So Strange and Wild Ch. 00: The Fool

Friday, February 16, 2024

I spied her at the elevator as I came back through the lobby, my dog's leash tight in my hand. The shape of her, first, drenched in afternoon sun: a plump pear with narrow shoulders, she was standing with her arms and legs crossed, swaying left and right so her butt kept swinging my way. I slowed up and let Charlie trot out ahead, his ears pricked and tail up. Charlie is the best partner a guy could ask for, all 16 pounds of him--a scruffy white terrier with Disney eyes and oceans of patience.

As I drew closer, I could tell this stranger wasn't my type. Her face looked pale and sullen, and she wore her mousy hair in a younger woman's middle parting that hadn't quite worked; as I drew nearer, I could see the ends were fringed with green where she'd let a dye job grow out. Her nails were a matching shade of mint, chipped and bitten. I guessed she was younger than me--early 30s?--but carrying more baggage than was regular. And she stank of cigarettes.

Her clothes were few and casual. Tiny denim jacket over a plain white T-shirt, cut with a plunging vee to show her chest tattoo: a line drawing of the sacred heart in black ink, radiating stark lines toward her breasts and throat. Her bottom half strained against a pair of garish, clingy pants that might have fit in at a street festival. Those were also cheap: too loose at the calves and faded at the thighs, where the seams had clung too tight. The woman was still rocking uneasily as she waited for the elevator, and when she finally registered my approach, she did so with a glance over her shoulder, affording me a three-quarter view of her bobbing ass.

Catching herself in the pose, she quickly straightened and spun toward me to hide her rear. I offered her a vague, uninterested smile and faced the elevator, giving her a chance to collect herself. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her look me over, frowning.

Then her eyes dropped to Charlie, and her face got bright.

"Cute dog," she declared in a low voice. No Southern accent. Transplant? And she had to clear her throat, as if she hadn't spoken in a while. Couple that with the waft of fresh cigarettes, the thrown-together outfit, and my guess was she was returning from a smoke break. Which meant she was resident here, but didn't like to light up indoors? Could be her partner or roommate was opposed, so she had to traipse downstairs to feed her habit. Now she was headed back upstairs, feeling guilty. Lonely, maybe.

Time to put her at ease.

"This is Charlie," I said, motioning with the leash. The woman nodded attentively, eager to hear more, and I took the chance to inspect her features. Wide green eyes, too innocent for the rest of her; full lips on a small mouth; and an aquiline nose that was almost too strong for her face. The only makeup was eye makeup, caked on heavily. That was an odd choice for mid-afternoon at home, so I assumed she'd needed the confidence boost. She was happy I was talking to her, I could tell. Or just happy someone was?

"He's adorable," she cooed, holding my gaze just a second too long, which felt like a well-rehearsed trick. "OK if I pet him?"

"Go ahead," I replied, cocking my head toward Charlie. "He's a quiet little guy. Never barks."

The woman flashed a smile at this and scooched down to scratch my pup under his chin. Charlie, ever the gentleman, obliged and nuzzled against her knee, earning a gasp of delight.

"You're so cute, Charlie," the woman breathed. "Such a good boy." To me: "He really doesn't bark? Never?"

"Takes a lot to rile him," I said. "He's got a gentle soul."

Releasing my dog's face, the woman stood reluctantly. She was much shorter than me, I realized, and I'm hardly tall. As she turned back to the elevator doors, she murmured, "We love gentle."

"Do we?"

That earned me another considering look. She wasn't scandalized, I decided; her lips parted as if preparing to fire back, but then she bit her tongue. Instead, she wrinkled her nose and grinned at me, wickedly. It was a knowing, playful gesture, unlike anything she'd shown me yet.

And that was the moment I first wanted to fuck her.

"The elevators here take forever," the woman sighed, tapping the toe of a black Nike sneaker. The gesture read as stagy--an opening move. Sure enough, she pivoted: "You new to the building?"

I nodded in response, ensuring she had to watch closely to get her answers. "Moved in about a year back, but I've been traveling a lot." Both things were true, though incomplete. "You?"

"Two years this week," the woman said. She turned to face me, arms folded under her breasts. I could tell they were neat, upturned--and braless. And she was comfortable letting me know.

Two years this week, I thought, struck by the time I had lost.

