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New York. April 1961.
The flowers in the plaza at Rockefeller Center are beginning to bloom by the time Midge hears that Lenny is back in New York. She has always thought that springtime in New York City is magical; there is something wonderful about the world coming alive again after a long winter, and this spring it seems to be all the more powerful. Along with it, feelings of uncertainty and despair are steadily being replaced with something much more fitting for Miriam Maisel: unbridled confidence. She has appeared on The Gordon Ford Show to fill in after a scheduled guest had been unable to make it. Five minutes – eight, maybe, of banter with Ford and the quick, acerbic retorts that have gotten her into so much trouble all her life; and nothing was going to be the same again.
Midge has been fighting, fighting, succeeding, and fighting some more in the months since Lenny left; establishing herself in the male-dominated writer’s room at The Gordon Ford Show, shaking off advances from her boss and the handsome man from the park, honing in her act at the Wolford and expanding to working as an opener in bigger theatres in the city; then convincing her coworkers to come out and see her, which eventually inspired Ford himself to see another one of her sets, landing her the chance to appear on his show.
Now Susie is in talks with the executives to get her a permanent spot on the program, the chance to appear in front of millions of people each week, and finally, this is the break she has been waiting for. A beautiful arrangement of flowers arrived the morning after her spot on Ford, not from her boss, as she had initially feared, but from Lenny; with a short and sweet note that erased the sense of foreboding sorrow she had been left with when they said goodbye at the airport.
And yet, Lenny still hasn't called. Midge is beginning to suspect he might have an aversion to telephones in general. Lenny, for his part, has attempted to convince himself that he can get on without her. That one night, before Carnegie, had been perfect to him – sacrosanct. Before he had known about the Bennett rejection, before she had witnessed the part of him that he had specifically tried to keep hidden from her. His drug habit was the worst kept secret in the village, a fault that was mostly his own. There had been too many sloppy nights where, desperate for a fix, he would take what any seedy character in the alley behind the club was offering him. It wasn’t supposed to be like that – but it was, he couldn’t get out of his own fucking way.
And Midge; the one beacon of hope in this godforsaken town, she knew it too. He had expected her to say something after that morning in her apartment, that late night in his blue hotel room; to put together the bits of gossip that he knows go around the clubs about him and the fact that she had found him high out of his mind on a village sidewalk, but she hadn’t. Maybe she wanted to pretend otherwise. He wishes he could, too.
In the months since he has seen her last; he actively tried to avoid ruminating on her, on them; whatever there was to call what they shared. He failed spectacularly in doing so, but he tried, anyway. First, there was spending time with his kid – marveling at how much she had grown, how sharp she was, and how he could have possibly managed to create such a wonderful little person. There was listening to the ceaseless nagging of his mother; being told about things he should have done differently, and requests for more money, which he always gave. There were gigs to perform his little dog and pony show along the coast. Then, when he was alone, there was the abiding inference of small vials and needles and bottles of whiskey that brought him back to that temporary, blissful oblivion, and he didn't have to think of anything at all.
He heard from one of the New York comedians that came out west on tour about a brash uptown broad making the circuits again back east; oh, she was pretty, yes, and with a mouth as sharp as anything, managed to score a writer's room job with a network show and was brave enough to shake things up with the host in front of an entire barroom. Lenny nodded along and thought about that sharp mouth on his own, her lips forming his name in the shape of a grateful moan, and he made a point to tune in to The Gordon Ford Show every week after that.
Lenny is watching from a hotel room in Pittsburgh, making his way east, when he sees a familiar face appear on the television screen, and he's not surprised; he's delighted for her, and lovesick, he realizes, something is aching in his chest at the sight of her; still unbearably gorgeous through the static and the fuzzy transmission. His heart made its decision on its own. So, he sends her flowers for a second time, lets her know he is still paying attention - how could he not be? And gets his manager to book him a plane ticket to New York on the morning after his last gig.
