Nude Men

mother not to make her do. It must be something awe-inspiringly unpleasant.
     
    L ater, in my apartment, while standing in front of the mirror and getting dressed for the evening, I realize I look just as maggoty as ever. I immediately try to push that negative, grossly inaccurate, grossly exaggerated, paranoiac thought out of my mind. Then I remember that the little girl called me an
    O.I.M., and I try to guess what those letters stand for: Obviously Imperfect Maggot, Ordinary Inbred Mosquito, Occasional Insect Murderer, Odiously Immortal Man. No, it must be something good, because Henrietta said thank you: Optimally Impressive Mannequin, Outrageously Inspiring Model, Our Incomparable Male, Obediently Indecent Meat. But the girl is the one who said it, and maybe she saw me as a threat: Old Intruding Molester.
    I pick up Henrietta that evening at eight. I’m surprised she got so dressed up for me. I’m flattered. It makes me feel very self-confident, and I act a bit more familiar with her.
    “You look great,” I say.
     
    D éfense d’y Voir is an unusual little club, more of a restaurant, really, except that there’s an open space among the tables for dancing, and a small stage at the end of the room. Henrietta explains to me that the restaurant’s name is a French play on words that means “forbidden to see” or, when spelled differently, “ivory tusk.”
    Apart from the choices on the menu, it’s casual in every way: the prices are reasonable, a few jeans are sprinkled here and there, and there’s no coat check. Henrietta tells me that she will pay for us, that she’s inviting me. I’m so surprised to hear her telling me this before we even start eating that I don’t even bother to object. I’m also slightly mortified, but I force myself to forget about it instantly. The waiter comes to take our order.
    Lady Henrietta says, “To begin, I would like the petite croûte d’escargots et champignons sauvages .”
    I barely know any French, so I read the English translation of what I want: “And I’d like the pigeon salad with couscous and Xeres vinegar.”
    “And as a main course,” says Henrietta, “I would like the steak tartare pommes frites.”
    I say, “And I’d like the roulade and grilled legs of partridge with leeks on a bed of wild greens.”
    Lady Henrietta orders red wine for us.
    I am curious to know when the dancing magician woman will come out, but I don’t ask because I don’t want to seem interested in this person, which I’m not. We eat. It is okay. I try to make her talk a little about her life. I don’t want to say anything that might jeopardize our relationship or turn her off.
    “Are there any other men in your life?” I ask gently.
    “There are none,” she says, sort of distractedly. This answer makes me so happy.
    She’s looking at the people around us a lot.
    “How old are you?” I ask. Whether she’s twenty or forty doesn’t make any difference to me. I’m asking her because I want to know as much about her as possible, and I believe in directness.
    “Thirty,” she says.
    “I’m twenty-nine. What about the past men in your life?”
    “Oh, they were like anyone else’s past men.”
    “Which is?”
    “I went out with a few. They lasted a year at the most. It was fun while it lasted.”
    “Would you like to find a relationship that will last?”
    “I’m sure I do.”
    “What do you mean, you’re sure you do? Is that a way of saying you’re not sure?”
    “One of my traits is that I am usually not sure about anything.”
    “What about Sara’s father?”
    “What about him?”
    “What became of him?”
    “He died.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.”
    I know I probably shouldn’t ask “how.” But what about “when”? Am I allowed to ask “when”?
    “When?” I ask in a small voice.
    “Ten years ago.”
    “I’m very sorry.”
    “Yeah, me too,” she says, and looks around at the people, probably wanting me to drop the subject.
    “How did it happen?”
    She looks at me. “Flying accident.”
    “A plane crash?”
    “No, hang gliding.”
    Am I allowed to ask, “Have you ever hang glided?” or would that be dragging out the unpleasant subject for too long?
    “Have you ever hang glided?” I ask.
    “No, it was never my cup of tea,” she says, pushing the hair out of her face, probably desperate for me to shut up. She looks around at the people more eagerly than ever, and I decide to point it out to her.
    “Are you studying subjects for