The elevator chimed. As the doors slid open, revealing the empty car with its dark glass, I instinctively stepped to hold them open. The woman took the chance to swish past me, and I caught a note of something tropical and bright under her cigarette reek.

"You make it sound like a jail sentence," I said, moving in after her with Charlie in tow.

She had tucked herself into the corner by the controls, her back to the glass and her legs out, thighs flexing. When she looked up at me and shook her head, the motion set the green tips of her hair trembling. "The building's been fine," she said. "It's the rest that didn't work out."

"Sorry to hear that," I said politely, enjoying her candidness. She wanted my attention, I could tell; she had been waiting for someone, anyone to come along and listen. I wondered if she'd take this chance to offer up something more, some clue to herself, but no, she went for the elevator buttons. Then she froze and looked back for my approval, her left index finger wavering in space.

"Which floor?"

"The thirteenth."

She scanned the panel for a few long seconds, her eyebrows scooting up in confusion.

"Fourteen," I added kindly. Then I leaned over to take her hand and guide it to the button. I had to get close to do it, but the woman didn't flinch; and when I let go and stepped back again, she kept her finger right where I'd placed it, as if waiting for permission to lift it free.

"Penthouse?" she murmured.

"Not quite," I said, hiding a grin. As the doors started to close, I added: "I guess the units do get bigger as you climb, though."

"All that space just for you and this little guy?" she asked, beaming at Charlie. Her gaze flicked back to me. "You don't get lonely up there?"

"Just us," I confirmed, with a smile I hoped wouldn't come off as insincere. She looked like she wanted more, so I threw in, "It's a long story."

"I hear that," she sighed, twisting up her mouth. "My ex just bailed on me and moved back north. That's the part that didn't work out."

I nodded blandly and turned my focus to the upward climb, wondering what she'd give away next. Even now, she was staring at me openly, trying to fit together the pieces. She knew the top floors held the most expensive condos, but here I stood in my faded blue T-shirt and cardigan, and--her gaze slid over my crotch--gray sweatpants one size too small. Old guy glasses. Salt-and-pepper beard. I could see the questions piling up behind her eyes: 40-plus? Wealthy? What's his story?

Instead of letting her work it out, I said, "Weekend plans? Did we cover that yet?"

"No plans," she replied absently. Then winced at having said it aloud. She was unsettled, I thought, off-guard. If I had to guess, I hadn't really been her type either, in the moment she'd first laid eyes on me. But things had changed.

"That's a sad story," I said, with a mock frown to show I didn't really mean it. "Sounds like you could use a good time."

If that was an invitation, she took it; she held my gaze fast, and for an instant, we shared an electric spasm of want. "What about you?" she asked softly. "Any plans tonight?"

"None." As of that week, I had no plans to speak of at all.

The elevator lurched and came to a stop. Dinged. Then the doors slid open, and the woman realized where she was. Knocking her head against the glass, she hissed, "Shit! I never pushed for my floor."

"That's my bad," I said. "I distracted you."

"You and your cute fucking dog," she said, smiling. She relished the phrase and drew it taut, letting me hear how a swear sounded slipping from her mouth.

I just flashed a grin and flicked Charlie's leash to start him moving.

"Hope the next one goes smoother," I said, nodding at the panel. Then I turned and let my cute fucking dog lead me out of the elevator.

I wanted to see how she'd react--would she call me back, try to restart the encounter? To her credit, she kept her cool. The next move was mine to make.

When I heard the shuffle of the elevator doors, I backpedaled quickly and put my arm in the dwindling gap, blocking the sensor. The door jerked open again; Charlie jerked the end of my leash; and the woman's head jerked up, rescued from her private contemplation.

"Come with me," I said, pretending I hadn't seen the somber look on her face. It was all I said, but in the silence that followed I let my eyes roam all over her. Made it blatant.

Her lips parted. "Come where?"

"My place," I said calmly, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "You said you've lived here two years? Time to see how we do things upstairs."

"Let's get a drink first," she ventured, trying to regain control. "Give me a chance to go home and freshen up. I could meet you back in the lobby. At six?"

"No," I said sharply. "Doesn't work for me. I want to show you the view, walk you around. Then we can see about drinks." The truth was I didn't want to let her regroup or retreat from her flirting. I wanted to seize on the person she was in this moment, in her worst clothes and scuffed makeup, with only cigarettes and keys in her pockets.

Her expression flitted between sheepish and pleased. Then she relented: "OK." She hadn't expected this--the ease with which a stranger had brought her to yes. "But only because Charlie seems to trust you."

