The Assistant (A Romance)

This is my second week as his assistant. Today is Tuesday, and yesterday, he was still treating me coldly and hardly spoke to me or looked at me. Although I said I would be sweet and charming, I didn’t bother to try. I’m beginning to suspect that his crankiness has nothing to do with me. Perhaps he is going through a difficult time. Maybe that beautiful woman he was with last Monday was his girlfriend and they broke up. I haven’t seen her since then—so what else could it be? But that still doesn’t explain his coldness. He seems nice enough to everyone else, or at least that’s the impression I’ve been getting. Whatever the reason, I have decided to not let it affect me. If he wants to be Mr. Cranky Pants, that’s fine with me.

Now I must decide on what to wear for the soirée. I usually wear casual clothes—I don’t have any expensive designer dresses or designer shoes. I spend my days wearing t-shirts, sweaters, leg-ins, and boots purchased in places like the Gap or Conway on 34th Street. I have some nice and classy looking dresses, but they’re not classy or expensive enough for a star-strutted event. I know the place is going to be filled with famous faces and important rich people pretending to know something about art. I must look presentable, because even though I’m not shallow or the least bit fashion-conscious—or even fashionable, for that matter—I don’t want to give the impression that I’m some broke-ass assistant either. Although thatis what I am. Ugh! This is not going to work, my clothes is too mediocre. I have no other choice than to call my friend Bianca and ask her to loan me a dress.

“Hey Bi!” I say excitingly.

“How many times have I told you not to call me Bi? It sounds awful. Instead of short for Bianca, it sounds short forbisexual. What do you want?”

“What do you mean ‘what do you want’? Can’t I call my friend and not want anything?”

She sighs impatiently. “Come on, Karla. You never call me unless you want something. Now, spare us both the time and just tell me what you want.”

“I need a dress. A nice dress. Preferably a very expensive one. And I also need shoes.”

“Why?”

“Because Matt Steiner invited me to a charity event tonight and I want to look presentable.”

“Oh my God! You see? You’re already exposed to the entertainment lifestyle. Your job is so glamorous and I’m jealous! Would it be okay if you brought a friend—an attractive and available friend?”

As if! “You are not available. You have a boyfriend. Remember?”

“Yeah, although probably not for very long. He’s threatened to dump me because I refuse to go down on him. I mean, honestly, isn’t oral sex, like, the most disgusting thing there is?”

“Don’t knock it till you try it, sweetie. Anyway, are you going to loan me a dress or not?”

“Yes. But you have to come over and get it yourself. I have plans for tonight. I’m going to seeRent with Ben and his new boyfriend, Ricardo—a God-like Cuban creature he met at a bar in the meatpacking district. He’s gorgeous! Too bad he’s gay.”

How typical. I’m always excluded from their little get-togethers. They never invite me to musicals or other fun stuff. But tonight, I’m the one with the exciting evening, or at least I hope it will be exciting.

I tell Bianca that I’ll be there in ten minutes.

Bianca’s apartment is only five blocks away from where I live. She also lives only one block away from her bookstore. She lives in a beautiful loft on 78th and Amsterdam. This was also inherited from her late father who died two years ago of a heart attack at forty when he found out his wife (Bianca’s stepmother) was cheating on him with a twenty-year-old college student from her biochemistry class (she was a teacher). As a result, Bianca was the only one entitled to his money and book business. At the tender age of twenty-four, Bianca is loaded with loot.

I met Bianca Jones during a writer’s seminar at NYU. She was a preppy dresser, unlike me with my big, square earrings, baggy clothes, press-on nails, and kinky hair with heavy bangs. I had no sense of style whatsoever. But Bianca remedied that—well, almost. She taught me to dress with some class and made me realize that my naturally straight hair was indeed beautiful without the forceful curliness. She also taught me to be more presentable with my appearance. “How would people know that you’re intelligent and witty if you present yourself in such a vulgar manner?” she often said in her posh, rich girl voice. She even pulled some strings and got me the studio apartment I’m currently subletting.

