White Matter

Sixteen months earlier

I wasn't always this compliant, this prepared to concede the initiative to others. It was as if, when I had torn myself away from my artist's life, I had left a chunk of myself behind.

I recall one night in particular. I had taken Monica to dine at Le Petit Cochon. We had been a couple for two months by this point, two months since my show at the gallery, and this passage of time in my company had stolen none of her beauty or poise.

"You look so prim. I can see that ordinary seduction won't work on you."

I studied her reaction. This was a test of sorts.

Now a successful artist, I fully intended to act out the accompanying role as the people's hedonist – for someone like me to be seen somewhere like this; it was simply the way the world was meant to be. The only sour note was my suit; I was still wearing the same one I had on the night we met. It was in powder blue, with narrow lapels and slim around the waist. Holding up rather well, I felt, given the service it had seen. Successful artist or not, payments could take an inordinate amount of time to wend their way to my bank account, while in the meantime, the pursuit of immediate sensual pleasure left little in the kitty for long-term investments like a second suit. My social rise had outstripped itself and I was no longer prepared to consider wearing anything I could afford.

For most of the main course I had entertained Monica with art world gossip. Now we were waiting for our dessert orders.

"There is nothing for it but to ravish you. To give you any choice in the matter would be wrong. It would ask something of you that is not you. Either you must fight me off with your own strength, or you must succumb. I see no other way."

Earlier in the day I had taken her shopping, visiting four or five boutiques and having her try on any number of outfits until I found the one that I wanted. A formal evening suit in a button up choker style, vaguely reminiscent of a 1950s movie. She had looked askance at my choices, but I kept my expression inscrutable even as I gallantly dedicated the last of my available credit card balance to the cause of her beauty, admitting to nothing more than that a surprise awaited her. I insisted, and she acquiesced.

Jokes are not funny if you explain them in advance. The same applies to other games.

After the boutiques, I escorted her to a salon where I spent a number of minutes discussing hair designs with the Madame, finally selecting one from a book of samples, a done-up style that exposed her neck and was held in place by chopstick-like hair pins.

I left her there, in the salon's charge, with instructions to be back home and dressed in her new outfit, ready for me to pick her up at eight o'clock.

In the restaurant, her glance turned momentarily away, as if suddenly self-conscious.

"But ..." She turned back to face me, her eyes flickering before settling on mine. "But that's not fair," she said. "You're so much bigger than I am."

"Your best chance, then, would be to scream for help. Now, before we leave the restaurant. Put yourself at the mercy of the Maitre'd."

Her look of bewilderment fell away. A nervous smile ghosted briefly across her face but she overrode it with a pursing of her lips.

"I don't like to cause a scene."

Her voice was precise and clear. Very good, I thought. Game on.