told me you are a liar, and you sleep with a lot of women."

"Well, I never claimed sanctification, so I would cop to gilding the occasional lily. As for sleeping with a lot of women, I suppose it would depend on your definition of 'a lot.' I do appreciate the company of women, but I don't consider myself a belt notcher."

"Married women," she said flatly.

"Ah," he said, "that. Well, as I said, some simple things are more complex than they seem. So, is that why you came over? To call me a cad and a bounder and stand in judgement of my sins?"

"No," she said, her voice softer. "No, I'm sorry if it came out like that. I apologize."

"No need to apologize, the cut was not that deep." It had been deeper. "So then, if you were warned to stay away, why are you tempting fate and social pariahism? Pariahty? I doubt that's a word, but I like it."

She smiled as she sipped her whiskey. "I make my own decisions."

That echoed in him as well, and he looked at her again, squinting slightly as if that would help.

She laughed, and it was a good laugh, big and indulgent, and Eric smiled a real smile in spite of himself.

"You don't remember me," she said, but it didn't sound like an accusation. There was too much amusement.

"But you think you know me," he said.

"I do."

"Maybe you just read my bio."

"Oh," she said, with a smile of her own. "So now you are subtly slipping in that you are famous."

"Well, if I am supposed to seduce you, I need to get a hook somewhere." This time it was his bedroom smile, and noted she colored slightly.

"Okay," she said, "that was pretty good. You're not seducing me tonight. But yeah, I know you. Or I did."

Tonight, he noted in passing. "Okay, you have me. Where do I know you?"

"Oh, no, I like this too much. I'll let you work it out."

"As you will." He took another sip. So did she, challenge in her eyes. "Where are you going to school?"

"And how do you know I am going to school?"

He just maintained his wry smile. She shook her head.

"Fine, I am at Barnard."

He contemplated. Ivy, obviously, but then all of them were. Hell, he had been Ivy League before he left. But who did he know there? The one name he fit with Barnard College was Sarah Charlesworth, and that was just through her work. There was a Sandrah...something, but maybe she just lived in Morningside. "Studying?"

"Quantitative economics." And the challenger in her eyes was evident.

He didn't rise to the bait. Too easy, and too easy to fall into a trap. He watched her, stroking his lower lip with his finger as he thought. She was smart, and good with numbers. Wealthy, part of the club, or she wouldn't be here. Ada. No echos there, but still..."And asking your last name would probably be too big a hint."

"And it likely wouldn't help anyway. Best to not risk it." She finished her Sarzerac.

"Another?"

She laughed again. "No, but thank you for the offer. Sarzerac? I need to remember that."

"It's also the name of a cocktail as well, so be sure they know what you want." His face was calm, but his mind was furiously digging. Where?

She stood. "Well, this has been fun. Thank you for the drink."

Impulsively, he reached out to take her hand. It was soft, and warm, and a tension ran up his arm at the contact. "Bide, a moment at least. I am still playing."

She tossed back her hair, that little smile playing on her lips. "I wish I could play longer, but I have to leave. Are you going to invite me to dinner?"

"Let me take your picture." It was impulse.

She laughed again. "Does that work often?" She lowered her voice an octave. "Let me take your picture. Come to my studio. No, it will be perfectly safe - I am a gentleman, after all. Oh, yes, the camera loves you. Why don't you lose the shirt? It will be for art!" Her continued smile took any sting from the mocking.

And he found himself smiling, genuinely again, and that was twice. "No, outside. On the street, tomorrow. I will meet you." He raised his hand as if swearing in. "I promise you, I will not seduce you. I am many things, mostly bad, but I keep my promises."

She appraised him for a moment. She sighed dramatically. "Fine, I will have the famous Eric Schuts immortalize me. What do you want me to wear?"

"Wear whatever you will," he said, his mind setting the shoot. "I will trust you."

"Fine -- pink tutu and diving flippers it will be," she said.

That raised his eyebrows. "Don't forget the diving helmet. That should make for an interesting day." He gave her the address and time. "If that works, of course." She nodded, and he pulled out his card and a pen, scrawling his personal number. He stood as he handed it to her. "You can reach me at any time with that," he said, handing her the card.

She looked at the card, then slipped it into her clutch. "I'm not going to sleep with you. Just so you understand."

