The Fling

A literary one-night stand seen through the eyes of a writer(?).

She was dressed in a layered white blouse and tight black jeans that showed off the long curve of her hips. Her name was Mallory, which was ever so close to Thomas Malory, and at first sight I was in love with her. We’d met on a dating app and spent a week going through the usual motions of chatting. Where did you go to school? What made you choose the city? Have you read any good novels lately?

Ah, novels: the sublime exaltation of an artist, his inner world made entirely manifest by the careful selection of every single important word. It was a subject we bonded over so strongly I thought we were destined to be with each other. Her favorite was Tolstoy; mine, of course, was Hemingway. She smiled at me, a toothy grin that showed teeth as white as her blouse. Was this, I thought, how Nora met James? Might I be a reincarnation of that great writer? I’d yet to pen even a draft of my own portrait. This might be the start of my first real novel.

Her hair was up behind her head, and it fell in waves, cascading like golden sunshine. Her eyes sparkled like gems, and her laugh was infectious. “Anna Karenina is the most beautiful woman ever,” she said in a voice so sweet I felt I could become sick if I heard too much of it. Of course, I had my own opinions on beautiful women, and countered that even Anna held no candle to Mallory. She slapped my knee and declared I stop at once, giggling in that way women do that inflames a man’s body, as well as his heart.

When we left the bar I was at her side, and the nape of her neck curved smoothly to the base of her fair and lovely hair. It reminded me of Lady Brett Ashley, in a vague way. Surely I was destined not to be one of her flings? I envisioned myself fully in her arms, and she in mine, and she turned and met my gaze with a conniving and dismissive wink. Not so easily taken, I saw! Well then, what did it matter? What male hates the thrill of the chase? I set my sights on the horizon and waited for my chance to leap.

We entered another bar filled with noise and racket. She wanted to dance. She wanted to sing. And what good fortune! A set of familiar women soon found her there, women she had just told about our date. They were excited to meet me, smitten by my looks and humor. I talked with all of them and engaged them as a group. None are more protective of women than other women, even though in many other cases, none are so quick to discard their own. We all took to dancing and I took to watching Mallory’s every move. She was no doubt the woman I wanted for my own. None of the others looked as if they had even heard of Salammbô.

In time Mallory and I made for the bar, and we stood discussing the party scenes in her favorite society novels. Kitty’s debut in Anna Karenina came up several times, and I chimed in with a half-remembered dance sequence from The Sun Also Rises. We pointed at the others and laughed, and we shared drinks and smiles and laid on each other like old lovers. The drinks were steaming in my stomach when she leaned up and breathed hot and heavy in my ear. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

The drive back in our Lyft was filled with more giggles and discussion of literature. I remember little, other than my own drunkenness, and for appearance’s sake we stayed chaste, and satisfied ourselves with roving eyes and smoldering gazes.

Through her door we stumbled like two Roman soldiers fresh from the public house. The dim shadows in her apartment were cast by street lamps cutting through the curtains and blinds, and each thin razor sliced a piece from my Mallory and laid it bare on the low of my belly. I felt within me awaken a surging desire to take her, but I held my patience. A simple man is governed by his bodily needs, but I am governed by the attraction to intelligence.

She brought me to her room. She showed me her bookcases, her decorations. In the middle of the room was a white, fluffy carpet that smelled clean and fresh. She sat down on the bed, her body forming a beautiful curvaceous shape, and she looked up at me with a pouting smile and heavy eyes. The room smelled just a little like her mixed with something else, something primal and hot, and my body understood that she had met my mental standards. Like Odysseus finally receiving his Penelope, I dove after her with the fierce, insatiable hunger all men know, and we were well satisfied with one another.

In the morning I awoke with a spinning head and an ache in my eyes. Bright, white light screamed through an open window. The room was hot and wet, and I rolled out of bed feeling as if my teeth had been frozen and then used as a xylophone. A burping came from the nearby bathroom. I stared at the half-closed door and caught a whiff of bile. Well, not all women can handle strong liquor. The Spartans had women who could handle significant amounts, but the modern woman is no Spartan, certainly no more than I!

I sought my crumpled shirt and pulled it on over my weak, shivering shoulders. Something about the whole apartment seemed foreign to me. I could no longer understand its garish décor or unusually clean furniture; it seemed as if no one lived there at all. Mallory faded in my mind. Another failed night searching for my own Nora. I was noiseless as I went out the door.