Page 15 of Casanova LLC

“Yes. Of course. I have an Art History degree. I worked in a gallery with many Biennale artists. Your painting of it...” She folded her hands in her lap. “But it’s only three days. And it seems we’ll be very busy. With other things.”

“You seem skeptical.”

She leaned her head back against the wall. Assessed me through half-cocked lids. Then she sighed, giving up the pretense. “I am skeptical.”

“About?”

You was so clearly the answer that it hung in the air between us like skywriting.

Cheeks flushed from the Moonset, hair swept back, and her demure non-profit-board-member dress. I had to admit that the cumulative effect was my kind of alluring. But I took a moment to see her not as I saw her, but as she saw herself. And more importantly, how that self saw me. As if what I’d presented was a way of taking something from her, not giving something to her. As if I’d pulled her onto a moving merry-go-round, dizzying her.

She was a woman struggling to retake control of her own life and I had made it worse.

I bent forward, elbows on my knees. “You know what?” I rubbed my glass between my palms back and forth, back and forth, slowly, starting a leisurely fire. “I need to apologize.”

“For what?”

“I made assumptions about you and I’m sorry.”

“I don’t?—”

“I withdraw the offer.” She stilled. “We don’t have to barter. I will appreciate the return of my paintings and I leave you as you are.”

She blinked at me. “Wait, no, that’s not—this whole thing took me by surprise, for sure, but…”

“... But?”

She paused interminably. “But just because I’m not sure if I can do this doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

I sat back and she looked down at her lap. “I have a guest. She comes the same weekend every year. And she sits on the window seat in the sala and reads. And every forty-five minutes or so I come in and refill her wine. And I make her dinner and listen to her stories. And she sleeps for fourteen hours each night. And that’s it.” She met my eyes. “That’s what I do. I give three days of fantasy. Whatever that may be for you. Whatever makes you feel whole again.” I smiled. “What do you long for?”

“Oh, God, I don’t know?—”

“Don’t think about it. Three things. Go.”

“Art. Food. Touch.”

“In that order?”

She finally smiled back. “Depends on the time of day.” She worried her lip. “Can I think about it?”

“Absolutely.”

She exhaled for possibly the first time since she walked in here.

“But could you let me know by the end of the week?”

“Oh, uh?—”

“It’s just, it’s a matter of scheduling. I need enough time to?—”

“Right, yes, of course. There’s probably a waitlist.”

I shrugged.

She was silent. Then: “I think it’s time for me to go.” She stood, somewhat awkwardly. “Just out of curiosity…” She smoothed her dress over her hips, down her thighs. “How many women are on—you know what? Never mind.”

She turned around to fiddle with her purse on the bench, revealing to me the swoop of her backless dress, which had been hiding under the jacket she’d shed.

---