She then introduced me to her snobbish friends. I hated all of them—except for Ben. Benjamin Arnold was one of the most talented writers in class. He made thorough, insightful and sometimes unethical articles about controversial race issues within the campus. He always took it one step further and, despite his talent, his articles often got him into trouble. The professors were somewhat intimidated by his fierce approach in writing, some were even jealous. They told him not to write such controversial articles, that he didn’t have to. After all, they were only class assignments. But he paid no attention. He wrote thought-provoking articles about affirmative action, separation among races on campus, homophobia and homosexual teachers in the closet and many other nail-biting stories that made the professors shudder with dread, envy, and indignation. It paid off. Shortly after graduation, Ben was offered a job at theNew York Observer and now has his own political column in the paper.

I was—and still am—the ugly duckling of the group. The one they have had to train. The financially challenged one of the three.

“Hurry up and pick a dress. I’m meeting Ben and Ricardo at the entrance of the theatre in ten minutes,” Bianca says fretfully.

“Aren’t we in a sunny mood!” I say, with sarcasm of course.

“I’m fine.”

“Then why are you bitching at me?”

She gives me a dirty look.

“What?” I ask.

“You know! Jake’s coming over tonight and I haven’t the faintest notion what to say to get myself out of having sex with him.”

“Stop being such a prude, Bi, and give the guy a break! God, what I wouldn’t give to get laid!”

She sighs and smiles and gestures toward the closet. “Please pick a dress and hurry.”

I pick a dress in lavender made of satin with a square neckline, tight, with the length just a little above the knees. I grab some seemingly expensive gold-colored strappy sandals from her large closet. I don the dress and the shoes. I put my hair up in a bun, put on some of Bianca’s coral lipstick and Chanel perfume and admire the results. I must admit that I look like one sexy babe! I put the clothes I was wearing when I got here in her closet.

“You look beautiful!” Bianca says, sounding impressed. “Knock ‘em dead and don’t forget to call me for a postmortem.”

The gallery is crowded with famous people. You see nothing but beautiful people with smiling faces. The women are wearing gorgeous and extravagant gowns and the men are wearing the usual tuxes. You’d think this is a royal wedding or something. The paparazzi are taking pictures of the celebrities. The celebrities look bored. I sense that they’re here more out of obligation than anything else. Matt Steiner is getting his picture taken with two of his castmates. He’s wearing a burgundy suit with a dark-green tie. He looks great. Andrew, a.k.a. the evil publicist, is standing a short distance away from him, beaming with pride.

Matt hasn’t said a word to me this evening. I’ve been standing around looking at the paintings and sculptures, bored as hell.

The art gallery is brightly lit. The paintings are placed on the white walls, waiting to be purchased. The name of the artist is Lucciano Berbanni. Half of the money earned from the paintings will go to The Starlight Foundation: a foundation that raises money for children with cancer. Well, at least it’s for a good cause.

I’m sitting on a barstool drinking champagne and watching everyone mingle and observe the paintings. The paintings are mostly of nude men and women standing in strange positions. They are tangled up with one another. Others are holding each other forcefully. The colors used for the paintings are black and gray. The paintings seem to be sending a message of struggle, misunderstanding, pain, sorrow, loneliness, sexual tension, lack of communication, and perhaps inexpressible love—the sorts of things that go on in relationships. At least that’s my perception judging by their body language and facial expressions. I get lost in their beauty. The artist seems very talented and imaginative. There is one particular painting I really like. A painting of two nude men holding hands. They are standing side by side, holding hands, but looking away (as if they’re ashamed to be holding hands). I like the message that the artist seems to be sending: there is nothing wrong with platonic love between two men, although society does not allow it. The two men seem to want to be close, but their reluctance is obvious. It is sort of like a separate togetherness. It’s a very beautiful painting. I’d love to buy it, and Iwould buy it—if I had a quarter of a million dollars.

I am so absorbed by the beauty and darkness of the painting that I notice absentmindedly a balding, drunken old man in a gray suit staring at me from the other end of the bar. He walks over and sits on the empty stool next to mine. He is sitting uncomfortably close. His breath smells of vodka.

“You’re that chick…that chick from that movie…What’s the name of that movie?” the drunken man slurs, snapping his fingers rapidly and looking as if he’s racking his brain, trying to remember.

“I’m sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else.”

“I know I’ve seen you somewhere before. Maybe I dreamed you, and you came true!” He raises his arms triumphantly.

Oh boy.

“You are my dream woman.”

I find nothing more repellent than a drunken man hitting on me.

