Page 72 of The Stipulation
“What? My bad taste in fiction?”
“No, the contradictions within you. You’re never just one thing. You can talk about Renaissance brush techniques for an hour, then argue passionately about why some fictional obnoxious billionaire deserves happiness with his hapless secretary.”
“It’s important,” I protest. “He’s misunderstood.”
“Of course he is.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re judging me.”
“Actually, I’m fascinated by you.”
There’s a truth in his words that goes deeper than my guilty pleasure confession.
“And what about you?” I ask. “What’s your guilty pleasure, Mr. High Standards?”
He considers it, swirling his drink. “Trashy action films.”
I stare. “No.”
“Yes.”
“With explosions?”
“Afraid so,” he confesses.
“Gratuitous car chases?”
“The more unnecessary, the better.”
“The hero who avoids machine gun fire and takes out the bad guy by kicking the shit out of him?”
“That’s the best bit.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
He laughs, the sound low and easy. “You think I only watch documentaries about global markets?”
“I assumed you fell asleep reading The Economist.”
“I do that too.”
“Of course you do.”
He leans in slightly.
“But sometimes I just want two hours of implausible heroics and a villain with a questionable accent.”
I study him as if reassessing everything. “This changes things.”
“In a good way?”
“In a deeply confusing way.”
He grins. “Good.”
The jazz swells for a moment, then softens again. I find myself tracing the condensation on my glass with my fingers, watching the way his gaze follows the movement of them.
“Tell me somewhere you’ve never been,” he says quietly. “But want to go.”