When he's back in the city, he doesn't seek her out right away. He goes to bars with his friends, and talks to promoters at the clubs about setting up a string of dates, part of him wanting to elongate the distance between them for her own good, the other ready to sink to his knees at the very sight of her. His entire life has been defined by this dichotomy in him; good and bad, right and wrong, what should be and what is. When he sees her name on a club marquee one night, he chalks it up to fate. He slips into the back of the club and blends into the crowd at the bar with a glass of whiskey.
She is at a blistering pace, biting and beautiful and very, very funny; paired with the surety of having made millions of people laugh in living rooms across America – well, there was nothing like it, he knew that. A particularly grimy promoter slides up to him at the end of her set, and Lenny has to pretend to listen to him when Midge flounces off stage. He had seen her scanning the room when the house lights went on, scouring for the source of his sharp laugh; of course, she had heard him, there was that familiar magnetism between them, still impossible to deny despite his best efforts.
Lenny doesn't know how she might react to seeing him again. Their goodbye at the airport hadn't been the most cheerful of meetings; she had caught him trying to sneak away without so much as a call to say thanks for the fuck, I'm out of here, and she had that deer-in-the-headlights look, chastened and trying to play it cool, both of them tip-toeing around what they really wanted to say. He wants to tell her that what happens in the heart simply happens. He wants to tell her that what he wants and what he should do are two completely disparate things. His fear of hurting her and the resolute belief that he's not good enough for her are not strong enough to completely stamp out what is underneath; the love between them, the tender understanding they share.
He looks up and Midge is so beautiful, glowing from a successful set, so much so that it looks like she’s almost floating on her way to the bar. He continues to act like he is invested in whatever the shmuck next to him is saying until she is almost pressed against him, her hand dangerously close to his own on the top of the bar.
Lenny and the promoter both turn to her at the same time. The promoter offers the usual niceties, and Midge thanks him with that thousand-watt smile, but her eyes are on Lenny. Her head tips in towards him over the din of the bar. He relents, overcome by the smell of her perfume and her iridescent beauty, and tilts his head towards her, almost holding his breath. Then her voice is in his ear, coquettish and self-assured, and he is finishing his drink in one swallow and turning on his heel behind her without another word to the promoter.
He has hoped for a great many things in his life; but never this, not after the way that he left, not after the careful distance he has tried to maintain from her. She is pushy and impeccable, still Midge – to be sure, but there is something new here that he cannot put his finger on, something impatient, more demanding than before, like her mind is made up about something; he's not sure what. She has him against the rear exterior of the building, his back against the bricks, her fingers twined into his lapels, the two of them kissing furiously out in the alleyway like a couple of teenagers on their way home from a dance.
“Midge, you know it gives me no pleasure to say this: but I am very famous and important. And if the club gossip is anything to go by, you are about to become very famous and important yourself. As much as it would boost my reputation as a great ladies’ man and an incorrigible cad, I’m not sure you’d like the press to catch a glimpse of us necking out here.”
“I don’t think your reputation needs any boosting,” Midge says.
She waits a beat and then continues: "You didn't tell me you were going to be here tonight."
Lenny grins and shrugs his shoulders. "I couldn't resist the opportunity for another sneak attack."
"And there I was, fully prepared to admit that I missed you," Midge sighs.
"Don't worry, that message has been received," Lenny tells her.
Midge rolls her eyes and pulls him back in for another kiss.
“I have a room, you know,” Lenny murmurs against her lips. He knows his are smeared with her lipstick, he can feel the waxy trail of it along his jaw, and she makes an impatient sound at the interruption of their fervent kissing.
“Why aren’t we there already?” she asks, her breath against his neck.
Lenny laughs, letting his head fall back against the wall.
“I haven’t had much of a chance to catch a breath, let alone speak,” he tells her, but he loves this about her, loves too much about her if he’s being honest – a woman who knows what she wants. “Not that I’m complaining,” he adds, and kisses her again, as if to prove his point.
