Chapter Two

Sergey Galanter, untitled

Sometimes I think my incredible personality gets in the way of people noticing how hot I am. So in case you weren’t wondering what I look like (I’m rolling my eyes), I’m going to tell you.

While I believe being scorchingly hot is inherently meaningless, I am aware of its benefits and I enjoy them. I spent the first twenty years of my life being medically ugly, so, I paid my dues and no one can tell me shit.

I was fully cross eyed until tenth grade when my dad got better health insurance that covered strabismus surgery. I had to get braces twice. Sixth grade to senior year. With headgear.

In 8th grade at a camp gymnasium performance of Sweeney Todd, my hair got caught in a box fan and I had to be cut out of it down to the nape of my neck, which meant that for my entire high school experience, I had a fuck ass Lord Farquaad bowlcut.

My name is Gretel Fox. My high school bullies called me Grundle Fuck. “Hey Grundlefuck! Eat shit!” I had one friend, Violet, who continues to be my best thing. She is the only civilian who knows what I do for a living.

I am very fair with dark red hair that falls to the middle of my back. One of my eyes is green and one is blue. I wear wigs and brown contacts when working, of course. I have a lovely nose and pouty lips which I know is infuriating to hear. I am five foot eight, one hundred and twenty pounds, and can deadlift three-twenty. I am a machine with a stress tolerance that you couldn’t imagine. The Agency puts me in extremely physically demanding situations in potentially hostile environments where the vibe is: kill or be killed. Despite my size I can easily KO any man of any size in three seconds. It pleases me to know that I am a shocking threat.

I speak Farsi, Dari, Arabic, Hebrew, French, Russian, and English, as you can see. My job is fine. It’s a job. Recently, I’ve started to think that I need to get out, but I need health insurance. I mean overall it’s fine. Yes, it’s an extreme profession and can be acutely distressing but I am very good at it and that makes me feel good so, whatever. When people ask what I do I say, “I’m in medical equipment sales.” Unless the person asking is in medicine.

Lying about my job to the men I’ve involved myself with has never been an issue, as men typically don’t ask many questions. This is fine by me. All I want a man to know about me is that I am hot. And funny. This disarms them. Why would they need to know I am smart or accomplished? My generation has an obsession with being “seen” or “understood.” Don’t they realize that people don’t see, they project? I have no interest in being seen or understood. As long as I understand me, I’m all set. Oh and Violet. I need her to understand me, and she does.

Anyway, so back to Ivan and me at The Crypt.

Ivan returned from the bathroom looking even sexier, if you can imagine. What was he doing in there? Ripping lines of his own stem cells? If so, where’s my key?

”So, tell me who you are.” I asked. He sat up straight, like a student called upon. “Let’s see. I’m a night owl. No kids, never married. I’m a physician scientist—hematology. I have a lab at Mount Sinai where I develop new treatments for blood disorders, and I read too much. I was born in Romania, we emigrated here when I was a kid, ages ago. Only child. Taurus. What else?”

“Ah, a bloodsucker. What drew you into that?” See what I did there? Blah blah blah science things med school residency internship fellowship post doc this PhD program, that. “But really, a lot of it has to do with the fact that I wanted to mostly be in a lab. At night. My mind turns on at night.” Interesting. “I’m a night owl too,” I said. He smiled like he was sitting on a surprise.

“What about you?” he asked, looking at my lips.

Well, let’s see. I’m an expert long-range/high precision marksman who primarily serves as a recon specialist. I’d say my best shot is with a semi-automatic Barret REC10 (who’s surprised!). My strengths are definitely stealth, concealment, observation and stalking, and patience to remain undetected while observing and engaging targets. Huge bookeater too! What else? Oh! I’m a Scorpio!

“I’m a personal makeup artist and stylist to this influencer. My best friend, Violet, @ViDon’tYou.” Good one!

He asked me what I do for fun and I tell him I do pilates (I don’t) and travel with Violet frequently. He asks me if I have any travel coming up. Next week I’ll be in Tehran. “I’ll be in Palm Springs for a few days next week” I said. “Well we’ll have to squeeze in another date before that,” he said. I rolled my eyes and said, “You’re in love with me.” I like his laugh so much. “So you read minds too…” He joked. I raised my eyebrows as if to say, maybe I do. “What else am I thinking?” He asks.

Me: You’re thinking I am very beautiful.

Him: I am. What else?

