The Interview

The first thing I noticed about her was her red high-heeled shoes as she crossed the hotel lobby toward me. I admired her audacity, her sense of rebelliousness against the dictates of fashion. She walked with an almost impossible cat-like grace in the shoes, the heels like slivers. I watched, mesmerized.

She extended a hand to me in greeting and I grasped it eagerly. Her skin was so warm and soft in stark contrast to my cold rough handshake. I felt self-conscious around her and the need to apologize, even though it was she who was late and had kept me waiting. She smiled when I told her my name and she said it was a beautiful name. "It means child of light, doesn't it?" she asked. Yes, I stammered, suddenly inexplicably tongue-tied. My hand was still enveloped in hers, which I should have thought strange, but didn't.

I managed to sputter out the suggestion of sitting in the hotel restaurant to conduct the interview. It seemed an innocuous place, formal yet comfortable. She seemed unsure. "It gets rather busy at this time. Maybe somewhere quieter?" she asked. My mind went blank and seeing my consternation she suggested we go up to her penthouse suite. Yes of course, I thought, and smiled. And we went.

To say she is beautiful is an incredible understatement. Even in person, away from the camera, she is luminous. I had always envied her shape, hair colour, soft lips and rounded hips in any and all magazine photo I saw, but now I saw up close how much of a disservice the cameras actually did to her. Standing next to her in the regal old elevator as we rode up to the topmost floor, standing shoulder to shoulder, I strangely did not find myself comparing our bodies or our beauty. I simply basked in hers happily.

She smelled of tuberose, heady and full in bloom, the scent intensified in the tropical heat. I felt dizzy suddenly and reached for the brass handrail to steady myself as the elevator lurched between floors. She turned slightly and smiled at me, then wrapped her arm behind me and around my waist to support me. She brushed my check with a kiss and I rested my head on her shoulder. By the time we reached the door of the penthouse suite, my own arm was wrapped around her waist as well. We must have looked like best girlfriends reunited after too long a separation.

Upon entering her suite she started to show me her treasures. The photo of her adopted son, the gigantic bouquet of white roses from her current co-star, the bracelets she had just bought that very morning in the local market. The jade, green as her eyes, was cool to the touch as she slipped the bracelets onto my wrists. "They suit you perfectly," she purred, "you should have them." I started to protest and she laughed that throaty laugh I had until that moment only heard talked about in hushed marvelling tones. It was warm and rich, playful and coy all at once. "I want you to have them," she said, suddenly serious; "Please." I could not possibly refuse.

We got down to business. We each knew our roles in this performance. My queries and her counters, the parry and thrust of two professionals. Standard questions she must have heard a thousand times, but which our readers never tired of reading; and a few questions slipped in that she didn't want to answer. I apologized, genuinely; which was strange, as I have never apologized for any of my questions during any interview I had ever done. Something in her eyes made me want to be kind. She spoke freely of her new movie, her latest heroine and how much she had learned from the character. She deftly deflected questions about her co-star, refusing to add fuel to the rumours already circling her relationship with him. Obliquely I asked if she was in love with anyone at the moment. "Right now?" she asked demurely and looked into my eyes. "Yes, I think I am."

In the heavy silence all I could hear was the hissing whir of my tape recorder and the thudding in my ears of my racing heart. I blinked rapidly under her intent stare. I must have heard wrong, I thought, or am misunderstanding her. But we are women who know the tools and tricks, the strategies and looks. I was sure I did not misunderstand.

It is a strange flattery we accept from another woman that appreciates our appeal. It does not quite offend, in fact it is worth more than the advances of men because we know the work, the effort it takes to compose our public persona, to master our skills in beauty and flirtation. It is like the praise of one great artist to another, one great writer for another. We know the sacrifice true art entails, so the praise is rare, highly valued and transformative.

