I Knew You'd Be Lovely by Alethea Black Page A

paternal grandmother, Florence—“Torchy,” they called her in college—whose hair was so red that as a little girl, she wasn’t allowed to sit as close to the fire as her sisters were. Her mother was afraid her head would ignite out of sympathy with the flames. Misha seems to like this story.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “Now you have to tell me a story about your grandmother.”
    He dips his brush and continues painting. “What if I don’t have any?” he says. I make a pout, even though I’ve been instructed to maintain an approximation of equipoise at all times. When he gets to my face (apparently he saves this for last), I won’t be allowed to speak.
    â€œThen make one up.”
    He answers while painting, his eyes fixed on the canvas. “My grandmother was a Jew,” he says. “My mother, Zdena, was born inside a concentration camp. Once I asked her how it was possible for an infant to survive in such a place, but she just shook her head, and we neverspoke of it again.” He utters these words with a perfectly blank expression, in monotone, and I have the strange feeling he isn’t making it up at all.
    â€œIs that true?” I say.
    He shrugs.
    â€œYou shouldn’t joke around about things like that.”
    â€œWho says I’m joking?” he says, momentarily lifting his focus from the canvas to lock eyes with me. His eyes are as beautiful and opaque as polished stones.
    Misha and I met two months ago, when he was walking his dachshund in SoHo. I would later learn that he’d been there to drop off his portfolio at a gallery, and that the dog was on loan from a friend who’d gone home to Ukraine for a week. A blonde in a black fur coat made ooohs of excitement and bent down to pet the animal.
    â€œIt’s a wiener dog!” she said.
    Misha examined her coolly. “ ‘Wiener dog,’ madam, is a racial slur.”
    I was standing nearby, holding my bike, about to text a friend to see if she wanted to join me for coffee. Upon hearing this, I started to laugh. I reached into my backpack and asked if it would be all right if I gave the dog a piece of beef jerky. Thirty minutes later, Misha and I were having espressos at Café Luxe, and I had agreed to go on a date with him. When he told me he was a painter, I think I knew that I would one day consent to sit for him.
    It should have dawned on me then how breathtakingly boring it would be. The one saving grace is that Misha is actually quite good. The Marlborough Chelsea recently showed his work, and reviews called his paintings—especiallythe oil portraits—extremely accomplished and well-conceived. But what I like is they have an unfinished quality that makes them look alive. Still, in spite of a frequently exercised inner life, I’m restless.
    â€œLet’s play a game,” I say. Misha takes a sip from a water glass on the stool beside him. “Name something you regret,” I say.
    He swallows and puts down the glass. “I’m not sure I want to play this game,” he says.
    â€œWell, I’m not sure I want to sit here this long.”
    He appears dissatisfied with whatever he sees on the canvas. “I regret everything,” he says.
    â€œInteresting,” I say, quietly hoping he doesn’t mean anything particular to me or my person. “Name something you’re afraid of.”
    â€œFalling microwave ovens,” he says, then reconsiders. “Cilantro.”
    â€œYou’re afraid of cilantro.”
    â€œ
Allergic
is probably a better word.”
    â€œI see,” I say. I’m waiting for him to crack a smile, but he doesn’t. “When was the last time you were genuinely happy?”
    â€œI’m always happy,” he says.
    â€œTake the game seriously, please. Or I’ll be forced to come over there, and sit in your lap, and all will be lost.”
    He smiles, then thinks for a moment.