Page 43 of Lorenzo

Beyond the sofas, I see odd-looking equipment that resembles the machines you might see in a Pilates studio. The kind that looks more like medieval torture devices than exercise equipment.

Beneath the ultraviolet light, everything glows purple. The masks, gloves, and even the pale skin of a woman arching her back take on a dreamlike quality.

The longer I stand awestruck, the more the room fills in around me.

Couples move together in the darkness.

Only now that my eyes have adjusted can I see how the couples touch one another.

My jaw drops when one man boldly lowers the top of a woman’s dress to caress her breasts and she does nothing to stop him.

My puritanical New England upbringing and the ‘Aunt Jane’ buried deep within tell me to turn on my heel and walk out.

But why? What prevents me from staying and discovering more?

It’s then that I see him.

Lorenzo.

He leans toward a staff member and says something close to the man’s ear.

Then he straightens and extends a hand to someone I don’t recognize.

Now it’s my chance to leave before he sees me.

But so what if he does?

Too late.

He looks in my direction.

It’s hard to see his expression. Surprise, for certain.

Rage?

Yes. Rage. I see it in his eyes.

A minute later, he’s by my side, grabbing my arm tightly.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, his nostrils flaring in anger.

“What kind of a club is this, Lorenzo? What are these machines?”

“Answer my question.”

I yank myself free of his grasp.

“Is Mrs. Ricci forbidden from visiting her husband’s club?”

My sarcasm only inflames his fury.

“You are leaving now,” he says, taking my hand and leading me away with a strong pull.

“No. Tell me,” I say, once again breaking out of his grasp.

“It’s a club. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen one before.”

“But this part isn’t a normal club.”