She opens her small green purse and takes her phone out. She scrolls through the pictures on it before handing it to me.
“That’s my favorite.”
I look at the screen. “That’s the periodic table.”
She shrugs. “To me, it’s a masterpiece. Harmonious. Perfectly organized. Dependable.”
“Aren’t some of the elements unstable?”
She smiles. “Sure, but the table tells you which ones they are. No surprises. No disappointments.”
And this right here is the perfect example of who Delores is. Safety-goggle-wearing chemist by day, glitter-covered club girl by night. She wants excitement, spontaneity, but a part of her—the part that’s been dicked around by one too many pricks in the past—craves reliability. Honesty. Truth.
I want to give her both. I want to be her roller coaster and her merry-go-round, her adventurer and her protector. Her impressionist and her periodic table.
As the show winds down, most of the guests congregate in the main reception room of the gallery. While Dee goes to the ladies’ room, I stare at a huge sculpture in the corner, trying to figure out what it’s supposed to be—either an endless cavern or a swamp monster.
I don’t notice the person who comes up beside me until she speaks.
“I’m thinking of acquiring this piece for my music room. It has a very inspirational energy, don’t you agree?”
It’s Rosaline. She’s well put together in a strapless beige dress, with her dark hair piled on top of her head—not a strand out of place.
And she’s smiling at me . . . like the spider to the fly.
“I’d say more confusing than inspirational. It doesn’t seem to know what it is.”
“Perhaps that’s because it’s willing to be anything you want it to be.”
The tone of her voice, the playfulness in her eyes—I’m pretty sure she’s coming on to me.
“Do you still dabble in photography, Matthew?”
“I do.”
She giggles softly. “Do you remember that time we went out to Breezy Point and drank too much of that awful Chablis? Your camera got a lot of use that day.”
I remember the day she’s talking about. We were young and worry-free and drunk on cheap wine and each other. But I don’t look back fondly on any moment with Rosaline. If you have a can of white paint and add a drop of black, the whole batch will be tainted. Gray.
The memories that should mean the most—the starry-eyed, first-love kind—they just make me sick. Because every touch, every word and kiss . . . none of it was real.
Before I can respond, Delores is back at my side, holding my arm comfortably. “There are paintings hanging in the ladies’ room! How do you think those artists feel? Their work is in a respected, renowned gallery . . . but only in the shitter.”
For just a second, Rosaline’s expression turns sour. Then—like the actress she is—she covers it with courtesy. “Well . . . hello. I’m Rosaline Du Bois Carrington Wolfe. And you are?”
“I’m Dee.”
“Dee what?”
With a toss of her hair, like some blond bombshell from the forties, she says, “Just Dee.”
“Do you and Matthew . . . work together?”
Dee just laughs. “Do I look like a banker?”
“No . . . I wouldn’t say you do.” Her eyes cut to Dee’s dress, and her voice takes on that bitchy, passive-aggressive tone that I can’t stand on a woman. “Your dress is much too . . . bold . . . for a banker. Not every woman would be so . . . brave . . . to wear something so unusual.”
Delores smiles sweetly—but there’s a bite to it. “So nice of you to say. And your dress, it’s so very . . . beige.”
Rosaline caresses the fabric modestly. “Well, you know what they say—less is more.”
Dee looks her right in the eyes. “And sometimes less is . . . just less.”
She lets the jab hang for a moment. Then she turns to me. “I love this song. Do you want to dance?”
Instrumental music has been floating around the room all night. The song Dee loves is a jazzy, wordless version of “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole.
Rosaline chuckles. “My dear, that’s just background music. No one actually dances at these things.”
Delores shrugs. “Life is short—I never pass up the chance to dance to a good song. Matthew, what do you say?”
I take Dee’s hand and kiss it softly, so proud of her right now. “I say, I’d dance with you anywhere.”
Then I lead her to the middle of the room. As we pass Rosaline, Dee whispers, “Lovely to meet you, dahling. Ta-ta.”
I take her in my arms and begin a smooth, easy fox-trot. Dee follows my lead effortlessly. “Wow, look at you, Fred Astaire. I didn’t know you could dance like this.”
“I’m very talented.”
She grins. “Believe me, I know.” Her eyes slide in Rosaline’s direction. “Sooo . . . is every woman you introduce me to going to be a bitch?”
I think it’s over. “No—she was the last of them.”
“Is she an ex-girlfriend or something?”
No man wants to tell the story of how he was played—made a chump. It’s embarrassing, uncomfortable—we generally choose to block it out and replace it with stories of our winning touchdowns and all-night f**k fests.
“Or something. Why do you ask?”