When You’re Not Trying To Be Perfect

RECOMMENDED TRACK: The Wrecks – No Place I’d Rather Be

Anxiety yanked me into consciousness at three-something in the morning. He’s probably gone, came the bitter voice in my head.

No. He’s still here, said a happier one. See? It’s warm.

It was. I looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, he was still lying beside me, his face soft and angelic in sleep. I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face as I slipped out of the bed to pee, pausing to plug our phones in for good measure before I went back to sleep.

When I woke again around seven thirty, he was pressed against me, his arm slung over my hip, and I was smiling again.

That time I stayed awake but in bed, not wanting to leave the peaceful cradle of his arms just yet. I grabbed my phone and checked on the world, dismissing the dozen or so texts from my friends speculating wildly about my night.

Misha stirred almost an hour later and planted a soft kiss on my shoulder. “Dobroye utro, korolevochka,” he said with a grunt. “What are you doing?”

“Dobroye utro,” I returned, snuggling back into him. “I don’t know what the rest means. And…nothing interesting.” Please don’t ask.

He slid his arm from my hip to my stomach and pulled me closer, nuzzling the back of my neck. “‘Koroleva’ is queen. Ochka adds…affection. Cuteness. Sort of like when I say ‘little queen’ but not literally,” he said. “It suits you. Also, everything you do is interesting.”

“Not this,” I snorted. I started to put my phone down but he craned his neck and reached out to tilt the screen towards him. This is what I get for checking Reddit first thing. “…It’s just this guy being a jerk about an aria,” I grumbled as he chuckled, a sound I felt as much as heard. “I shouldn’t even bother responding.” I swiped away from the Internet argument and opened a delivery app. “Coffee? I’m out of the good stuff, but we could order something.”

“Coffee. Yes. Please,” he said plaintively, sitting up and looking around for his own phone, surprised to see it plugged in on the nightstand. “But I’m paying.”

I frowned. “You don’t have to do that.”

He laughed. “You would deprive me of a chance to spoil you more? My little queen is cruel,” he said with a theatrical pout that I responded to with an equally-theatrical glare.

“The spoiling stuff is only for in bed,” I declared. It was one thing to be pampered personally, physically. But financially? That felt different. “I know I said ‘daddy energy,’ but I didn’t mean sugar daddy.”

Misha tsked. “Okay. But we are in bed,” he pointed out. “And we can eat in bed. Problem solved.” He reached over me to snatch up his phone, tucking himself back around my body. “Besides, we need breakfast. Recovery fuel.” I could feel his cock twitching against me, that strange mix of skin and metal.

So I let him pay. And then, we played.

Our energy was different from the intensity of the night before, and the sex followed suit, light and lazy, in the same spooning position we’d woken up in. I was quickly becoming a convert when it came to his piercings, which I could feel brushing against my g-spot as he fed me languid thrusts from behind.

The food arrived some time later as we were still laying there, sweaty and sated. “We should go get it before it gets cold,” I commented.

“We should,” he agreed.

It took another five minutes before either of us actually moved.

I rejected eating in bed but conceded to the couch, eating what I could of the absurd amount of French toast and bacon he’d ordered. He finished eating the rest while I took a shower and dressed.

“When are your classes today?” I asked as I padded back into the kitchen, toweling off my hair. I was surprised to find him clearing up the breakfast stuff and doing a tidy job of it.

But he snickered at my question. “Never. Thursdays, I have two classes with Dr. García. He lets me get away with anything.” He shrugged and turned off the sink as I slipped into the kitchen and pressed a kiss to his bicep. “Let’s skip, and you can tell me all about your Reddit opera arguments.”

“Ugh, you’d probably have more fun in class,” I teased, but I was grinning like an idiot. He wants to stay. For the moment, my anxious voice was silent.

“You underestimate me,” he said with a mischievous look, slinging his arm around my shoulder and guiding me back to the couch. “Or maybe you just overestimate business classes. Or both.” He shrugged as he sat, tugging me with him. “Come. We’ll skip. If you don’t want to talk about opera, we can talk about…anything. Movies. Or books,” he said, gesturing vaguely at my various reading piles.

I thought it over. “I don’t have my TA class today…so I guess I could skip,” I said thoughtfully, letting him pull me sideways onto his lap. “But I have work at three, and I’m not skipping that.”

“Work?” He raised one aristocratic eyebrow. “What sort of work does a queen do? Do you hold court, answer petitioners…?”

“Yes, exactly,” I answered, poking him in the ribs and enjoying seeing his dimples appear when he smiled. “I hold court at Classic Vinyl and Curios and tell people what music they have to buy.”

