Risk Tolerance
“I’m positive there’s no vegan food here,” she mutters.
“Let me worry about that,” Aleksandr says, as the ma?tre d’ leads them into the dining room. His hand settles at the small
of her back; the faint brush of his fingers against the soft fabric of her dress makes her shiver, even in the humidity of
the summer night.
Cavernous, cultivated, yet intimate: It’s a heavy white tablecloth restaurant downtown, Le Coucou, with whitewashed brick
walls, candlelight, rows of shining cutlery. Well-dressed groups of friends, lithe women, handsome men, a few wealthy families
with grown children celebrating birthdays. Faded mirrors reflect the dim gleam of the dining room, waitstaff carrying out
nouvelle cuisine. There are easy, confident twists of waiters’ elbows as they uncork wine, pouring it into thin-stemmed glasses.
A sommelier weaves through the room.
She’s spent the week surrounded by the background hum of Aleksandr’s money. Conflicted about benefiting, uneasy about its
source, she’s been able to push that aside when deep in work. But entering the restaurant, it’s difficult not to notice it,
now: his wealth, and the way he inhabits it; the way rooms and people orient around him; the way he expects them to.
“Are you sure you’re alright to eat here?” Lili asks, glancing up at him. “I think it only has one Michelin star.”
Aleksandr squeezes her hip, grinning. Around them, the buzz of conversation drifts, low-slung chandeliers hang above parties of beautiful people, opulent spreads of too-expensive food.
Lili knows she’s pretty. Knows that in the right light, with the right mood, she can be beautiful. But this sense of eyes
on her, curious and electric, as she walks with him through the dining room—it’s new, and feels too sensitive on her skin.
She knows she’s living in a delusion: this time in which she’s a priority for him, these moments outside of her regular life;
this temporary relief from the tightrope she constantly walks, this illusion of a safety net.
It’s just—intoxicating, and she can’t help wanting it for a little longer.
“Your table, Mr. Petrov.”
It’s a banquette nestled in a corner. Intimate, cloistered. Sitting down, Lili lets herself take a breath—settle, calm, arrive
here. Aleksandr takes a seat beside her as more waitstaff appear, setting down menus and wine lists, filling up their water
instantly.
Lili adjusts her hips slightly. In the soft-focus glow of the restaurant, her skin feels like it’s glinting, secret, dark
golden. Tight and aching, she feels filled with him; her thighs are still slick.
I should take a shower, she’d said, earlier as they’d righted their clothes. His hand had slid up her thighs, fingers slipping inside of her suddenly,
pushing his spend deeper, and she’d taken a sharp inhale, grasping at his suit. No, Lili, he said. You’re not taking a shower.
“What type of wine do you prefer?” Aleksandr’s looking at her.
“Oh—white,” she answers, distracted.
Aleksandr nods, glancing over the wine list. “Likewise.”
“I’d have thought you’d like red. Chateauneuf-du-Pape, all of that.”
“If that’s a quip about my age, I’ll let you reconsider.”
Lili smirks. Under the table, she runs the toe of her shoe against his ankle.
“Any particular appellation?” he asks.
“Um—” She looks over the wine list, the blur of terroir and family names. “I’m not sure.”
“That’s alright,” he says. “What do you usually enjoy in wine?”
“Drier,” she supplies. “Drier, and acidic. I really like albarino, but this is French, so—I’m not sure.”
“No, that’s good,” he says. “I know what you’ll like.”
He glances up, and the sommelier immediately appears, welcoming him back.
As Aleksandr tells him the name of some Chablis, Lili looks over the rest of the dining room.
Seeing couples, friends and families, she realizes how she and Aleksandr look—in the context of this restaurant, the type of place people go for important occasions, celebrations, and the two of them in this corner.
Their waiter departs, and worry rises; she should clarify—
“You’re on birth control, correct?”
Lili’s eyes widen.
Looking over the menu, he seems much too interested in the selection of entrées.
“Of course, I am,” she says emphatically.
Relief washes over his face. “Good.”
“That should have been a conversation several weeks ago,” she says. “Do you have children scattered all over the world?”
He makes an expression of distaste. “Christ, no,” he says. “And I plan to keep it that way.”
Uncomfortable, Lili navigates away. “What’s your count?” she asks.
“Count?” He looks up.
“You know, your body count. The number of people you’ve slept with. If we’re having this type of discussion.”
“Counting from before or after you were born?”
Lili throws her napkin at him. Aleksandr grins, catching it easily. “I’m serious,” she insists.
“I’m not sure.”
“You work with numbers. Be sure.”
“This is a rather personal question.”
“You just asked about my reproductive choices.”
“Does this matter? Who genuinely keeps count, that’s ridiculous—”
“Estimate, Petrov. Estimate.”