Kirsten approaches and drops our check. He put his card down. IVAN SERAFIN. Like Seraphim–“the burning one,” Hebrew. Scorching indeed.

Me: You’re thinking, if she doesn’t let me walk her home, I’ll FREAK OUT.

We walked. “What are the three best things that’ve ever happened to you?” he asked. I told him about getting my cross eye fixed, meeting Vi at school, the first time I fell in love. He’s asking a lot of questions for a man. I imagine he thinks this will disarm me? Well, it is. I returned the question. He told me about an experience he had with a wild bird on a beach. I didn’t hear the other two, as I was imagining him bending me over a lab sink full of beakers. I could hear the glass breaking.

We landed at my door and I thanked him for not catfishing me, but his eyes were fixed on my chin.

With the knuckle of his pointer finger he tilted my chin up slightly and ran his thumb across the barely visible scar under my chin. “How’d you get this?” I told him I tripped while running down a concrete hill (2017, from a piece of shrapnel during a raid in Azerbaijan.) “Poor baby.” he said. “Can I kiss it?”

“Is that something you learned in medical school?” I said. He smiled briefly, sympathetically, not letting me run from the tenderness of this moment with a joke. Hadn’t I just met this man hours ago?

With his finger still on my chin, he kissed my scar like it could break. He kissed where my jaw and ear meet, inhaling my scent like a sommelier, moaning. “God, you smell so good I want to like, inhale your soul. Sorry, that sounds crazy!” He laughed, crossing his eyes for good measure. I shifted back a smidge as I slipped my hands into his jacket, grasped his lower back firmly and looked back up at him.

“Are you going to be Dracula towards me?” I asked. See? Projecting.

“Can I be?” He said.

“I’ll need more information before I can answer that,” I said. With one swift motion he lifted me up to face him, my legs wrapped around him like a watch.

I can feel my heart beating in my pussy.

Him: What am I thinking right now?

Me: You’re thinking you want to kiss me.

Him: You are good. Can I?

Our faces were nearly touching, the separate heats of our breath indistinguishable. I put my left hand on his cheek, my fingers into his hair. He inhaled my scent again, sighing out. Was this relief? With his eyes closed, he ran his lips along my neck, my ear, across my forehead, down the bridge of my nose, then finally paused at my lips, opening his eyes to look at me, lowering me an inch to align my mouth to his. I took the collar of his jacket into my hands and pulled him closer, his eyes looking into somewhere I didn’t want him to see. He ran his bottom lip along my top, barely, then my bottom lip. He used his top lip to open my mouth just so and then, the divine gift of his tongue softly on mine. Oh. My. God. I released one of my hands from his collar and gripped his hair, pulling his head back to look at him.

Without thinking I said, “I like you.” A pause before the drop. Powerless, under his spell. Or am I the one casting?

He put his forehead to mine as if to transfer the smile spread across his face.

“I like you too.”

I could’ve run down the street screaming, “HE LIKES ME TOO!!!!!!!!!”

Gretel are you kidding me? Get a hold of yourself. You’re acting like a stupid girl who has no idea how men are full of shit/oh, right/Yes, you’re right, enough.

“To be continued?” I said as I released myself from him.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“Maybe. Goodnight blood boy.” I walked into my building, glancing back through the glass door to see him watching me. Which was incredibly hot. To me.

Once in my apartment, I immediately placed the hair sample I collected off Ivan into an evidence bag for testing.

Like I said. You can never be too careful!

I ran a bath, undressed, and put my robe on while I waited for the bath to fill, I sat on the rim of the tub and began a soft google stalk. I confirm that his surname is Romanian. I go to my notes app and make a new note:

IVAN SERAFIN

-look up birth certificate

I returned to my research. I confirmed that he is licensed to practice medicine in New York. No social media other than a Twitter account for his lab. Just research papers and grants and awards, all medical things. Nothing about his personal life. I google “Ivan Serafin wife” “Ivan Serafin girlfriend” “Ivan Serafin gay?” to no avail.

A text from Violet pinged: “So? How was catfish, ya big whore?” I FaceTime her. I relay the entire encounter in excruciating detail. “GOD that is HOT. He is so your type. Proceed with caution, G. What do we always say? How do you know a man is lying?” Vi asked. “If his lips are moving.” We laughed.

I slept without dreaming.

When I wake, there is a text from Ivan, sent at 5am.

Him: I can’t get this smile off my face. Want to meet at Central Park (59th and 5th entrance?) for a stroll this evening?