“I’m envious, you can do what you love until you’re old. You don’t belong on some dinky little stage, you belong in the spotlight, at like . . . I don’t know.” We both laugh. I so obviously know nothing about classical music, and I don’t need to in order to see how talented Cali is. “Carnegie Hall? That’s all I got, but you know what I mean.”

“You’re very convincing,” Cali says, “but what about you? I mean, I know you got injured but . . .”

I’m still not ready to go into it. Especially not tonight, in this beautiful, crisp evening air, in the afterglow of the music, the prelude to another night with Gianluca.

“There is a very long story,” I say, “that I’m not quite ready to tell. But I will tell you, I promise. Is that okay?”

“You take your time,” she says. “I’ll be here.”

I send G a text message when I’m back in my apartment and he’s at my door in a half hour.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says, and the familiar way he kisses me when he walks through my door is comforting. I’m not nothing to him. Am I?

“You took the bike,” I say as he sheds his moto jacket, placing his helmet gingerly on my narrow kitchen counter.

“Every chance I get before the weather turns,” he says. “Wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it tonight, I can’t stay long.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as pathetically grateful as I feel. He makes himself at home, pouring himself a glass of Fernet, which I keep here only for him.

“Me too. How was your night?”

“Good. Cali played the cello for us.”

“Cali plays the cello?”

“You didn’t know?” This is the thing about G: even though he wants me to tell him everything, to bear my soul as well as my body—intimacy distilled down to its elements—I’m not sure he remembers the details of my life or anyone else’s. “She used to be in the New York Philharmonic.”

“Che, really?” He whistles, impressed. “That gorgeous and talented too?”

I nod, suddenly wishing I hadn’t brought it up. I feel a sharp stab of jealousy. I know Cali is beautiful but I don’t need to be reminded by the man I am about to take my clothes off in front of. I don’t need to think of myself being measured against her.

“Is she seeing anyone?” G asks, making it worse.

I shrug. “I suspect she and Edward might be into each other.” Edward, I want to add, who is wealthier than you, and more powerful, whose money helps you and your studio keep going.

“Lucky bastard,” he says, shaking his head. He drinks the rest of his Fernet. Smiles at me. “Come here you.”

Idaho Journal Sentinel

October 12, 2008