They behave in the taxi, he intertwines their fingers, marveling at how small her hand is in his own. He hadn’t told her that his room is at a hotel, and not necessarily a nice one at that, but Midge says nothing; she loses her purse, her coat, and her heels as soon they pass through the threshold. This, he had not been expecting either. He wants her, has wanted her for far too long – and shit, she wants him too, apparently. A thing like that.
Lenny steps in close to her and kisses her hard, bunching the skirt of her dress in his hands. Midge melts into his touch, and his lips drag across her jawline, nipping at her ear. She’s working on getting him out of his clothes, tugging off his suit jacket, and he’s preoccupied with kissing her neck, her collarbone, pressing her between his legs, his hands fondling her breasts. Midge moans something breathy and beautiful, and Lenny grins, his eyes flashing up to hers.
“Your hands are lovely,” Midge offers.
She doesn’t think she has ever said something like that to a man before, but she means it, as ridiculous as it sounds. He somehow knows how to touch her just the way she needs it.
“My hands are good at a lot of things,” Lenny tells her, and to prove his point he unzips her dress with familiar ease, kissing her tenderly, then his teeth tug gently at her earlobe, making Midge shiver all over. He makes himself lean away for a moment and looks her up and down, his eyes dark with longing. He exhales and shakes his head.
“You are stunning, Midge,” Lenny tells her. “A fucking knock-out.”
“You’ve already got me in your hotel room,” Midge reminds him, her face flushing. The quip escapes her without thought. She has heard the words before, but it means something more coming from him, somehow.
“And I can hardly believe my luck,” Lenny murmurs.
She is a vision in black lace, a knockout, yes, but there is something demure in the way she looks up at him when their hips touch, her fingers light against his chest, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers, not daring to go any further. She wants to touch him, she pulls at his hips until she can feel him against her, and she gasps against his lips. She is waiting for him to take the lead, like she’s afraid she’s gone too far. How many times has a man told her she’s too much, Lenny thinks. He can't imagine ever thinking that. He could have every day left of his miserable life with her and it would still not be enough. He can’t help but kiss her again, his hands moving to touch her wherever he can reach.
He undoes the show corset tenderly and the sound she makes is a sigh of relief. His head drops so that he can kiss her breasts and he’s nudging her against the desk, slotting their bodies together as closely as possible. Then he’s down on his knees to undo her garter belt, his lips pressing against her eagerly as he slips off her stockings.
“Lenny Bruce on his knees,” Midge observes. “What the courts of America wouldn’t give for this sight.”
Lenny huffs out a laugh and kisses a path to the heat between her legs; his lips and his nose nuzzling against her center, then he kisses her openmouthed through her panties, and her breath catches sharply. Midge’s fingers are tangled in his hair, and he looks up at her as he removes the last of her clothing.
“I don’t know how much they would approve of what I’m going to do next,” Lenny replies.
He meets her eyes, straight-faced, and Midge thinks a man has never looked at her like this before, on his knees, worshipful; his desire bared so readily, and she knows where he is going to go next – she wants it, wants him, knows his mouth is just as good as his nimble fingers. She needs to stop him, somehow - this man knows her better than anyone, he’s been inside of her, but this is almost too intimate, too revealing.
“Hey,” she tries, her voice shaky. “You know, you don’t – I should be celebrating you here, really. I didn't get the chance to last time.”
“Believe me, sweetheart, this is my favorite way to celebrate,” Lenny tells her.
Midge mumbles something that he can’t hear, she is blushing and wishes she wasn’t.
“Let me – please,” Lenny murmurs, trying again, and his voice is low and far too sexy.
Midge nods, her breath shuddering before he has even touched her. His hands caress her thighs when he puts his mouth on her, and she gasps softly, her fingers tightening in his hair reflexively, her other hand grasping at his shoulder. He licks and sucks and pulls her even tighter against him, his tongue delving inside of her. He is tender with her, terribly tender. He laps at her clit as he slowly sinks a finger inside of her, making Midge moan and tremble.
“Oh,” Midge gasps.
