IN WHICH HARRY WINSTON DOESN’T JUST TALK TO ME, HE YELLS.
Between our blazing physical attraction, the intellectual connection we had and the common interests we shared, my affair with Atticus was easily the beginning of a relationship. But early on I disliked the insecurity he exhibited in too frequent pompous moments, and noticed his ego could be quite obnoxious.
Sure, his arrogance and competitiveness flagged him as good for sex — he was out to prove himself the hottest lover in the world –but he was no candidate for the giving partnership of true love.
I mean, Atticus was exhausting. Everything was a contest — even the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle was a battleground to see who could get the most correct words. Or who’d read the most Russian authors. Or who could name the most high-rated malt whiskies. Meanwhile, I could care less.
Nevertheless, I was fantastically stimulated in all meanings of the word, and I dated Atticus exclusively for an incredibly torrid two months, which only ended one morning over cappuccino at Sant Ambroeus cafe on Madison Avenue. On the subject of the open relationship his friend was in, I said we should maybe see other people — and invited him into the MENagerie.
Furious with that proposal, Atticus said he’d been on the verge of his own proposal. He angrily pulled a torn, folded magazine page out of his inner jacket pocket — it was an ad for a Harry Winston ring, a huge square sapphire surrounded by diamonds. The impressive rock looked like it would actually weigh down my finger.
“Blue and sparking, like your eyes,” he said, with an emotion I’d never seen before.
Despite the righteous bling, I had to admit it: I may have been Miss Right for him, but he certainly wasn’t Mr. Right for me.
And, as they say, that’s all she wrote.
Yours truly,
