He gave Sarah advice on the dishes and chatted with the waiter in snatches of Italian, laughing at his own frequent mistakes. In the sunlit dining room, his face looked older than we’d first imagined. Gray flecked his dark hair, and the flesh along his jaw had begun to slacken. He’d dressed carefully, as though to camouflage these flaws.
Throughout the dinner, we both confined our conversation to the menu and the sundry, safe topics used by strangers: the weather, a recital of the day’s events, a tentative exploration of likes and dislikes, though nothing definite. Once I let our hand brush his—a careless affectionate gesture that brought a fleeting blush to his cheeks. But he recovered his composure, and looked at me with a bright and questioning gaze, as if to gauge my intent.
After the waiter cleared away their plates, Joe ordered coffee for Sarah, espresso for himself. Then he said, “Tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell.” Sarah looked through the milky windowpanes to the crowded walkway below. “I’m twenty-four, I studied English in college but I didn’t finish my degree, and I work in a bookstore.”
“Not a very detailed resume.”
Sarah reached and touched his hand. “Listen, I don’t like lists of questions either. Let’s take this slowly. When the time comes, I’ll tell you more.” With a smile, she withdrew her hand.
He sighed. “You’re right. I sound like I’m interviewing you.”
He reached for his coffee, but then instead picked up his empty wineglass. He slowly rotated the glass, the sunlight glinting off its rim.
“I guess I should explain,” he said quietly. “I’m not much used to dating.” He drew a deep breath. “I was married for such a long time. And then I—”
“You don’t have to tell me.” We laid our hand gently over his. This time we did not draw away.
Joe glanced up. “But I do. You see, my wife decided she could do better. She left—unexpectedly. The next day I heard from the lawyer.”
We pressed our fingers lightly against his.
Joe smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous again. But I thought you should know. My friends keep dragging me to bars and parties. I kept telling them they were picking the wrong places. But I guess they were right.” He laughed softly.
“I hope so,” we murmured, half to ourselves.
We drank our coffee silently. Joe’s glances, less guarded now, revealed anticipation, but I wanted more than a single feeding. Carefully, I scripted Sarah’s performance to the finest detail.
After their coffee, when Joe suggested a walk, Sarah agreed. Leaving the restaurant, they wandered along summer-baked avenues to a nearby city park. Cascades of lilacs scented the air, and in the growing twilight, the evening sun lit the grass with an emerald brilliance.
“Sarah…”
Sarah heard the question in Joe’s voice and looked up. He kissed her lightly. She flushed and took a step backward.
Joe paused, uncertain. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No, no. I don’t mind. I wanted you to kiss me.” Sarah laughed. “I don’t always get what I want.”
Confident now, he put his arm around her. “That can’t be your first kiss.”
I selected a memory and drew the face of Sarah’s first lover. “It’s been a long time,” she said.
He smiled, delighted that she’d almost forgotten. “It can’t be that long ago—you aren’t that old.”
Sarah touched her cheek, as if checking for signs of age.
* * * *
After that first date, I spent days adding layers of detail to my character. I gave Sarah complete memories of her childhood and teenage years. To make the counterfeit flawless, I diminished one recollection, then blurred another. With every stroke of detail, the translucent skin of Sarah’s infant self thickened around me. I worked cautiously, searching for that precise balance between the authentic human and a character I could control. I wanted more than a replica—I wanted to re-create all of life’s vibrant colors. Only in this way could I lead Joe from attraction to love.
We met Joe two more times, once at a different restaurant, once for a concert. His manner both times was reserved, and when I studied his face in the concert hall, I detected a tension beneath his apparent absorption in the music.
Then, not long after the concert, he invited Sarah to dinner at his apartment, where he had prepared a banquet of curried vegetables, freshly baked breads, chicken marinated in spices, and heaps of aromatic rice, dotted with cardamom seeds.
