On our second date, me and Geni both happened to wear Louboutins to Boulud Sud and we didn’t really give a shit. We both decided to go casual, wear jeans, we both lied. She showed up late to fuck with me, make me sweat, and I don’t know what we talked about — Venus in Furs, technological singularity, probably not how the fried artichokes are no longer off-menu and you have to try the grapefruit givre. Neither of us were hungry and we couldn’t take our eyes off each other. She had a teeth-baring flesh-tearing grin that made Lena Olin in Romeo is Bleeding look like Lena Olin in The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
After our first date, Mayahuel and Death & Co and making out in the shadow of that building on the corner of 1st Ave between Mayahuel and Death & Co, she had me memorize a few Russian words she could bark and whisper in bed. Kiss. Closer. Faster. Slower. She mouthed a few to test me during dinner.
The topic turned to dancing. We were naked in bed and spent giving each other head, fucking around with Spotify because James Blake got too on the nose when she asked me to dance. Her bedroom’s no-one-lives-in-Stamford spare and still there was still no room so once I proved proficient, one-twothree, one-twothree, we went in the living room. Her roommate was out, her white tinsel Christmas tree cast a pink glow and I laid down the iPad like a record. We bottomless waltzed through Chopin and Tchaikovsky and by the time Elliott Smith came on I could lead through the turns.