“When I was three,” you say, cutting a regal figure at the window, one hand in your pocket, the other propped on the glass, head ducked, voice quiet, “I drew a picture. I don’t remember of what. I was three, so it was probably a bunch of scribbles, right? But I was three, and I wanted to draw a picture and give it to my dad. So I gave it to him, and I remember being excited that he’d looked at me, that he’d looked at my drawing. And you know what he did? He took it, looked at it, at me, and he didn’t smile or tell me how good it was. He said, ‘Not bad, Jonathan, but you can do better. Try again.’” You let out a long breath. “I was fucking three. And that was . . . that was the first time. I went back to my little desk with my little crayons, and I remember drawing another picture. Being proud of it. Wanting to give it to him and have him tell me it was great, that he loved it. Only he’d left, gone back to work. And the first picture I’d drawn was in the garbage. Not wadded up or anything, I just . . . I remember seeing it shoved down in the trash can with ripped-up envelopes and a Kleenex and other trash. That was the first time I remember feeling not good enough. And I’ve spent every single fucking day since then trying to get him to look at my goddamned pictures and tell me how nice they are. Twenty-three years.”

I sit sideways on the chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching you at the window. I wait for you to speak again, and it is a long silent time before you do.

“He’s the giant. Not a windmill, but a real giant. And I have no hope of slaying him, do I? So why am I trying? That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it? Why bother?”

“No, not why bother. That’s the wrong question.”

I stand up, step carefully over to you, my nude Gucci Ursula high-heel sandals going click-click-click-click on the floor. I am within touching distance, close enough to smell your cologne, which is subdued, faint, and alluring. Close enough to realize how tall you really are, and that I may have done my job a little too well with you.

“Then what’s the right question, X?” You turn, a half pivot. I do not back away, and pretend not to notice your gaze flowing over me.

“What should you tilt at? That’s the question. We are all of us facing something, charging at something. Aren’t we? But we have to choose which giants we attempt to slay.”

Hypocrite, I. There is no choice for me. It has been made on my behalf, and that in itself is a giant I cannot slay. But this isn’t about me. And I must appear wise.

You nod, understanding. Your eyes are on me. I hold your gaze and wait. A glance at the clock would tell me the hour is up, but then I know that already, I can feel it. I can feel the passage of time. My life is measured in one-hour increments, and thus I am finely attuned to the sensation of an hour’s passage, used to the slow caress of each minute, the slippery tread of each quarter hour sliding over me. An hour has passed, yet you are still here. Staring down at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“X—”

I back up. “Choose your giant, Jonathan.”

You follow me step for step. “I think maybe I’ll start going by Jon.” Your eyes, brown and richly textured in arcs of light and darker shades, fix on mine. You are not leering, or staring; worse, you are seeing.

“Jon, then.” I meet your gaze, and I must focus intently on keeping erect the wall of neutrality between us. “Choose your giant, Jon. Tilt wisely.”

A step. Not even a step, more of a slide of one Italian-leather pointy-toed loafer, and a single sheet of loose-leaf paper could not fit between my body and yours, and though we are not touching, this is illicit, a stolen moment. You do not—cannot—fathom the risk you take. The risk I take.

“What if I choose to tilt at this windmill, X?” You ask this with your intention telegraphed in the whisper of your voice, in the way your hands twitch at your sides as if itching to take me by the waist or by the face.

I keep my gaze and my voice calm, neutral; the direst threats are best delivered sotto voce. “There are giants, Jonathan, and then there are titans.”

Click . . . ding.

I breathe a sigh of relief . . .

or is it thinly veiled disappointment?

SEVEN

I do not expect the knock at the door. It comes at 7:30 P.M., Saturday. I have imagined dozens of fictional stories by now. It is all I have to do. When the knock comes—rap-rap-rap-rap, four firm but polite taps—I jump, blink, and stare at the door as if expecting it to burst into flames, or come to life. Regaining my composure, I smooth my skirt over my hips, school my features into a blank mask, and open the door.

“Len. Good evening. Is anything the matter?”

Len’s broad, weather-worn face seems hewn from granite and expresses the same measure of emotion. “Good evening, Madame X.” A black garment bag hangs over one arm. “This is for you.”

I take the bag. “Why? I mean, what is it for?”

“You are to join Mr. Indigo for dinner this evening.”

I blink. Swallow. “Join him for dinner? Where?”

“Upstairs. Rhapsody.”

“Rhapsody?”

A shrug. “Restaurant, near the top of the building.”

“And I’m to join him there? For dinner?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“In public?”

Another shrug. “Dunno, ma’am.” Flick of a wrist, revealing a thick black rubber tactical chronograph. “Mr. Indigo expects you in one hour.” Len steps through, closes the door, and puts his back to it. “I’ll wait here, Madame X. Best go get ready.”

I shake all over. I do not know what this is, what is happening. I never join “Mr. Indigo” for dinner. I have dinner here. Alone. Always. This is not how things go. It is out of the norm, not part of the pattern. The warp and weft of my life is a careful dance, choreographed with precision. Aberrations leave me breathless, chest tight, eyes blinking too swiftly. Aberrations are unwelcome.

Dinner at Rhapsody with Mr. Indigo. I don’t know what this means; it is semantically null.

I shower, even though I am already clean. I depilate, apply lotion. Lingerie, black lace, French bikini and demi-cups, Agent Provocateur. The dress is magnificent. Deep red, high neckline around my throat, both arms bare, slit up the left side nearly to my hip, open back, Vauthier’s signature asymmetry. A runway haute couture piece, probably. Elegant, sexy, dramatic. The dress is enough of a statement on its own, so I opt for simple black high-heeled sandals. Light makeup, a touch around the eyes, stain on the lips, color on my cheeks.

Heart hammering, I step out into the living room, ready in forty minutes. It would not do to keep Mr. Indigo waiting, something tells me.

“Very lovely, Madame X,” Len says, but it feels like a formality, part of the charade.

“Thank you.”

A nod, an elbow proffered. My lungs are frozen and my heart is in my throat as I take Len’s arm, follow him out into the foyer beyond my door: thick ivory carpet, slate walls, abstract paintings, a table with a vase of flowers. A short hallway leading to an emergency stairwell: Caution, emergency exit only, alarm will sound. The elevator doors are polished chrome, mirror-bright. A window near the emergency exit, showing the Manhattan skyline, summer evening sunlight coating gold on glass.

The foyer beyond my condo is smaller than I thought it would be.

A keyhole where the call button would be, a key on a ring from Len’s pocket inserted and twisted, withdrawn, and the doors slide open immediately. There are no buttons, only another keyhole with four degrees one could turn it to: G, 13, Rhap., PH—Len inserts the key and twists it to the Rhapsody marker, and then we are in motion. Only there is no sensation of motion, no lift or dip of my stomach. A brief silence, no wait music, and then the doors slide open with a muted ding.