“You are even prettier than that chick from that movie!”

“I thought you said Iwas the chick from the movie.”

He ignores me. “What’s the name of that chick from that movie? Oh yeah, you’re prettier than that chick… Jennifer Lopez.”

I snort. “And if you have another drink, I’ll be even prettier!”

I get up and walk away before he has a chance to respond.

I don’t want to be here. Nobody wants to talk to me. No one cares about assistants. The other assistants are probably hiding somewhere. This is pointless. Nothing remotely interesting has happened tonight. Nothing worth taking notes in case I should write a story about the event. No, not worth it.

“Bored?” a familiar voice says from behind.

I turn to see Matt Steiner looking at me and smiling brightly. His eyes are beaming with vitality.

I don’t respond. He caught me off guard. His gaze is friendly, even affectionate. I’m a little surprised by his sudden kindness.

He’s still looking at me, probably waiting for an answer. I should say something.Say something, idiot! “Uh…Yes, very,” I stammer.

“Ah! My cute little assistant is bored, huh?”

Did he just call me cute?

“So am I,” he continues. “I personally don’t like charity events. It’s kind of phony if you ask me. If I want to help those in need, I do it on my own time. No one needs to know. I’m only here because Andrew said it would make good publicity.” He makes a dramatic pause. “Publicity. Sounds selfish, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say shyly. “Ironic.”

He smiles. “Shall we?” He gestures toward the exit.

We grab our coats and walk slowly and casually toward the exit and escape to freedom.

We grab a cab to the Upper West Side and then walk around the neighborhood for a few minutes. Matt’s head is hanging low—I suppose he doesn’t want people to see, recognize, and then mug him. We arrive at Riverside Park and sit on a bench near the river. We’re sitting side by side. The chilly autumn breeze is gently hitting our faces. The park is deserted—save for a few patrons walking by here and there. It is dark out here; no one would recognize him in the dark. Matt is sitting quietly. He’s looking straight ahead at the river. He seems to relish the silence. He’s in his element here. I feel uneasy. Why did he bring me here? Why is he all of a sudden treating me nicely? To be honest, I feel awkward and intrusive.

Suddenly, he looks at me and says, “Do you like it here?”

“Yes,” I answer, not knowing what else to say.

“I like it here. I often come here at night for a moment of solitude and peace. I hardly ever get to be alone. There is always someone there, disturbing my peacefulness—my life. But for some reason, I didn’t want to come here alone tonight.”

“Why did you pick me to accompany you?”

He smiles softly. “Because I knew you’d make a great companion. You are one of the few people I know that actually respects my space.”

What on God’s green earth is he talking about? Respect his space? He hasn’t allowed me anywhere nearhis space. He hadn’t spoken to me or looked at me until a few minutes ago.

“You’re probably wondering why I treated you so harshly,” he whispers. “The reason I treated you with such indifference and coldness was simply because I didn’t want you to get too close to me. I can’t let anyone I meet get too close. It is so horrible if all of a sudden a person I care about leaves. I figure it would be better if I keep a certain distance.”

I stare at him in silence.

He continues: “You probably think it’s strange—what I’m telling you, but—”

“Actually, it doesn’t. It must be hard to be friends with regular people, being famous and all.”

“Fame has nothing to do with it. I just don’t like to be around people a lot. But don’t ask me about it. I wouldn’t expect you or anybody else to understand.”

“I sort of understand. I mean, I’m not that sociable either.” I pause. “But then why did you bring me here if you want no part of me?”

“I just told you. You are one of the few people I know that respects my space.”

“I see.”

I look at him. His features are so perfect…so gorgeous. He has high, chiseled cheekbones and his nose is slightly aquiline. His lips are small but exquisite. His eyebrows are not excessively hairy—he actually has two separate eyebrows, instead of two big hairy ones that meet in the middle of the face above the nose, like most men. His eyes are the color of the sea, sometimes they look blue-green or turquoise-blue. They’re beautiful! His face can be deceiving. One minute his face is very childlike and vulnerable and soft, almost like a baby’s. The next minute, his face is completely chiseled and ruggedly handsome. It depends on what angle he’s in. His stylish, burgundy suit gives him an additional air of sophistication. He looks somewhat European—perhaps of French or British descent. His face fascinates me, more so than that painting of the two naked men I was admiring earlier at the gallery. This man is perfection. At least in my eyes. One thing is certain though: he isway out of my league.

