five

“I’m Zachary,” I said. “But my friends call me Zach.”

“Well, Zachary, what type of films do you make?”

Before I could answer, a tall Asian man came up to her, whispered in her ear, and led her away. She made an attempt to introduce us but he was in a hurry and we barely had a chance to wave a quick goodbye. I heard the soft clinks of her bangles as they walked away, arm-in-arm.

I didn’t see her again for weeks but I'd often think of the image of her walking away...a backless maroon dress, cut down to just above her tailbone, long silky black hair swooshing to display glimpses of her tawny skin, a tattoo at the base of her neck? (later, I would trace my fingers around the outline of that tattoo monkey often as she slept in my arms after our lovemaking).

On the pretext of doing research for my next film, I showed up at the door of her house on the day after that party and eventually asked her to wear that maroon dress again for our second ‘date.’

“What does she do?” asks Julie, my best friend. I’m in Julie’s apartment in Telegraph Hill. I am staring out the windows, looking at the clouds over Golden Gate Bridge, when Julie interrupts my thoughts.

“Who?”

I know perfectly well who she is referring to but I like to get Julie worked up. It’s so easy.

“Who else? Your new girlfriend?” She is slightly irritated.

I sink into Julie’s red leather sofa and pick up the New York Times. This is THE most comfortable spot in all of San Francisco. I usually don’t tell anyone about my lovers. Julie found out about my last affair and ever since then I’ve started to confide in her. Perhaps I tell her about my lovers because she seems to forgive my transgressions.

“She has studied all these tantric sex stuff…” I answer, lost in my own thoughts and vaguely remembering Julie’s question.

“No!” Julie’s laughter reverberates around the apartment. It bounces back from the bay windows towards me. I can’t see Julie from where I’m sitting. I hear pots and pans clinking. I hear her giggling.

“I mean, what does she do for a living? Does she work?”

Work? Julie doesn’t understand. I wouldn’t be sleeping with her if she worked. She wouldn’t have the time or the energy. No, most of the married women I’ve been with stay at home. They are housewives. But not in the sense that they do housework. They are usually wealthy enough to afford regular maid and gardening services. They’ve married the husband for his money. So they enjoy it. And I’m one of the luxuries to which they are accustomed.