I must have blushed madly, because she finally looked away, releasing me. I fumbled for my tape recorder and notebook, my mind reeling. I had run out of questions and the short period after an interviewer runs out of questions wherein light conversation may ensue was now strained and suddenly uncomfortable. A dark abyss gaped opened at our feet between us in the room, waiting.

I thanked her for her time and got up, gathering my things in an awkward shuffle. She watched me intently with what seemed a forlorn disappointment in her eyes. In my haste and nervousness I dropped my notebook on the marble floor, the sharp sound startling in the quiet room. I bent to retrieve it. So did she.

Those moments always seem in hindsight to be infinitesimally slow, like a film on slow motion play back. Fingers touching, we will swear in retrospect, which produced electricity coursing between the skins in white neon currents. The slow turning of my face to hers, inches away. Notebook forgotten, her fingers tracing my jaw line, fingertip touching the dangling earring at my ear and setting it to dance. Her breath, warm and moist, smelling faintly of spiced tea, on my cheek. She brushed a tendril of hair out of my eyes with one hand, the other at my neck and drew me to her, her mouth to mine.

In that moment I had the epiphany that is reserved only for men: the sensation of the moist lips of a woman is maddening. So tender, pliant yet strong, demanding yet submissive. The taste of honey, clove and milk was still on her lips and intoxicated me. She softly prodded my lips open, slipped a candied tongue between my teeth and pressed its tip to mine. A cascade of shivers rippled through me. We both slipped down onto a plush white carpet, my fingers snaking through her long sleek brown hair, her arms wrapped tightly around me, crushing my breasts to hers.

The dark abyss widened to receive us, enfolding and enveloping us. She kissed my forehead, my eyelids, her tongue slicked my cheek, her fluttering eyelashes caressed my lips. I felt her warm breath on the nape of my neck. I pressed my forehead to hers, listening to our breathing, rapid and heavy. My fingertips skimmed the edge of the opening of her white silk blouse, fingernails flicked open the first button, the second, the third. I felt her cool fingers slipping beneath my t-shirt, pausing at the skin of my abdomen, warming their way up to my breasts. Her other hand slid around my waist to my back, pressing her fingers along my spine as though she were reading the raised bones like a secret message in Braille. I felt her knee slide gently between mine, rubbing her smooth tropic-tanned leg between my city-paled thighs. I forgot my deadline, my flight back to New York, I even forgot the day. Was it day or night? It felt like a million years had passed before I felt the distinct pressure of her hand pressing against the cotton triangle between my legs. I nearly bit her lip in sudden shock, and drew in a sharp breath that grasped at her own. We were trembling, tumbling, into the seemingly endless abyss. But we could not fall forever and the rocky bottom came with a crash.

The telephone jangled suddenly, startling us both. I silently wished she wouldn't answer it. It rang again, insistent. She looked at me, into my eyes for some kind of guidance. It rang again. I tore away from her deep emerald stare and sat up, drawing away from her. The phone rang yet again. Her eyes downcast, she quickly and gracefully stood up and pulled up like a marionette to her full height, crossed the room and picked up the receiver. I clumsily tried to straighten my ruched t-shirt, vainly to smooth out my wrinkled linen skirt, and shakily got to my feet. I gathered my things and tried to slip out quietly, like a thief, while she spoke on the phone to her agent. But she would not let me leave that way.

"Rudy, can you hold on a second?" she asked into the phone and placed the receiver down. "Wait," she called to me. I was nearly out the door, one foot had already crossed the threshold, when her voice pulled me back, forced me to turn. I felt as though I were flying far too close to the sun, but wanted to burn my skin with its delicious heat again regardless.

She smiled and grasped my face gently with both hands. "We didn't say goodbye," she said and pulled me yet again to her soft sweet mouth for a last and lasting kiss. Charred, I kissed that blazing sun ever more fiercely. This time she pulled away, her fingers trailing along my cheeks like tendrils of lava. "Next time," she smiled as she said, "we'll unplug the phone." I smiled in return, stepped into the hallway after she closed the door and I dropped back down to earth, scorched and satisfied.