My toes may have been hurting already when I stepped out of the taxi, but I do not remember. All my attention was away from my flower-patterned shoes. I was focused on the composure of my back, the regality of my neck, on faking a calm breathing so the porters at the Plaza did not notice my reverence, my choking anxiety, the deep canyon of ecstasy parting the chambers of my heart.

I pushed the revolving door with the talon of my hand wondering if, in a parallel curl of the infinite universe, Grace Kelly was doing the same. But I am sure that even in her most inelegant days, the laziest porter would have opened the lateral door for her and her halo of Chanel No 5. I stood stoically in the lobby, trying to guess the bar domains beyond the tall floral arrangement on the centered round table. I thanked my five-inch heels that allowed me to get a glance of the solemn stained-glass ceiling through hyacinths and oriental lilies without stretching my neck, while women with towering hairdos and men in grey suits performed their elegant parade toward the elevators or the reception counter.

I am sure my toes hurt, but how can I remember when my full attention was invested in keeping natural the cadence of my blue dress, on the syncopation of my tense calves on the chessboard tiles, and the torrent of blood breaking the dam of my chest as I discovered you at the end of the bar?

You were so irredeemably you at that moment, Henry, with your scotch in your left hand and your right fingers holding the invisible cigarette that you yearned for but was forbidden at the Plaza or any bar in New York. As you had warned me, the two older gentlemen were still there, laughing, having martini-infused fun at the prospect of so many millions and future afternoons of golf with you and the other partners once the deal was closed. I was petrified again because looking at you performing your best act has always cast on me the spell of Bluebeard. I become a statue of adoration against logic, will, or wisdom.

You raised your green eyes as if you knew I was standing there and extended your right arm in my direction. As my feet resumed their deliberate procession, I realized that you had not been holding an imaginary cigarette but a thread made of desire that you maneuvered slowly with expertise to bring me to your side. I started walking toward your small table as the two men admired me with the ancient regard of older kings who find themselves defeated in their own kingdoms by a younger knight that will eventually dethrone them.

I wasn’t ready to be invited to join the party or to accept the pink cocktail you ordered for me. The tickets I had bought for John Pizzarelli’s tribute to Gershwin at the Bemelmans Bar were crumpled between the foldable flats I had been able to stuff in my diminutive purse. My silenced plan had been to get drunk with you while listening to my favorite American composer, while the rabbits and giraffes drawn by the master witnessed our secret from the walls like the matrons of hidden fado restaurants had whispered about our affair in Lisbon.

“Gentlemen, you will have to forgive us, but I promised my foreign friend here to take her to a famous New York spot. Is kind of time, isn’t it, Andréia?”

I looked at the clock above the bar, we had only twenty minutes to be punctual, but they shrunk speedily into fifteen and twelve after so many handshakes, remarks, and a subtle magic pass of a corporate credit card.

I followed you in a daze of gin and frustration. I did not want to be late to a show that had cost me half the monthly salary of my grandmother at the Castelo. You held my waist and pulled my body to yours while we squeezed into the same section of the revolving door. You grabbed my hand so I could go down the stairs without falling.

“We don’t have time to find a taxi that can turn North in this mess. We need to run. Ready? It will be fun!”

I looked at you with incredulous eyes. I am not sure if I closed them during the seventeen and a half blocks we just ran, holding hands, passing awnings and poodles and puddles, piercing the eclectic smells of mulch and wet stones from the Park and the stale waters of hotdog carts. We turned East overlooking the French Embassy building where the day before I had bought five books under the fake constellations of a magical bookstore, where I elevated to the painted stars my monotonous wish about you, me, and both of us.

Later that night, the tips of my toes throbbing at the rhythm of your oblivious snoring, I tried to understand why I never stopped you so I could put on my flats before our demented race. Perhaps it was the price I would have to pay for all the fun of the evening. Because you know, Henry, even good people had to pay an obol to Charon if they wanted to have a peaceful afterlife. I paid with an open heart for your genuine smile, for your fingers around mine, and for your jokes about being surrounded by childish cartoons in a hotel where clandestine love stories are replicated every night. I paid with honor because we punctually crossed the door of the Carlyle Hotel with elegance and without breath. I would give those three toenails to the Charon of happiness again, one thousand times, seventeen blocks of running by your hand multiplied by all the notes that Gershwin ever wrote.

Fabiana Elisa Martínez was born in Buenos Aires and has a degree in Linguistics and World Literature. She is a linguist, a language teacher, and a writer. She authored the short story collections 12 Random Words and Conquered by Fog, the short story Stupidity, and Spanish 360 with Fabiana. Other stories of hers have been published in five continents in publications like Rigorous Magazine, Ponder Review, Rhodora Magazine (India), Writers and Readers Magazine (UK), Libretto Magazine (Nigeria), Automatic Pilot (Ireland), Lusitania (Buenos Aires), Egophobia Journal (Romania), Defunkt Magazine, the anthology Writers of Tomorrow, and the Manawaker Flash Fiction Podcast. Website: 12randomwords.com • Insta: @Fabielisam