The Red Door

I say yes to things, things I've experienced before because I think I tell myself that this time, it may feel new.

There was a cold spell the other day in the city. For two days, I don't think it reached over 20 degrees. One of the few times I left my house was when I agreed to meet him, for the first time, at his place on the Upper East Side.

I knew who he was. You can find out a lot about someone by their first name and phone number. He was in the public eye years ago and when I Googled his name, I saw a picture of him shaking hands with a former President. He texted me pictures of his bicoastal home out West. The sky looked so clear, like the middle of space, but then again, that's where we are.

He was older, ten years older than his profile said. To be honest, I enjoy that. It's funny, I told someone today that I barely ever talk about my dad in therapy despite my attraction to older men. I don't talk much about him because he didn't give me that much to talk about. Maybe that's why I like interacting with an older man. Times with my father have always been brief, but with moments of meaning.

As I walked along the Upper East Side, the wind felt like someone was smashing ice cubes into my skin. Though my heart was beating a little faster than usual, I noticed that I wasn't that nervous. Something felt common because I've done this before.

He was a public figure because of his career, and an heir or a recipient to a certain fortune because of his family. I'm not sure how large but the familiarity of his last name let me know that it is sizable. Still, I didn't let him know that I knew.

I was early when I arrived, the doorman rushing back in from doing something outside (although what it was, I couldn’t tell). I was told to take the elevator to the Penthouse Floor. His apartment was the one with the red door. We agreed to meet at 4, but then he said to make it 4:30, so there wouldn't be a rush. I arrived at about 4:10 and he texted to “Knock loudly because the doorbell doesn’t work.” There were two apartments on the Penthouse Floor and one with a red door. I knocked and I hated knocking too loud.

When he didn't answer, I thought maybe he didn't hear, maybe he's on the other side of the apartment. There was a mirror and a vanity-like table in the hall and I chose to start the process of taking off my winter coat and hat and scarf. I fluffed out my matted hair and felt like Jamie Lee Curtis dumping a vase of flower water over her head in True Lies.

I knocked again and again, still nothing. I wasn't concerned. I knew he didn't hear. It's not that I trusted him per say, I didn't know him, but he's grown and has a stature and looks like he carries his swollen, muscled shoulders in a confident way. I sat on a chair and chose to wait a few minutes. I didn't care if his neighbor peeked out and saw me or was looking through their peephole. I wondered if I was just one of many for him, if his peeping neighbor has seen a plethora of men his junior, sitting in that hallway chair, waiting.

I heard a grunt and muffled words coming from inside that may have been a "be right there." It was hard to tell. I heard heavy footsteps going down a hall. Bare feet on a wooden floor. They became louder and then the door lock clicked, the knob turned, and the red door opened. He stood there, broad-shouldered with a half smile and a bald head, wearing a white bathrobe.

"I was in the shower," he said.

Somehow, I knew he was.

His skin was red and looked soft since it was under hot water. I walked into what looked like a parlor, complete with book cases and wood paneled walls. There was a slight hum in the room and thin, electric shades moved upward and disappeared somewhere into the ceiling. The New York City skyline was outside of a wall to floor window. The evening was coming and a last minute beam of afternoon sun ran across my eye. I didn't mind the small talk that followed and I focused, choosing to listen, knowing talk isn't going to last. I've been at this place before.