Love Is Red Read Online Free PDF Page A

the ghoulish speculation all around me.
    Why only now?
    That girl, Samantha something, had a jealous boyfriend. They thought he went nuts and stabbed her to death. They didn’t connect her to the first girl until they found this new one. Then they realized that there were three girls killed the same way.
    Shit.
    I know, scary, right?
    I try to talk about something else. I have to work hard, have to work to be heard above the music, have to lean in. The guy makes no effort to meet my half lean halfway. He smiles but his eyes never leave the dancers. I wonder if he’s drunk. I wish I were drunk. It is one of those nights where I will not be able to become drunk. Fuck you, jerk , I think about the nonleaner as I stand up. You wish you could have taken me to see the woodcuts.
    I pass a girl wearing a lampshade and another brave soul sporting a belt of potted plants. It’s definitely time to go. I findColin in the corner. He is sitting close to the host. They are both beaming with the easy intimacy of something just beginning. I recognize the warmth of the smile. And I said no to David for this. Thanks again, everyone. I tell Colin I’m leaving. I say I have to wake up early the next day. He makes all the usual protestations but I know he won’t mind now that he’s found someone. I debate texting David to find out where the bar is but it’s late and I’m far out in Brooklyn.
    I go into the host’s room to change. The bed is a sea of clothes. The walls are a light shade of gray, soft in the glow of the bedside lamp. I move quickly. I don’t want someone to walk in. I want to change and get out of here. Bra hooked, top pulled over and down, jean buttons done, shoes tied, and it is only when I look in the full-length mirror that I see the man sitting in the chair. He has been sitting there the whole time.
    I wheel around with a little scream.
    The guy sitting there has dark curly hair and a leonine face, hooded sleepy eyes and a wide mouth. He does not apologize. He doesn’t even rise from the chair.
    â€œThe best part of New York,” he drawls, “is the people-watching.”
    â€œWhat are you doing there?” He was watching me change, and I’m wearing my shitty underwear. Did I scratch myself? Adjust my bra?
    â€œI thought it was obvious.”
    â€œI trust you enjoyed that?”
    He pauses in thought. Insult added to injury. “Wasn’t terrible.” The sides of his lips turn up ever so slightly.
    â€œAren’t you going to apologize?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou should apologize.”
    â€œWhy? I’m not sorry.”
    â€œI don’t know how you were raised, but when people do something wrong, it’s customary that they apologize.”
    â€œActually, you’re wrong. Society pressures people to apologize to satisfy the need for an acknowledgment of wrongdoing. People rarely feel bad for what they have done, only bad that they have been caught.” His tone is bored, faintly patronizing.
    What an asshole. I think of the most wounding thing I can say. I’m vulnerable. He has seen the backs of my thighs and my ass, and not at flattering angles.
    â€œSo, you’re a psychopath.” My mouth is dry and my cheeks feel hot.
    â€œMeaning that I don’t feel guilt?” He thinks about this. “Maybe I’m just honest.”
    His eyes are so pale green that they’re almost yellow. Now they gleam. It’s clear that he’s having fun. I need to wipe the smirk off his arrogant face.
    â€œYou’re right. You’re not a psychopath. You have no manners. You’re classless.”
    His smirk fades. Bingo.
    He looks at me coldly. “So, how many dinners?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHow many dinners would it normally take to see you naked?”
    My lips grow numb. My cheeks tingle as though he has slapped me.
    â€œIt usually takes the women I date about two,” he continues, “sometimes