Her legs are shaking when he adds a second finger and curls them. Her breath hitches in her throat – the gravity of the situation is suddenly striking her as too much. She has never wanted anyone the way she wants him, and it’s terrifying. Lenny moans against her clit, and it's like a bolt of lightning through her. He grasps her more tightly as she tries to push him away, her thighs coming together around him.
This is something she had never encountered, not with Joel, not with Benjamin, and certainly not with the man in the park. She had never known a man to be so determined to undo her. It is overwhelming, his dark eyes roving over every inch of her. The twisting feeling of arousal in her lower abdomen and the pulsing between her legs attests to his prowess, not a surprise, but there is something in her that insists on self-preservation. She wants to fix her hair, her face, somehow – anything.
“Lenny,” she says finally, carding her fingers through his curls. “I think my knees might give out if you keep going like this."
"Huh – uh, sorry," Lenny replies, leaning back on his haunches.
"You don't look very sorry," Midge comments.
"Uh, no," Lenny agrees. "I'm a little busy enjoying something that I've dreamed about for far longer than I'd be willing to tell you."
He grins and his hand slips beneath his trousers for a moment as he sheepishly adjusts himself, and Midge's hands are on him instantly, pulling him up to her in a crushing kiss. She quickly slips off his tie and undoes the buttons of his shirt, and looks him in the eye when she touches him through his trousers. He is so hard, he can hardly take it. He leads her to the bed, and he is between her legs again, dedicated to finishing what he started, and his earnestness makes her hips press up against him, her bottom lip between her teeth.
Lenny uses his lips, his tongue, and his fingers to draw her out, and he can’t stop watching her, almost like he can’t believe she's letting him do this – that he can be the one who takes her apart like this. He knows she is scrambling for composure, fighting her own body. He would do anything to convince her to trust him, to let go, but he knows he hasn’t given her reason to trust him, doesn’t think he ever can.
He can feel the muscles of her stomach and her thighs tensing beneath him and he is determined to make her stop thinking, make her exist only in this moment. He is a man possessed, transfixed; and terribly in love: none of it matters, he thinks, if he can't do this to her.
“Oh, Lenny – I think…”
And whatever it is Midge thinks has disappeared, because Lenny is going to make her come undone, and she is moaning, her fingers tangling in his hair and the bedsheets as her orgasm builds and then finally washes over her. She is breathless, her limbs buzzing, watching almost in a daze as Lenny gets up and takes off the rest of his clothes, folding his pants and his shirt, her dress carefully laid over the desk chair.
“My face is numb – is my face supposed to be numb?” Midge asks.
“Sure. It means I did a good job,” Lenny tells her.
“I concur,” Midge huffs.
Lenny is smug, triumphant, grinning as Midge reaches for his hand and pulls him back to the bed, her hands trailing over the planes of his chest, his ribs, her hips pressing up against him, delighting in the feel of his body against hers again. She kisses him greedily and slips her hand between them, and he groans into the kiss. He looks down along their bodies to watch her touch him, she’s looking at his face, her hands quick and sure and a little flick of her wrist that makes him gasp against her lips, and Midge looks like she likes that very much.
She shifts and rubs the head of his cock against herself, letting him slide through her arousal. Lenny inhales sharply, he can feel the heat and the slickness of her desire, and his cock throbs in her hand.
“Jesus, Midge,” he says in a low voice.
Her jaw drops open a little, there’s that thing again, the desire laid bare. She watches his face as she shifts, rubbing his cock against her clit, and both of them moan. Midge wraps a leg around his waist and his hips stutter up reflexively, making his breath catch in his throat. He lets himself rock up against her briefly then starts to pull away, feeling his desire a little too keenly all of a sudden, and Midge's leg tightens around him to keep him in place.
“Hey, wait –" Lenny gasps. "Shit."
He stops her and reaches for a condom, gritting his teeth to try to keep himself together. The only thing worse than coming too soon with Midge would be coming too soon without even getting to be inside of her.
“Sorry,” Midge breathes.
“Yeah? You don’t look sorry,” Lenny comments.
“I’m not,” Midge agrees.