“An indoor picnic,” he said, pouring wine into a pair of crystal goblets. When I took the glass from his hands, I felt a wash of emotion. Despite innumerable outward signs of age, he looked younger tonight, less guarded than before.
For hours, Joe and Sarah nibbled at the various dishes, while Joe told childhood stories, each more humorous than the last. Sarah responded with a wealth of tales I supplied. We laughed, all three, until the laughter faded into a contented silence.
Sarah touched Joe’s cheek with a light hesitant touch. He tilted his head, his mouth quirked into a wry smile. All the unasked questions were gone from his expression—all except one. In a wordless answer, Sarah kissed him.
And I, I dined.
* * * *
The next afternoon, Joe called Sarah at the bookstore.
“I can’t talk,” Sarah said. “My shift isn’t over yet.”
“I thought the store closed early on Mondays.”
It did, but I wanted to keep Joe uncertain about Sarah, to keep his passions strong.
“Never mind,” we said. “Why did you call?”
“Just to say that I’m working at home this afternoon.”
“Are you saying you’d like a visitor later?”
We made our tone light and playful, but Joe paused. “No games,” he said evenly. “Not between us.”
A miscalculation. I was considering how to recover, when an unaccustomed tremor ran through my character. Curious, I released a fraction of my control.
Another moment of heavy silence, then Sarah spoke.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was afraid. After last night—” She laughed softly. “I felt so … intimidated.”
I was fascinated. Though I guided her, the words, the warmth, all came from Sarah. She will be my finest work, I thought.
“It’s okay,” Joe said. “We’re both nervous. Listen, call me when you get home. We can get together later, if you like.”
Even through this mask of flesh, I felt his gladness, like the heady bouquet of exquisite wine. The moment was here, I thought. Last night was but the promise. Soon he will yield the full treasure of his emotions. My character had learned how to lure him, even better than I could.
Wednesday, I whispered to Sarah. Let him wait a few days. The feast will prove richer.
Carefully, I withdrew control and waited, poised in case Sarah faltered.
She answered without hesitation. “I’d like that very much. I’ll come by after work.”
No. I touched her thoughts, ordering her to retract the promise, but my fingers slid along a glass barrier. Underneath the hum of her thoughts, I detected Sarah’s unwillingness to deny Joe’s happiness, even for a short while.
They said goodbye. Sarah hung up the phone and walked toward the front of the bookstore. At the next aisle, I touched her thoughts, directing her back to the phone. It wasn’t too late; she could call Joe, make her excuses, and delay the moment.
But Sarah turned in the opposite direction, walking slowly along the aisle, lost in thought. Her own thoughts, not mine. Again, I tried to command her, but my fingers scrabbled against an impenetrable surface and finally slipped away.
* * * *
Copyright © 2001 Beth Bernobich
*
Beth Bernobich’s short stories have appeared in Clean Sheets, Electric Wine, and the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, as well as in Strange Horizons—visit our Archive for her previous publications in our pages. Her obsessions include coffee, curry, and writing about men (and women) without shirts. For more about her, see her Web site.
Chameleon
By Beth Bernobich
Part 2 of 2
11/19/01
The clock read ten minutes past five. Sarah halted at the back of the store, fascinated by the rows of multicolored bindings. She ran her fingers over the covers and sniffed the ink and leather. Within herself, she felt an odd squirming, and her thoughts blurred for a moment. She shook her head, trying to regain her bearings.
“Time to go, Sarah.” Martha, the store manager, rattled her bunch of keys. “I’m going home to good cooking and bad television.” She paused, and stared at Sarah’s face. “What’s the matter, honey? Are you sick?”
“No,” Sarah answered faintly. “I’m fine.”
“You look pale.” Martha laid her palm against Sarah’s forehead. “Why don’t you go home? Get some rest. I’ll close up.”
Sarah walked home through an alien world. Although she knew every street and crossing, like a much-read story, each detail felt disconnected from the whole. Something tugged at her memory. She stopped before an apartment building with stained ivory columns around its broad porch. I live here.