Twelve Months of Kristal: 50 Loving States Maine

Again, I’m not used to nervous women. I pay for dates who can not only hold a conversation in at least two or three languages but also take explicit instructions while they’re fucking me. I think of that crazy elf story she told me to get out of answering my question about why she didn’t connect with the world. Of course, it wasn’t true, but there’s an innocence about her, like, maybe those People magazines truly are her only connection to the real world.

I keep on thinking I should release her—in the car, walking through the lobby, going up in the elevator, and even now as I watch her looking around the suite. I should tell her she shouldn’t feel obligated to sleep with me as Eloa would have, that she can go home.

But I don’t.

Instead of letting her go, I wave an open hand toward the audio system below the television. “This suite has an AV system that plugs into your phone. If you like, you may put on music. Anything you wish. Meanwhile, may I make you something to drink?”

I’m such a polite host.

But not polite enough to let her go. At least not yet. My entire trip was planned down to how I’d spend my time in the car on the way to the SFO airport tomorrow. But here I suddenly am, walking on the tightrope that could either toss me off or take me all the way to the end of this shiny, new song.

“Do you have any eggnog?” she asks.

“I have brandy,” I answer with a grin, wondering when I went from feeling like a cynical block of ice incapable of being amused by even the most charming of escorts to smiling at every word that came out of this San Francisco elf’s mouth.

“Okay.” She agrees again. Breathlessly, like she still can’t believe she’s here.

I can’t believe she’s here either. Or that she intrigues me so much.

I go to the room’s fully stocked bar to fish out her brandy while she takes my invitation to connect her phone to the sound system.

A few moments later, the suite fills up with a song as unexpected as her. A folk-rock ditty from the sixties, before either of us were born.

Still, I recognize this particular song. The Korean caretaker at our factory townhouse had listened almost exclusively to what he called “the California Rock” when I was a boy. What was this one called again?

As if in answer, the entire band came together to harmonize about how they were dreaming of California on a winter’s day.

Not exactly the sexiest song I’ve ever heard.

Yet, it doesn’t feel inappropriate.

Her eyes are cast down again when I cross the room with a brandy for her and a couple of fingers of Hibiki 21 for me. I hand her the glass, willing her to show me her face again.

Willing this tightrope to hold until I get what I want.

7

Merry Bacchanoel, Baby

KRISTAL

When he hands me the elegant tumbler of brandy, I have to make myself take a small sip instead of gulping it down and asking him for another, a double this time because I need all the liquid courage I can get.

“You’re nervous,” he says—a statement, not a question. And I wonder if I’ll ever get used to being able to feel his gaze on me when I’m not looking at him. Or how hot that makes me feel below the heart-shaped neckline of my green dress. Or how unbelievably handsome he looks in that tux.

“I didn’t expect it to get this far,” I tell him honestly. Then I take another sip of the smooth, delicious brandy and try not to gulp. “I still can’t believe I’m here instead of Eloa. Doing what Eloa was about to do with you of all people.”

“Why can’t you believe it?” he asks, his voice low with amusement.

“Because you’re like an incredibly well-drawn Josei manga hero come to life. And manga heroes like you don’t want elves like me.”

A pause. Then he says, “I’m not supposed to want you. Yet here we are.”

I can feel that burn of a gaze again.

“Yep…yep… here we are.” I give in to the temptation to gulp and instantly regret it.

The alcohol scalds my throat, and I collapse into a coughing fit. Of course, I do. This is why nerdy elves can’t have nice things. I can’t even bacchanoel without choking on my drink.

He moves away, then comes back and graciously replaces my tumbler with a tall glass bottle of Voss water. “Drink.”

I gulp it down with tears in my eyes. I don’t know if they’re a symptom of the choking or embarrassment. Probably both. I’m such a nerd. Such. A. Nerd. And I shake my head as the playlist I put on switches to the Beach Boys singing “Sloop Jon B.”