“I suspected as much.”
Midge watches him roll the condom along his length, his eyes trained on hers as he holds his weight above her once more. Her legs wrap around his waist again, and Lenny smiles as he pushes into her, watching the way Midge bites her bottom lip. He doesn’t want to rush this, not here, he doesn’t know if he’ll get the chance to do this again, there’s no way of knowing. He moves his hips slowly, savoring the feeling, and Midge breathes in shakily, her arms circling his neck.
She arches against him and pulls him closer, her hand at the back of his neck, trailing along his jaw as they kiss. Lenny moans at that and rolls his hips, making Midge shudder beneath him and gasp his name, her breath coming in a huff against his mouth. His lips go to her throat, sucking at a pulse point, smelling her perfume and her arousal and Midge; tender and yearning.
Lenny shifts, she’s pressing herself up against him, angling her hips, asking for more, and he is happy to oblige. He kisses her roughly, gasping into her mouth, feeling her nails dig into his shoulder when they find just the right rhythm. Midge’s breathing hitches with a whimper, she urges him on with a string of soft admissions: oh, oh, oh – Lenny.
Lenny moans as he picks up his pace, he can feel Midge clenching up around him as her orgasm builds and he gets his hand between their bodies, rubbing her clit, and Midge bites at his lip. Lenny groans, his cock pulses and Midge’s body goes taut beneath his as he keeps building and building. Her hips buck up against his and suddenly everything tightens up around him, and she cries out his name like it’s something holy.
“Fuck, Midge,” Lenny grits out. “You’re gonna make me come.”
He can feel her contract and pulse around him as she finds her release, and Lenny moans eagerly, the added pressure of her orgasm has him slipping right over the edge after her. He drives his hips forward a few times, his body shuddering against hers as he comes, and he drops his head against her shoulder in fathomless relief.
“Wow,” Midge sighs.
"Pretty nice way to welcome a guy back," Lenny agrees.
He presses a kiss to Midge’s shoulder and lowers himself by her side. He reaches for his cigarettes after he disposes of the condom, feeling Midge’s fingers smooth back his hair as he clicks his lighter.
“It seems I should sneak into your shows more often," he muses.
“I would love that,” Midge smiles and takes his cigarette from his fingers.
Too soon for Lenny’s liking, Midge begins to redress. He supposes she is expected back home. He watches her move around his hotel room, fixing her hair in front of the mirror, snapping open the clasp of her pocketbook for her powder, her lipstick.
“So, are the rumors true?” Lenny asks.
“Back to shop talk already?” Midge raises her eyebrows.
“I’m a curious guy, you know. I can’t help it.”
“Yes,” Midge smiles. “They’re going to announce it later this month, Susie is just nailing down the particulars. It’ll still be The Gordon Ford Show, just with Midge Maisel in a chair next to the desk, getting beamed into television sets all across the country.”
“Wow,” Lenny whistles. He is redressing with much more reluctance, back in his shorts and his undershirt. “The big leagues. You’re going to raise the quality of that show by about a thousand percent... Ford – now, that guy is a schmuck. Real Wonder Bread goyish.”
“He’s something, all right,” Midge mutters.
“What?” Lenny asks.
He watches Midge’s reflection in the mirror, carefully reapplying her lipstick. He can’t read her expression, she grabs a tissue and blots at her lips slowly.
“He’s a diva in the writers' room and a menace for a brasserie strap after he gets a few drinks in him,” Midge shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t endured before.”
“Scummy fuckin’ schmuck,” Lenny reiterates.
He gets up from the bed and walks over to the bar cart, tossing ice into a glass and spilling in the whiskey. He takes a sip and paces a few steps, shaking his head as he watches Midge put on the finishing touches of her makeup.
“Give it a few months to get the hang of it and you’ll have his job like that,” Lenny snaps.
“We’ll see,” Midge says evenly.
“You know, I’d be happy to drop by the studio while I’m in town to remind him to keep his fucking hands to himself.”
