Review: Maple Brooks

General Details

My evening with Maple was a delight in every way.

We met at a swank Asian fusion restaurant in Tribeca, where we shared several exquisite small plates and drank sake and shochu from wooden masu while trading snippy comments about the (other) hipsters crowding the joint. The contours of her mind are every bit as enchanting as the contours of body. Her intelligence is a kaleidoscope, tumbling sincerity and irony, coquettishness and frankness, giddiness and sobriety in a cascading mosaic of brilliant colors, each tile sharp and distinct, yet contributing indelibly to the composite.

Maple is one of the brighter people you’ll meet doing this. Are you worthy?

After dinner …

We stagger down the hallway toward my hotel room. I’ve had too much to drink. She has, too, I think. Under the guise of holding each other up – a fine sight we would have been if there was anyone to see us – hands are sliding into crevices and creases where they shouldn’t go in public spaces.

After fidgeting with the hotel card key, we tumble into the room, almost landing on the floor but catching ourselves remain upright. We embrace and kiss. One question rattles in my head like a broken part: am I gonna get the job done? A common anxiety for me with this much alcohol. Completely unnecessary, it turns out.

A cascade of coats and sweaters hits the floor – nobody’s hanging up anything tonight.

Is the door closed? Locked? I stagger over. It’s locked now. I teeter to the center of the room.

VIPs read on...