There’s a sullen silence.

He seems to enjoy the silence. I shall grant him the silence.

I feel more relaxed and less intrusive.

After five minutes of silence, Matt says, “Is this all you want in life, Karla? Do my errands and bring me coffee? Because let’s face it, this job is not exactly a great job. It’s demeaning. And I know thatyou know that. Be honest, do you hate this job?”

Oh, God. Again, he caught me off guard. I don’t know if I should be honest with him. He would probably fire me if he knew how much I detest this job. I take a deep breath and say, “To be honest… yes, I hate this job.” I clear my throat. “I aspire to something else. Something more productive.”

“What do you aspire to be?”

“A jo—writer. I want to be a writer.”

“You want to be a journalist?”

I don’t answer.

He laughs. “It’s okay, Karla. I saw your résumé. And I must say, I’m very impressed.”

“Then why did you ask me if you already knew?”

He chuckles. “I wanted to test your level of honesty.”

“Did I pass the test? Or—”

“You couldn’t help being honest. You passed,” he says, with a charming smile.

We gaze at each other for a moment. I try not to look directly at him. His eyes, they are so powerful that I think they might turn me into stone or something. I’m probably exaggerating, although I don’t think I am. He is so beautiful. All of him is.

I assure him that I have no intention of writing anything about him behind his back, that I am not an undercover journalist—not even a journalist at that.

“That’s okay,” he says. “I trust you.”

“You do?”

“I do.” He sighs and looks at me up and down. “You look great, by the way.”

I feel my cheeks turn red. “Thanks.”

I’m feeling vulnerable right now. Sitting here in the dark with this gorgeous man. With the intimacy. With his vulnerability. With his natural charm. With his sweetness. It’s making me feel all sorts of strange emotions. When his arm gently brushes against mine, I feel the warmth of it. And it’s making me vulnerable. I don’t know what’s happening to me but whatever it is, I should just try to ignore it. Maybe it was his sweet gesture: bringing me here, his sanctuary, with him, that’s making me feel this way.

Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with desire. I wish I could taste those exquisite lips of his. I wish he would turn around and, with animal hunger, tear up my dress and take one of my nipples into his beautiful mouth. I wish I could straddle him and ride his cock like a mad woman. I wish he’d fuck me like no one’s ever fucked me before. I wish he’d shoot his delicious semen all over my face. I wish, I wish...

I feel faint. I should stop this interaction. I tell him I should get going.

“Really? You want to leave? I was hoping we could stay here for a little while longer.”

He says this with such vulnerability and sweetness that I immediately acquiesce.

Half an hour later, we leave the park. We’re on our way to my place. He insists on walking me home. He’s walking with his face in his hands and his head hanging rather low—again avoiding the gaze of potential muggers.

While we walk, I have a sudden urge to ask him a couple of questions. “Why did you let Andrew treat me that way last week?”

“When?”

“That day he went to your place and he—very rudely—asked me to leave the office.”

He thinks for a moment and says, “Andrew’s a prick. He treats everyone that way. Just ignore him.”

“That should be his nickname then, Andrew the Prick.”

Matt laughs.

We finally arrive at my building. He leans forward and gently kisses me on the cheek. He smells of cologne and aftershave. I think I’m going to swoon.

“How are you going to get home?” I ask.

“I’ll just hail a cab. I do it all the time,” he says proudly.

After a silent gaze, he starts walking away.

“Wait!” I shout. “What happened to that woman?”

“What woman?”

“A woman you were with on my first day at work. A very beautiful woman.”

“Charlotte. We’re notmessing around anymore. She was doing something very unpleasant to me behind my back.”

Did she cheat on him? What kind of moron would cheat on this perfection of a man?

“What did she do?” I ask.

He looks at me rather dramatically and says: “She was selling information about me to the press.”

“Oh,” I say, almost inaudibly.

I walk up the stairs to my apartment in a haze. I feel strange. Perhaps I should go back downstairs and invite him over to my apartment for some coffee or something. Perhaps I should ask him to spend the night with me and do the wild things that entered my mind earlier. Or perhaps I should ask him to stay here with me, forever. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I do know one thing: I miss him already.