“Lenny,” Midge sighs. “You can’t. I appreciate the offer, but I’m handling it.”
“How? You’re about to be inches from his desk on national television every week.”
“Believe me, he’d never do anything to upset the network. And when we’re off-air, the writers all look out for me, they’re like a bunch of big brothers on set, they pull out all the stops when it comes to helping me get away from him. I ended up in the service elevator the other day.”
Midge crosses the room and lifts his drink from his hand, taking a sip for herself. She studies his expression for a moment, something fond and familiar in her eyes.
“Your concern is noted,” she comments.
Lenny rolls his eyes and takes his drink back.
“When I said I’d drop by, I hope you know I didn’t mean it in a possessive way. We’ve never… Talked about this,” he says, gesturing between the two of them.
“We haven’t,” Midge agrees.
“Would you like to?”
“If you want,” Midge answers carefully.
Lenny drops into one of the armchairs and rubs a hand over his face. He starts to gesture to the armchair across from his and then stops himself, remembering the show corset. His expression lights up with amusement.
“Feel free to resume the Wallendas act,” he grins.
“Thank you,” Midge says, and sits gingerly on the arm of the chair.
“Look – you already know I’m a bastard, and a jailbird, and a lot of worse things too –” Lenny pauses, though Midge’s expression has remained unchanged, registering no shock. “But I’d be an even worse bastard if I didn’t ask if you’ve thought about all of this – especially with where your career is going.”
“Define all of this,” Midge asks, and she is looking around his hotel room now, just as neat and tidy as the previous two she had seen, and wonders where he’s hidden his little black bag this time around, she hadn’t seen it in the bathroom.
“I mean – are you sure that you want me?” Lenny asks.
The uncertainty in his tone and the self-deprecation present not only in his sets but, clearly, in the way he views himself, makes Midge’s chest tighten with sadness for him. And she knows he doesn’t just mean Lenny Bruce the man, it’s also Lenny Bruce the notoriously sick comedian; the Lenny Bruce that the cops all across the country can’t seem to get enough of that he’s talking about, too.
“Well, I certainly don’t want Mort Sahl…” Midge deliberates. “I mean, no drinking and no swearing? It would be impossible.”
This is clearly not the correct answer, because Lenny almost visibility deflates.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he says, shaking his head.
“Lenny, I thought I made myself abundantly clear tonight.”
“You know what I mean,” he sighs.
“I don’t think I do,” Midge admits.
“I can’t be the Upper West Side boyfriend,” Lenny says, without derision. “I can’t give you what you want; couldn’t afford to, anyway – between the lawyer fees, alimony, and my lesser nature, I am barely keeping my fucking head above water.”
He stops himself from saying more; she doesn’t need to know how much money he is burning through on drugs each week just by trying to keep himself straight.
“Lenny, I wouldn’t ask you –”
Midge takes a steadying breath. His tone had been careful, but his words still managed to sting her to her very core.
“I understand that it’s not your scene... I don’t want that from you.”
Lenny nods and looks down into his glass. Well, he shouldn’t have asked her something that he didn’t actually want to hear the answer to. He is very much aware of who he is, and who he can’t be, but it is the confirmation of a fear that has laid dormant in him for many years. Of course, I don’t want that, you’re not worthy of an actual place in my life, is the part that she’s not saying out loud. It’s a deep wound, one from all the way back in Bellmore, when he was passed around between his relatives; nothing but an unwanted burden.
“You’ve never asked me what I want, Lenny.”
“Oh, I think I did. You said something to the effect of yes, there, just like that," Lenny notes.
“Okay. We’ve never talked seriously about what we want,” Midge counters.
“For good reason..."
They look at each other for a moment.
“What do you want, Midge?"
“I want… This,” Midge tells him.
She gets up from the chair and brushes her hand along his jaw, bringing his eyes up to hers. She bends her head and kisses him, no doubt smudging her lipstick again. Her touch is gentle and affirming. The smell of her perfume drifts over him. Lenny studies her expression warily. How could that possibly be all she wants from him? It can’t just be the general unsuitability of bringing a notorious comic into her Upper West Side world, because she’s brought him home already, of her own volition, that night she found him in the village.