“Classic Vinyl…” He grabbed the hand I was poking him with and pressed a kiss to my fingers. “On Third?”

“Third and Pike,” I confirmed.

“Perfect,” he declared. “Three blocks from my boxing gym. I’ll drop you off and then go hit things. Then when you finish your shift, I’ll take you to dinner. Good?”

Good. Very good. Too good?

I didn’t know where this was going, this thing with a man who rarely slept with the same woman twice. But he wanted to take me out again. I snaked my arms around his neck and snuggled into him. “Perfect,” I sighed contentedly.

We settled on the couch and he asked about the great aria debate again. My explanation took a few strange turns, from the opera Tales of Hoffman back to Tchaikovsky and the Nutcracker ballet, which led to me showing him a hysterically dated version of the story starring Mickey Mouse that was staged at Disneyland in the ‘90s.

The horror on Misha’s face as he listened to a costumed “rat king” perform a rap over the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” was the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life.

We idled away the whole morning and early afternoon like that, sharing promises (or threats) of movies we’d impose on each other—I needed to see Rocky, he had missed out on Space Jam. And suddenly we had planned a movie date, too.

It felt like I’d barely blinked when it was time to get ready to leave.

“When do you usually work?” Misha asked as he tugged on his pants and I tried not to peep.

“A few weeknights and Sundays, usually,” I replied.

A wicked sort of recognition bloomed on his face and made my heart skip a beat. “Sunday? This is where you were when you asked about my music?” I nodded. It had been a whim, and my pulse had been fluttering for the whole text conversation. “And what music did moya korolevochka assign me?”

“Oh!” I ran to my backpack, abandoned by the front door in the heat of the previous evening, and fished out a vinyl which I turned to present to him, along with his jacket.

He finished pulling on his shirt and tossed the jacket to one side, instead focusing on the disc.

The song was “Caramel” by Sleep Token. “Do you know it?” I asked, fidgeting with the sleeve of my cardigan. He’ll probably hate it. Or he’ll think I’m judging him.

“I know of them,” he said. “Masks, makeup, very flashy, yes? But I do not know the song.”

I nodded. “It’s, um. It’s very dramatic. But I thought you might be interested. It’s about…about living on a stage.” I’d thought of it because of how stricken he’d looked when I told him not to call himself Petrushka, sitting by the Halloween fire that night. You’re so pretentious. Especially after the way he played for you. But it was too late to take it back.

But he was staring at the record in its shrink wrap like a precious artifact. “On a stage,” he repeated, flipping it over to look at the back. “This is what you picked after we talked? For me?”

“Yeah,” I said with a shrug that was more casual than I felt, busying myself with putting my things in my bag. “You promised me Tchaikovsky. It only seemed fair. Though it doesn’t feel like enough, now that I’ve actually heard you play.” My cheeks were heating up again. Then I felt him step behind me, sliding his arms around my waist.

“You owe me nothing for that,” he said in my ear, kissing my temple. “But I’ll listen. I want to hear it.”

I leaned back into his chest and craned my neck to look at him. “You’ll have to tell me what you think.”

“I will write you a book report,” he promised. “Ten pages. Double spacing.”

“I would never demand ten pages from you,” I said with false horror. “Five is plenty.”

He laughed and kissed me.

We walked to the shop chatting, and the seconds felt like they were passing by too fast. But he pulled me in for another kiss before letting me go. Once I was in the store, my boss asked me why I was smiling so much as I replaced him behind the counter, waving a hello to the assorted objects that lived on the display shelf.

My four-hour shift felt like twelve. Our usual weekday clientele was groups of students who were checking out the boutiques along Third Street, some couples trying to impress one another, and a few regulars who came to pick up orders or browse the latest used records and random knickknacks. Normally, I just read a book between customers but I spent most of the shift sorting all the latest stock, needing to get out some energy.

About twenty minutes before my shift was set to end, I was hefting a crate of duplicate stock to shove in the back office—they were cluttering up my tidy alphabetical scheme—when someone called my name.

“One sec!” I called back. I ducked into the office to plop the crate down in a corner and then trotted dutifully back into the shop.

Adrian Calloway, Misha’s fraternity brother who had read the Oz books,  stood at the counter, The one who had wanted to argue.“Hi,” I said, using my best Customer Service smile. “Good to see you again. Looking for anything in particular…Adrian, right?” Like you don’t remember.

I hadn’t entirely clocked the name that night, but when he friended me online I realized just what that surname meant. Every Crownbridge student knew about the Calloway family. Not just historical, but rich, straight-up donor class. They had even funded the university library.