"He just knows who brings him dinner."

I started walking, and she had to scuttle past the closing doors to follow. I clicked my tongue twice to urge Charlie homeward, but a part of the woman heard it, too, and she quickened her step in response. When she caught up to me, I gave her a sly, sideways glance, taking in the fine white curve of one breast, trapped beneath her T-shirt and jacket. Her nose, in profile, was proud and perfect.

"You go home with strange men a lot?" I asked.

"Almost never," she shot back, smiling. "Like I said, I blame the dog."

"Sure, I get it. Who doesn't love a pretty little stray?"

I wondered how far we could take this. She truly wasn't my type: smoker, tattoos, wearing party pants in the daytime. I was wary, too, of forming ties with people from the building. But I had nowhere left to be that Friday, and the scent of her tickled my nose. She smelled of dive bars and orange peel, sickly sweet. I was reminded of good times in far-off places, and I liked that evocation. It didn't hurt that she was easy to talk to. To toy with. She enjoyed men's company, I could tell, and would be happy to let me lead.

I punched the code for the condo's front door and swung it wide, seeing if she'd stroll in ahead of me. She did so carelessly, without a backward glance, and she shrugged off her jacket as she went, letting it dangle from one hand to trail on the hardwood. The motion was calm and presumptuous, both. It suited her.

Taking off Charlie's leash and harness, I watched the woman steal glances at my bookshelves and recessed lighting, the artwork I hadn't picked out. I own the unit in the northwest corner, and the sun streamed freely that February afternoon, suffusing the living room and kitchen in a hundred fawning shades of gold. The woman feigned casualness, but I could tell the place had made an impression; when she set down her jacket on my leather reading chair, she folded it first.

"This is nice," she said breezily, gesturing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city laid out below. "Are you going to make me a drink?"

"Sure. What do you want?"

"Whatever you're having."

"No, come on. Pick something."

"Rum and Coke?" she tried. She sounded unsure of her answer, like I'd called on her suddenly in math class.

"You got it," I said, and went to the fridge, turning my back on the windows and her silhouette. Charlie trotted past me to lap at his water bowl, so I stooped to scratch his head--and to watch the woman's reflection in the oven door. She was emptying her pockets: keys, cigarettes, a quaint little matchbook. Last, her phone. She placed them neatly atop the folded jacket.

I made a collection of my own on the counter, arraying limes, light rum, bitters, and a cane sugar Coke from the fridge. Then I put twin highball glasses in the freezer to chill and started work on two Cuba Libres.

She came and sat on one of the bar stools, facing half away from me, toward the exit. Still a little skittish, I guess. Her eyes roved over the bare countertop and unadorned fridge. If she was hunting for unopened mail or telltale photographs, she found none. No picture frames, no obvious family. What did that say? She wasn't a bad little sleuth, I decided, but her gaze kept returning to me--shyly at first, then with obvious confusion as I began muddling lime wedges in the base of the shaker.

"Fancy," she said.

"The lime cuts the sugar."

"And that's good?"

I smiled. "That's good."

Charlie padded across the open floor and flopped in his bed to watch us. The woman didn't even spare him a backward glance; she was still focused on me. I just kept my head down and measured out the rum.

"Are we doing a no-names thing?" she asked, eventually.

"Is that what you want?"

"I'm Katya."

"Nice to meet you, Katya," I said, dashing bitters into the shaker. "Sounds Russian?"

"Bulgarian."

"Well, dobar den, Katya," I said, affecting the accent of a '90s action-movie villain.

"My mom's mom was Bulgarian," she said stiffly. "I don't speak it."

"Me neither, don't worry. I just used up the one phrase I know."

She nodded, relaxing a little. "So what's your name?"

I went to the fridge again and filled the shaker from the ice machine, letting the grind and clatter drown out her question. When I turned around again, I offered her my biggest, most reassuring smile.

"I visited Bulgaria on a work trip once, years ago. It was a junket thing, three capitals in five days. Budapest, Bucharest, Sofia. I don't remember much about Bulgaria except this one little church, 4th or 5th century, short and round"--I motioned two full globes with my hands--"and beautiful. You just brought that all back."

Before Katya could reply, I made a show of noisily shaking the drinks, keeping my eyes on her all the while. She looked like she'd gotten stranded somewhere between annoyed and amused, but she waited me out. She stayed silent while I retrieved the glasses and served equal measures.