Aleksandr looks thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe three, four?”
“Wait, what? Only three or four?”
“No, three or four hundred.”
Lili stares at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What?”
“Three or four hundred women?”
“Not just women, Lili.”
Speech fails her for a few moments. He raises an eyebrow, face suddenly cold. “Is that a problem?”
“Of course not,” she rushes. “No, I just didn’t expect that. Is that—is that still, like, you know . . . part of your life?”
“Not really. It was London in the nineties. Part of figuring out who I was and what I wanted.”
“Here you are, sir.” Returned, the sommelier is deferential to Aleksandr, poised to pour him a sample of the wine.
“She’ll try it,” Aleksandr says, nodding towards Lili.
The sommelier—serious, older, thin wire-frame glasses—fills her glass with a taste of wine. Lili takes a sip, unsure of exactly
what to do. Remembering some half-read article from Bon Appétit, she holds the alcohol on her tongue, and lets the soft heat linger, the rasp of acidity swelling at the back of her throat:
mineral, sharp, austere. She tries to concentrate on the wine, because the way Aleksandr watches her as she swallows—
“Good,” Lili nods. She looks away from Aleksandr, ignoring the flush across her cheeks. “Yeah, it’s good.”
“Wonderful,” the sommelier says, tipping a full pour into her glass. As he pours Aleksandr’s glass and then sets the bottle
into the wine bucket, Lili takes a long gulp.
Aleksandr laughs, low. “Let the wine breathe a little.”
“Let the wine what now?” she mutters. Alcohol blooms hot and comforting in her empty stomach, but a twist of anxiety tightens—good wine, dinner:
contours she needs to clarify. “This isn’t a date,” she says, glancing back at Aleksandr. “To be clear.”
“Of course not,” he says, not even looking up from the menu.
She frowns. Annoyed by his nonchalance, wanting more of a reaction. “Do I want to know how much that bottle was?”
Aleksandr looks up at that, amused. “Why? You won’t be paying.”
“Don’t be sexist,” she asserts, ignoring how she usually claims women can only be expected to split dinner once the gender
wage gap has closed.
“What type of man would I be if I invited you to dinner and let you pay?”
“Let me at least pretend to reach for the check.”
“Do boys your age actually expect you to pay?”
“It’s only fair—”
“Lili, enough,” he says, frowning. He snaps his menu closed. Their main waiter is back immediately, along with another man
dressed in chef’s whites. Aghast, Lili’s annoyance with him for cutting her off—realizing, really, how rarely he’s ever done
so—is frustratingly mired by arousal at his condescension.
Aleksandr speaks easily with the new man—dark hair, clean white apron—who Lili realizes is the head chef, who’s suddenly asking
her about her preference for green tomatoes, leeks, hazelnuts, maitake mushrooms, confirming that she doesn’t eat meat or
dairy.
“How did you find staying at the apartment?” Aleksandr asks her once they’re alone again.
Lili shakes out her napkin, laying it over her lap. She might as well be honest. “Good. I mean, it was great, actually. Sort
of saved me, being able to just work.” She bites her lip, lets it go. “I—I stayed in your bed. I hope that’s alright?”
“Of course, it’s alright. You’re well acquainted with it.”
“Not without you in it,” she counters, teasing.
No, Lili, she thinks. Flirting.
He grins. “Tell me more about your meeting with your adviser.”
That’s right. There’s a reason they’re sharing dinner. She leans into it, glowing: She wants to share her success, speak to
what she’s accomplished, dive into detail that her friends can’t quite get—not their field, not their world. “Well, Kerr still
has to read it in-depth, but I handed in my revision. He’ll have more edits, the final deadline isn’t until fall—but this
felt like it might finally be coming together.”
“Don’t be modest. You’re smart, and you know you are. Capitalism thrives on the labor of insecure overachievers. Don’t give
it the satisfaction, yes?”
“I am not an insecure overachiever,” Lili asserts. “Great—it went great. He thinks I could publish.”
“There you go,” Aleksandr says. “And is that what you want to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“For your career. Would you like to publish, go into academia? You didn’t seem enthused by the prospect of joining our sustainable investing team,” he observes, not even trying to hide his amusement.
“No, thanks. I’d honestly rather sell my soul to the devil and try to overhaul the entire IMF, before I joined an asset management
firm. Or academia, for that matter—the departmental politics and struggle of it isn’t for me. I refuse to be an adjunct professor
who can barely afford healthcare exploited by the ivory tower.”
“So, urban farming?”
She frowns, taken aback. “Why would you think that?”
“You seemed passionate about it, that night at the office.”
“Yeah, well—we’ll see.” She shrugs, uncomfortable. “It’s not like it’s really a viable career choice. My adviser definitely