“That’s it, huh? Just sex? I'll take the compliment, but I like to think I have a little bit more to offer besides my dick. Some people like to listen to me talk, you know.”
“Is it just sex?” Midge wonders. “I think you may be downplaying it a bit.”
“Midge,” Lenny sighs.
“Okay. It’s not just the frankly incredible sex. There is a lot more than that – more than both of us are willing to admit."
Midge pauses and looks away from him. She had almost said it, in the TWA terminal. She meant it. She really did. And she could tell he did, too. Probably for longer than she realized.
"There is," he agrees.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to be somebody else with me, Lenny. I've done that – and it's fucking exhausting. I just want you, the way that you are."
"I think you'll regret that," Lenny says heavily.
"I don't," Midge shoots back. "And even if I do somehow end up regretting it, at least it will have been my decision. I was wrong about needing to do things my way in comedy, but I would like to at least have some say in what goes on in my personal life."
"And what about what people will say?"
"Who says they know anything?" Midge asks.
"You just about dragged me behind the club to kiss me after your set," Lenny reminds her.
"Well, you looked very handsome. And I had to thank you for the flowers," Midge smiles. "They were beautiful, by the way."
"You're welcome. But the point is, discretion might not be our strong suit, and you really are about to be under the microscope with the new Ford gig."
"People will be too busy thinking I'm fucking Gordon, it'll drive up the viewership," Midge shrugs.
"So you're saying no one can know," Lenny surmises.
"Do you want people to know?"
"Uh, well, I suppose it's nobody's business but our own," Lenny says from behind his hand, looking sheepish.
It surprises him to realize that he does, actually, want the everyday mundane with Midge. He wants quiet mornings with her and the Sunday paper, wants to bring her to jazz clubs and spin her around a dancefloor again, wants to be able to kiss her in places other than hotel rooms and empty terminals, wants to talk to her two-sweater-wearing father about revolutions and obscenity, wants to impress her prim and proper mother with flowers and a nice bottle of wine. And maybe that was a facet of his reputation that he hadn't thought of at all. Midge assumed he didn't want any of those things – and to be fair, he never thought he would want to again, but there it was, that spark of hopefulness that burned inside of him despite everything.
"Don’t you think it’s best for this," she gestures between the two of them, "to remain something that only we know about?”
“Did you talk to Susie about this?” Lenny asks suddenly.
His mind whirls ahead of him. He thought he had made a good impression on her shrewd little manager by agreeing to do that gig at the Gaslight a few years back, but he wouldn't put it past her to have drilled something into Midge about avoiding men in the business. Not bad advice, he had to admit, but he hoped that it didn't necessarily apply to him.
“No, I just –”
She can’t tell him about every time a booker or a greasy comic asked her if she had slept with him in order to advance her career, or referred to her as Lenny Bruce's girl. She can’t tell him that her parents have assumed that they have been secretly dating for years, since he sent those flowers after the Steve Allen show, and that they even suspected she had left Benjamin for him.
“I understand now that I can’t control the narrative of my career,” she says finally. “But I would prefer my private life to stay private.”
“I see,” Lenny nods.
He does understand it, really, he has spent months ruminating on how his presence in her life would likely only bring her trouble, professionally and privately. But he had worried about the wrong things, it seemed, because he wouldn't have an actual presence in her life at all. And that hurt a lot more than he had counted on.
“I know we don't... Talk about this... But you are very important to me, Lenny. And I like that no one has any say over what we are to each other. I don't want any outside influence to detract from what we have," Midge says.
"All right," Lenny nods.
He reaches for her and drops his head to look at their joined hands for a moment, then raises his eyes again with a now familiar smoldering look.
"I want you too, Midge," Lenny tells her.
"Boy, that's a relief," Midge breathes.
"To that end, I'll take whatever you're offering."
He presses a kiss to the back of her hand, an act of contrition.