And sure enough, he was dressed casually, but everything he wore looked expensive—I was pretty sure his cardigan was cashmere, at least. In better light I could see he was…actually very good-looking. And that was coming from someone who had just spent the night with Misha, an undeniable Adonis.

But Adrian had none of Misha’s swagger or deliberate laziness. Instead, he held himself so tight he felt like a clockwork ready to spring. But his cardigan was rolled up and I could see arms that probably spent time lifting weights, even if his disappointed-professor vibes suggested that he wouldn’t admit to it. Even as he looked around the little shop, the face behind his glasses locked into an expression of being above all this nonsense.

He adjusted his glasses with one hand and set the other into his pants pocket. “No, I’m not here to shop,” he said, and then he took a short breath that relaxed his features into something less…superior. He’s pretty to look at when he’s not scowling.

Not as pretty as Misha, though.

Shh, I told my little voices.

“I was looking for you,” Adrian continued, thankfully unaware of my inner dialogue.

“Okay,” I said. Is he here to hit on you? I suppressed a snort. Don’t be stupid. He thinks you have trash taste in movies. In truth, I found him unsettlingly opaque. Eyes, eyebrows, lips, everything was resolutely neutral. I guess a guy in his position wouldn’t want to give away much. “Well, you found me. What’s up?”

“I wanted to apologize,” he replied, sounding a little rehearsed. “I might have been—I was rude at the Halloween party. About Return to Oz.”

I mean, he had called it a monstrosity. But it hardly warranted an in-person visit. “You don’t need to apologize for having a different opinion from mine,” I assured him. I think I was having a hangover of playfulness from spending time with Misha, because then I grinned. “I mean, I’m right, and you’re wrong. But it’s a free country.”

He blinked and then scoffed, or maybe laughed, I couldn’t quite tell which. “I don’t know what they teach in the lit department, but that’s not much of an argument,” he retorted, leaning his hip against the counter and folding his arms.

“I already made my good argument on Halloween,” I tut-tutted as I stepped around him to go back to my spot by the till, putting the counter between us. “Is that all you came for? Really?”

He glanced around the space, his gaze drifting over the unusual items scattered around the shop—vintage toys from the ‘80s and ‘90s mixed with classic bric-a-brac and Depression glassware. Then his eyes landed on the record player that sat next to the till so we could play things for customers when we were of a mind to. “I guess I could ask for a recommendation, since I came all this way.”

We’re four blocks from Sigma House. He’s definitely here because he wants something. I gave him a skeptical look, but he ignored it. Stop being conceited, I chastised myself. “Okay…sure. What do you usually listen to?”

“Classical,” he said quickly, turning and setting a hand on the counter, a casual gesture that was at odds with how straight he held his spine. “Baroque, mostly. Haydn, Gluck, Bach—both of them. And occasional fits of jazz.”

I waited for him to add more, but he didn’t. “That’s it?”

He blinked, his detached look slipping for a split second. “That’s not enough?”

“Your taste in music sounds awfully…tidy,” I said, folding my arms and squinting at him. “What do you listen to when you’re not trying to be…” I gestured vaguely. “When you’re not trying to be perfect, I guess?”

Adrian’s eyes widened, then narrowed, then went back to neutral in rapid succession. He drummed his fingers on the counter before giving me a small nod. He pulled out his phone, tapping it and sliding it across the counter to me. “Here. Tell anyone, and I’ll make sure you regret it,” he said.

I don’t know if he was joking or if he really meant to intimidate me, but I only felt relieved. Either way, it was not the tone of a man trying to flirt. Maybe he just wanted to annoy Misha? That would have meant he knew Misha and I were…seeing each other? Had seen each other, anyway. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the idea of Misha having talked about me with his brothers. A little mix of anxiety and excitement, I guess.

But I swept it aside for the moment, accepting his phone. “I promise not to tell anyone,” I chirped as I looked at the music app on the screen.

I scrolled through the playlists until I found one whose default image wasn’t a centuries-dead guy in a wig and when I did, my irritation melted into curiosity. “Huh.”

He leaned over the counter to see which playlist I was looking at and let out a gruff sigh. “Don’t say it,” he almost growled.

It was an assortment of showtunes and big cheesy pop ballads—love songs, every one.

“Don’t say what? I love most of these,” I said, and meant it. There was plenty of overlap with my own tastes, which skewed big and theatrical, too. I set his phone down on the counter and bit my thumbnail, thinking fast as I glanced around the store. My eyes landed on a particular crate and I scrolled down his list to see if he already had what I was considering. He didn’t.