"Furthest thing from my mind," he said. "Anyway, you wouldn't be sleeping." He gave her the bedroom smile, and she snorted. He liked that too. "Sorry, cad, after all."

"And a bounder," she said, turning away.

He sat again and watched her walk across the emptying ballroom floor. She moved well, he noted. Hard to get a good idea of her body under that diaphanous dress and wrap, but she moved very well. He watched to see if she met up with anyone, like, say, a group of women who had warned her, but she walked through the doors alone. Following would be cheating, and a horrible faux pas atop that.

"Ada," he said. "Ada, Ada, Ada." There was something, just beyond his eye. Maybe...

His phone vibrated for attention in his jacket pocket, ending that thought. "Sabine," he answered it.

"Eric, I'm horny."

"Oh, you are such a romantic. You always know how to woo a gentleman."

"I know. You are ten minutes from here, and I will be naked when you arrive."

Eric glanced at his watch. "More like a half an hour from where I am now, I'm afraid."

"Then I will start without you," she said, and ended the call.

He rose and tossed off the last of his rye. Sweet and spice burned down his throat as he dropped some more bills on the bar. Turning out to be an intriguing night, he thought as he turned to the door.

The early afternoon found him on the street corner, waiting for her. The city was still in the throes of its post-holiday hangover, and a few stores still had "New Year's Madness Sale" signs up, but for the most part, they had moved on. He had come down early and taken some preliminary shots. He had chosen the Fujifilm GFX over his usual Canon for this, as he wanted the smaller footprint. He had plenty to choose from -- Eric picked up cameras like his friend Akira bought guitars.

Eric had been flirting with street photography for the last few months. He has made his name as a portrait photographer, building a reputation for having a brilliant eye as well as being unconventional. Then two of the larger magazines in the city claimed he was the second coming of Annie Leibovitz within a moth of each other.

Foremost, it was completely untrue -- neither his style nor his talent was anywhere in the neighborhood of hers. Second, he was already half considered a dilettante as it was, and if people believed he agreed with his own press? With the thought that it was better to walk away than be ignored, he stopped. He had fulfilled his obligations as well as providing work to a last gallery show, and threw his shingle away.

That had led to something between depression and ennui, which led to more drinking, and more women. Out of self-defense against self, he found himself on the streets with his camera. That led to taking pictures of buildings, streets, and the people in them. Candid, sometimes painfully so, and so different from his portrait work. It revitalized him, at least somewhat.

He could see that Ada was coming down the street. There was something about her that made him want to take her picture. Beyond the mystery, and odd flirting. He lifted a hand and she waved back. She was wearing a Navy pea jacket with a light blue sweater under it and jeans. "Sorry," she said, "my tutu was at the dry cleaner."

"We'll work with what we have," he said, flashing his slightly flirty smile. "Want a cup of coffee?"

The little corner coffee shop was full, but as It was cold but dry, they took an outside seat. As she sipped her Americano, they talked about what the shoot.

"So," he said, "what I am doing now is more candid, slice of life stuff. Instead of portraits, I am shooting people on the streets."

"Okay, but I thought you wanted to take my picture."

"I do." He pulled up the camera. "Smile."

She mugged for the camera and he took several shots. "There, we got that out of the way."

"That was mean," she said, laughing.

"Cad," he said, pointing at himself.

"And bounder."

"Exactly. So what I want you to do is just...be. Walk around. Window shop. Whatever. And I will take pictures with you in them."

"That sounds an awful lot like stalking."

"Well, it is, but I bought you coffee first."

They walked down Amsterdam, he hung back, snapping pictures as they caught his eye. Most had Ada in them, at one place or another. Sometimes front and center, like when she was watching a busker play guitar. Or standing outside a Dunkin' Donuts, when she was talking to some Japanese tourists who were looking for Central Park. In other shots she was more peripheral, standing and watching some kids playing soccer in an enclosed little field, or on the very edge of a picture of a hot dog vendor yelling at a passing taxi who got too close.

She had a natural way with people, he saw. In a city known for not paying attention to anyone else unless they pissed you off, she was free and easy with people, and they responded to her. People laughed with her. Others watched to make sure she made it across the street. From a distance, it was more apparent. A star in the water.

Watch that, he admonished himself. She isn't interested. She knows what you are.

Late lunch was in a small restaurant he had found his first year at Columbia, popular with students. Eric had expected Ada to order a salad and water. Instead, she demolished one of the hamburgers the place was famous for. Talk was light, sprinkled with gossip.

