Mad Man

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He told me his name was Chris, so I named him Number Four for my own clarity, but then he became Don Draper.  He had the hair, the eyes, the drunken cruelty that was begging to be called out.  He had the forehead, the smile, the wedding ring.  He had the hotel room, the early morning meetings, and the house in Connecticut with a wife and a baby on the way.  And he had a hateful, hopeful passion for a woman like me.  I hated him, as a matter of principle, but I liked to think I was like him too.  I asked for every story he had about picking up women on the Upper East Side during his single days and he gladly supplied and I countered with my own stories.  He was not only impressed but compelled to tell me I’d okay.  I hadn’t been asking, but I had.  But I knew that people like us are always okay because we know how to choose a good wine, a pressed shirt, and a secret to keep. 

He hated the way I kept rolling my eyes at him, but it was a hate I knew he liked.  And I imagined being on top of him in his hotel room, rolling my eyes at him, and then him rolling over onto me.  His eyes were inescapable in the candlelight of the Upper East Side Italian restaurant where we sitting at the bar and I didn’t want to be anywhere else because there is nothing sexier than a bad decision. 

He told me he wanted to name his daughter Aria and he wrapped him arms around and bought my third glass of champagne, just as he had bought my first two.  He was sharp and mean, in the precise way I liked.  And I met him move for move until we were caught in candlelight and raised eyebrows.  And our eyes rolled together, over his wine glass, my champagne flute, the buttons of his shirt, the necklace that rested on my collarbone.  And I wanted him in the way that movie people want other movie people.  I wanted him cinematically.  I wanted sparks and sound effects and credits that rolled.