I left the sanctuary behind the counter to fetch the record. Handing it to him gave me a sense of deja vu, but this was just a recommendation, like I’d do for any customer. It was way less personal than the song I’d given Misha. But…something about seeing a hidden side of the Adrian Calloway made me a little giddy, I guess.

“The Secret Garden?” He asked, looking over the record.

“Yeah. It’s not a particularly well-loved musical,” I admitted. “But I think you’d like a few tracks.” He flipped the record over and skimmed the track list. “Most of the story is about the kids, but there’s this incredible duet between two brothers who loved the same woman,” I said, smiling fondly at the record. “This is the original version with Mandy Patinkin, too. It’s great.”

When I looked up, Adrian wasn’t looking at the disc anymore, he was looking at me. It was with a calculating expression that made me feel a little like I was being weighed at the market. “Sounds like another iffy adaptation,” he said, and I got the sense he was testing me.

Fuck that. “Iffy?” I huffed.

“Inaccurate,” he amended.

I shot him an exasperated look. “This again? Adaptations aren’t always about accuracy.”

The corner of his lips quivered, like the more I got worked up, the more at ease he felt. “What are they about?”

“There’s no universal answer to that,” I retorted. Maybe I should have held myself back, but I couldn’t help it. “But adaptation isn’t always about locking in the exact same meaning in a different medium,” I explained. “It can be about interpreting a work in a way that’s meaningful for a totally different audience, or even about building on an idea over centuries.  Adaptation is a translation across time.”

He looked a little taken aback by that assertion. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

“It’s kind of my field of study,” I said with a shrug that was more casual than I felt, turning to the crate closest to me and busying my hands sorting the discs that customers had inevitably shuffled around. “Adaptation, especially cross-media adaptation, that is.”

“Interesting choice,” he said with another measured look. “What brought you to that particular specialty? It’s…niche.”

“Is it?” I gave him my best Mona Lisa look over my shoulder as I reorganized the Rolling Stones albums chronologically by heart. “Adaptation is big business. Massive. But it’s not as modern as people think of. People have adapted stories since forever,” I said, warming up to the subject. “Cave paintings to oral traditions to theater. Nearly every play Shakespeare wrote as an adaptation in some way or another.”

He mulled that over, leaning back against the counter and hugging the record to his chest while he did. “That’s an interesting point. And you’re right about the business, too.” I barely knew Adrian, but even our brief acquaintance made that concession a surprise. And the little half-smile that accompanied it even more so, though there was a sly feeling to it. “The biggest media products out there today are adaptations of comic books, remakes of movies.” He cocked his head at me. “Have you thought about what you’ll do with that specialty after graduation?”

“Yes, actually,” I said, unable to hide a little bubble of excitement, because he’d touched on my exact plan. “I’m going to get my MBA. I want to consult with some of those big companies making big adaptations.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I want to play a part in those stories we keep telling on repeat.”

I was rewarded for that revelation with a look of surprise that didn’t immediately vanish this time. After a moment, Adrian opened his mouth to speak, but the little bell at the door chimed before he could. I looked past him and lit up. “Misha!” I called. “Look who’s here.”

I watched Misha’s eyes flick to Adrian. “Calloway,” he said after a brief pause, his accent thick. “What a surprise to see you here.”

He smiled then, a fierce smile. The kind that showed teeth.

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Bonus Content:
A Castle in Transylvania

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Double Extra Bonus: Misha and Emma by Daria Pojar!

Author’s Note

B-Side Track: Patricia Janečková – Les Oiseaux Dans La Charmille 

(I recommend watching rather than just listening. Try this performance. Janečková’s version isn’t on Spotify; the playlist has Natalie Dessay’s.)

FUN FACTS:

The aria that Emma argued about was “Les Oiseaux Dans La Charmille,” also known as “the doll’s song,” from the opera Tales of Hoffman. It’s sung by a clockwork woman who protagonist Hoffman (based on the real-life author ETA Hoffman who wrote the book that inspired Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker) sees as a “real” woman because he’s wearing enchanted glasses. The song is typically sung in a very mechanical, doll-like way, but it’s such a lovely and challenging aria (one of the tougher ones out there) that a lot of performances still have so much spirit. In my head, a young Emma saw a production and was driven to tears because after Olympia’s mechanical nature is revealed, her creator destroys her, even though she only did what was asked of her, and decades later some dude on Reddit wanted to argue that there’s no meaning to take away from Olympia’s treatment because she was just a machine. (No, it’s not a real fight I had, but you can’t tell me it’s not realistic.)

Also, Mickey’s Nutcracker is a real thing, and you can watch it. Enjoy the Rat King Rap.

Confession: While this is not going to be a dark romance (maybe next time), I do love a slightly jealous Misha…