"What?" she asked warily. "Why are you looking at me like that. Oh, shit, do I have something in my teeth?" He held up the back of her spoon to a broad smile.

"No," he said, laughing again. "No, sorry. I am still trying to figure you out. You say you know me, but I would have remembered you. But we know a lot of the same people, some of which warned you about me. Are you new to the city?"

"Nope," she said, visibly warming up to the game. "I took a couple of years off, an extended gap year, then came downstate for school. I have been here four years now."

So she was older than he had pegged her -- she came across as naturally young. And 'downstate.' "But we know the same crowds..." He wrinkled his forehead in concentration, and she laughed lightly at it.

"I don't, or didn't, get off campus much."

Then he knocked on his forehead with his fist lightly, twice. "The Covenant Sister!" he said in triumph.

She looked at him flatly. "The what?" she asked, her voice dryer than Hemingway's martinis.

"The Covenant Sister," he repeated. "Bree is always talking about her beautiful friend, who is waning away in her studies. That's you." He nodded, with his knowing grin.

"I am not 'waning away," she said with a sulk, slumping back in her chair with her water glass.

"Locked in the ivory tower, guarding her virginity, surrounded by books and graphs. Nope, that's you."

She was laughing in spite of herself. "No. No! Fine, yes, I focused on my classes, but I still get out. A little." She stopped and thought. "I am starting to get out.

"Absolutely not a virgin," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. "Breanna speaks very highly of you. I just thought she made you up.'

"She speaks quite lowly of you," she said, quietly.

"That makes sense. Bree and I did not end on a happy note."

"So, what's your side?" she asked, her voice guarded but curious.

"A few years ago, Bree had been dating that Benson kid. They broke up, she wanted to get him jealous to fight for her, and hooked up with me. But he didn't fight and moved on. And we ended it." That was a far neater version. He wasn't going to tell Ada that her friend was a cold, cruel bitch when she didn't get her way.

"That's not exactly how she tells it. You seduced her away and broke them up."

He huffed air out of his pursed lips. "She has her view, but I will tell you -- if we go with the original meaning of 'leading astray,' I have never seduced anyone. I will try to convince someone that having sex with me is a good idea, but I don't lie, and I don't lead anyone on. I'm not some fucking pickup artist. I enjoy sex, and I don't lie about it. I enjoy it casually at times, but not always, and I have been in long-term, exclusive relationships before. Not everyone is happy when it ends. I haven't always been. Bree wasn't.

"I like you, I like taking pictures of you, and I am trying to figure out the mystery of you. But I'm getting a little tired of these little jabs." All of that coming out at once caught himself flat-footed, as did the little twinge of pain that went with it.

She looked a little taken back, but counterpunched well. "Bronwyn Comstock," she said flatly.

She may as well as have thrown her water in his face. It felt like ice on his skin. He looked at the table, then back up. "She wasn't married. Yet. But since you obviously know what I am and what I did, there is no point in asking me about it. I'm not sure what fucking game this was, but I think you made goal." He stood, tossed cash on the table, and walked out. She called out to him, but he was on the street and gone.

Two days later he was working in the studio when there was a pounding at his loft door. He slid it aside and there she was.

"I'm sorry. That was bitchy of me. I'm not playing any game, I promise. Well, I am, but it's just this 'you try to figure out how I know you,' and you know that one. I like you too, and I am enjoying this. So I apologize for making you feel like..."

"The Devil?"

She smiled finally. "Okay, that is a bit dramatic, but fine. I am sorry I made you feel like the Devil. Are you going to invite me in?"

"No. I might go mad and try to seduce you. Let me grab my camera."

The tension was broken, and they fell back into light, almost reflexive flirting amid other topics. It was still dry, so they headed to China town, and he snapped shots of her among the mysteries and tourists.

"I'm sorry," she told him after a couple of hours, "but I have to go. I have...an engagement."

"A date," he teased.

She looked rueful. "Yes. Made before all of this." She waived her hand, encompassing the photos shoots as well as the two of them.

"Whatever the hell this is," he said with a laugh.

She smiled at him. "You can say 'relationship,' it's fine. We are in a relationship, even if we aren't sleeping together. Or," she said, before he could interrupt, "not not sleeping. I can break it."

"No." He shook his head. "Don't do that. I have work anyway."