Date Number 3.

Yes, hun. This is Date Three. Because I’m counting dinner at Masa as a date. And the booty call the other night with no sex as a date too. Tonight is the night I think.

It’s working; I think Malcolm is finally swallowing the hook.

Now instead of booty calling me, he actually went the date approach. Changing his strategy.

And, instead of me being the one setting up the next date, he actually decided to do it himself. And his choice of venue actually surprised me; we’re meeting at the Met, the Museum of Art. To be honest with you, I had no idea that a man such as Malcolm would be interested in art. In women and alcohol, sure, but not in art. Maybe, though, he’s just doing this in order to impress me.

Well, it’s working.

“Right on time,” Malcolm tells me as I walk up to him, an easy smile on his face. He’s standing at the bottom of the Met stairs, looking classy in his usual Tom Ford suit and wearing an overcoat. I open my mouth to reply, but then I close it again, the words dying in my throat. I was so excited about meeting him again that I forgot all about my fashionably late strategy. Crap.

“Don’t be too flattered. I just happen to have a soft spot for the Met,” I tell him, but the moment I say it I know he sees my words for what they are: a feeble lie.

“Sure, Athena,” he says casually, not even bothering to call my bluff, and then he offers me his arm. Taking it, we walk up the stairs leading to the entrance, and the security staff there just waves us inside. Leading me as if he knew the corridors and halls of the Met as well as he knows the back of his hand, Malcolm takes me to a separate wing of the museum. My high heels click eerily across the marble floor, and I look around to find the place deserted.

“What --?”, I start to say, but Malcolm just turns to me and smiles, answering the question on my mind.

“I arranged to shut down this wing just for the night. We have the place all to ourselves.”

“That’s… nice,” I tell him, feeling completely dumb. I’m so stunned that I can’t even think of anything smart to say. I mean, no one has ever done anything like this for me. A whole wing of the Met? It must've cost a fortune but, seriously, I’m not impressed because of the money.

The gesture itself has impressed me.

“I had the feeling you’d enjoy this,” he continues, leading me to a large hall with paintings hanging from the walls, red velvet ropes cordoning them.

“Are these…?”

“Yeah, these are Monet’s.” Letting go of my arm, his fingertips brush down my forearm and he laces his fingers on mine before I can even react. When I realize what I’m doing, I’m already holding his hand.

“How did you know…?” I ask him with a whisper. I’m not exactly an art connoisseur, but I always enjoyed the Impressionist painters, especially Claude Monet. There’s something about the simplicity of these paintings that just draws me in. Soft strokes, vivid colors … and something in these landscapes just takes me back, like a dream where you revisit the happy moments in your childhood.

“I didn’t,” is his reply. “I just had a feeling.”

“I love these.” I can’t even hide my excitement. Right now I feel like a teenage girl, whisked away by some bad boy whom, it turns out, has an endearing side to him.

“Me too … there’s something about these paintings, isn’t there? They’re soothing.”

“Yes, they are,” I reply, completely forgetting about all the smart sentences and comebacks I had prepared before meeting him today. I have the feeling that he’s acting naturally, being more true to himself than he usually is, and I don’t want to ruin the moment by acting like a smartass. I just want to be myself right now and enjoy this… Whatever this is.

“That one’s my favorite,” he continues, walking toward one of the paintings at the end of the room. “It’s the --”

“Sunset at Pourville,” I finish his sentence, naming the painting before he can do it.

“That’s right,” he smiles, turning his gaze toward me. In his eyes, there’s both a glint of surprise and of joy; he wasn’t expecting me to recognize that Monet painting. I smile back at him and then we turn our attention back toward the painting, two figures walking down a deserted beach while the orange glow of a setting sun tumbles over them.

“It reminds me of my mother,” he says, and I’m too surprised by his tone to say anything. I just squeeze his hand softly and wait for him to continue. “She loved Europe, and we visited every summer. Whenever we were there, she always dragged me after her for long walks at the beach. She loved it; I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was a stupid boy that only wanted to do stupid shit,” he continues with a sorrowful tone.

“What happened?”

“She died when I was only twelve,” he replies, looking at me with a sad smile. “And now, I guess I kinda miss those long walks.”

“I’m sorry,” I find myself saying, and I realize that tears are stinging my eyes. I take a deep breath to stop myself from crying and then, pushing my body against his, I go on tiptoes and brush my lips against his.

“What was that for?” he chuckles, all the sorrow fading from his words now.

“Don’t tell me I can’t kiss you,” I chuckle as well, looking into his eyes.

“Oh, you can do so much more than just kiss me…” Turning on his heels so that his body is pressed against mine, he rests his hands on my waist and pulls me harshly into him. “Especially after what happened between the two of us…”

“I don’t remember anything happening between the two of us,” I laugh, placing both my hands on his chest and running one down the length of his tie. “Care to refresh my memory?”

His smile turns into a grin and then he looks around the museum hall, as if to check if we’re truly alone. Satisfied with what he sees (which is nothing), he then turns his gaze back toward me.

“My pleasure.”