I’m what, nine years old? I stole a lighter from the kitchen. And now my palm is open over a lit candle. It goes down and gets licked by the heat of the flame. I count… Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven—
“Tiger! What are you doing?”
My mother screams and rushes towards me. An indescribable smell floats around us. I could have lasted longer. I could have, I know. My mother grabs my wrist and looks at the palm of my hand. Why does she have that panicked look? It’s just a little burn.
“Oh my God,” Mom whispers. “You… you… don’t ever do that again, and don’t tell anyone. Can you hear me, Tiger?”
“It’s just a game, Mom.”
“No! Never again, do you understand?!”
I arrive at my hotel and begin to stretch, breathing steadily. I anchor myself in the present. I have files to manage, I have Sophia, and I have a hunt in progress…
***
As planned with Anaïs, Sophia’s favorite luxury jeweler is waiting for us in a private lounge at Washington airport. I put an Amex card on the table and left Sophia in personalized shopping to isolate myself in a corner. While my wife is trying on Cartier rings and necklaces, I quietly begin a brief online meeting with Terrence. He gives me his daily report.
“I can confirm, sir, that our investigations have made a considerable leap forward,” he tells me.
“Do you have a distinct target?”
“Affirmative. I will send you the latest information collected by a secure channel. We still have to dig, but the lead is serious.”
“I want all the details.”
I hang up and pinch the bridge of my nose. What’s bothering me? The stress? Fear of failing and being frustrated and disappointed again? Or something else?
My eyes meet Sophia’s. She obviously fell for a jewel or two because my card goes from her hand to the jeweler’s. Satisfying her materially and financially is the easiest thing in the world.
Focus, Tiger.
I nod a sign to the pilot of my jet, who is waiting in the corner of the lounge.
“Are you ready to take off, Mr. Sexton?” he asks me.
Turning my attention to my wife, I refer the question to her, “Sophia?”
“Yes, I’m done, Ty.”
She puts her things in her bag and gets up elegantly to come and give me a kiss and give me back the credit card. But I leave it to her.
“You can keep it; I have more,” I grumble as my mouth avoids hers.
Her lips crash into my jaws.
“Happy anniversary, Ty,” she simpers. “I love my gift and the Amex, too, of course. Hope you like mine too.”
I doubt it. What can you offer me that I really want, that I don’t already have or can’t get on my own?
“Perfect. Let’s go,” I decree.
Closed to her banter and any dialogue, I cross the tarmac with my wife, looking at my phone.
In the jet, I stare outside without really seeing it. The projection of images in my head is more tenacious than the present moment. Collateral damage.
Hair bristling… Arousal rising… Hands… More words… Immaculate fabrics… Brushing… Moans… Crushed flowers… My cock, tongues… Moist heat… Green light… No, red… Yellow… Indigo? Hugs… Breasts… Bare curves… Desire… Fluids… Lust… Glitter of sweat on the skin… Pleasures the lips…
“Ty?”
Sophia’s voice pulls me out of my silent drift. Shit, it went too far this time! I stop staring at nothingness, pack up these snatches of unspeakable images and turn my head toward my “tender wife.” What a brilliant idea to take this trip together!
“The Sexton couple were spotted in Washington-Dulles today.” “It is whispered that they are celebrating their eleventh wedding anniversary…”
Just to feed these kinds of predictable headlines into the papers and maintain a smooth surface, I bend to a few such compromises like this. Like any other couple in our sphere. Rich, unattainable, happy…
“Ty?”
“Hm?”
I can’t help but notice the empty seats in my flying cab. And notice that despite that and the onboard WiFi that should keep us engrossed in our PCs until landing, Sophia has invaded the seat next to me. I don’t know why; she could have taken a nap in the bedroom. Instead of inviting herself into my living space when my head is overheated and in a fucking mess.
“So?” Sophia insists.
I haven’t heard a word.
“About?” I ask, shoving my fingers into my hair.
I blame it on successive jet lags and lack of sleep. I hope Sophia doesn’t pull out her “what if you calm things down a bit? Take at least a day off…” Or “let me take care of you.”
My wife sighs and turns her computer in my direction. I resolve to read a piece to discover her virtual exchange with a rare “girlfriend.” Correction, the wife of a man I get along with pretty well because his network opened up prospects for me a few years ago… I raise my interrogative look at Sophia to ask her, “Why are you showing me this discussion?”
“Ty! So, I’ve been talking in a vacuum for several seconds,” she punctuates with an affected look.
With her thumb, she twists her wedding ring. My features become expressionless, and the pad of my thumb presses hard on my own ring. I feel like it’s been an eternity.
“Get to the point, will you?”
Her pupils are moved; mine remain emotionless. Sophia swallows and continues, “I was telling you about my present for you… and also asking you a small favor for my friend.”
Her friend, that sounds biased. But Murphy approves of such initiatives…
“What kind?” I ask her.
“The Lilas Hood Charitable Foundation is setting up a contemporary art exhibition for its donors. Her husband, Steen, told her about your Basquiats2. The ones he admired in our house in Melbourne.”
I groan.
Talking about paintings brings me back to the missing heritage also on my list: the Frida Kahlo evaporated with other works of art… I look at Sophia.
“Lilas would love them to be among the works she is gathering for the occasion,” she tells me pleadingly.
“I don’t play the philanthropist for show or for interesting tax reductions behind a ‘good deed,’ unlike some of my peers.”
“I know, Ty.”