"You're showing off," she said, finally. "This whole mystery act, the cocktails, this place..."

"So you're mad that I'm... trying to impress you?"

"You can let your guard down, is all I'm saying. I'm right here, dude. The girl who followed you home, remember?"

I popped the cap of the Coke and poured half of it into each glass, finishing the drinks. Then I calmly slid hers across the counter. "Try it," I said. "Go on. This is me with my guard down, I promise."

She eyed me skeptically. "You know I watched you make it," she said. "I'm a careful person."

"Sure. So taste it."

She did. Then let out a pleasant little moan, surprising herself. "God, that's good. You asshole. This is your idea of rum and fucking Coke? Fuck you."

"Fuck me," I agreed, toasting the air. We took a few quiet sips each, enjoying our brokered peace. Finally, I said, "You should text a friend and let them know you're here. While we're being careful."

"Already did," she said. Deadpan, shrugging. "What can I say? You seemed sketchy."

"Maybe I'm just new to this."

She snorted and took another slug of her drink. Stood and took in the living space for a second time, as if surprised to still find herself here. Bathed in all that sunlight, she looked different, somehow. Wiser?

"Why'd you invite me up?" she asked. Her back was to me, her face hidden.

"You seemed fun."

"I'm serious."

"Then I guess I chose poorly."

"Shut up. Be serious. Why me?"

"Why not you?" I asked. I came around the counter to stand two feet behind her, close enough to lend her my scent. Softer, I added: "Have you seen you?"

She didn't turn around, but she took another cautious sip and let her hips sway a little. It was the same motion I'd first spotted downstairs--an unconscious, unthinking gesture that naturally showed off the swell of her ass.

Then she tilted her head to look at me sidelong, with hooded eyes, and I was no longer sure her swaying wasn't deliberate.

"Do I have time to freshen up?" she asked, her voice verging on a whisper.

I took a clear step back, freeing her to move. "Bathroom's over there."

She took her drink with her and locked the door. I listened for the clank of the toilet seat, then went for the things she'd piled on her jacket. The screen of her phone was smeared, cracked, and dead; when I pressed the power button, it flashed the symbol for no battery. Smiling, I looked through the rest. The cigarettes were Lucky Strikes, and there were two left; she'd tucked in some rolled-up small bills beside them. The keyring featured some oldies, including the lumpen ignition key to a Ford, which told me she hadn't changed her car in maybe a decade. And there was a scratched-up plastic fob that read "Welcome to Sunny Cleveland," which could have signified something--or nothing. She didn't sound Midwestern.

Before I could inspect the matchbook, I heard a scuffle from the bathroom lock. Taking some quick steps back, I brought the highball to my lips; by the time Katya's head craned around the door, I was innocently mid-sip.

"Are you married?" she snapped. "Whose stuff is this?"

"I was. A while ago, but you can probably still make out the dent." I held up my left hand as proof; the faint shape of a wedding band endured at the base of my ring finger.

"Cool," she said, brandishing a box of tampons through the gap. "These are new, though?"

"You go through all your new friends' cabinets?"

"Answer the question."

I drained my glass. Told her the truth: "There's a woman who stays here sometimes, takes care of the place whenever I'm gone. I'm guessing those are hers."

"A girlfriend?"

"Not a girlfriend, not a wife. Just a woman."

"'Just a woman,'" she repeated gruffly, mimicking me. "Would she be angry if she knew I was here?"

"She might have some pointed questions about my judgment."

"The fuck does that mean? Are you fucking her or not?"

"No, I'm not fucking her," I replied. Not anymore.

Katya gave me her longest, meanest stare yet, but I could tell her heart wasn't in it. "You're an asshole," she announced.

"Huge. But not about this, I promise. I'm not seeing anyone, Katya. No one would care that you're here."

Another hard stare. "Asshole," she repeated, but she left the door ajar as she ducked back into the bathroom. I heard clattering sounds as she rummaged in a drawer; she was unrepentant about rifling through my things, which I faintly respected.

"Borrow anything you want," I called, to no response.

Instead, I went over to Charlie and petted his sides, making a sad, pouty face until his ears popped up in concern. "Good boy," I whispered. "I'm going to put you in your crate for a bit, but I'll be back." Then I took him into the spare bedroom, which doubled as his den.