Archive of Our Own

Lenny Bruce becomes a fixture at the strip club.

She’s not sure when they stumbled into this unspoken agreement, but suddenly Lenny is back in her life every week, languidly reclining in the worn wooden armchairs at the foot of the stage, cigarette dangling from his mouth, warm eyes always on her.

At first she thinks that maybe he stumbled upon her gig by accident the first time, a thought that unsettles her in a way she refuses to analyze. And yet, every time she spots him from the wings during an act, he’s either staring at his lap idly flicking his lighter, engaging a neighbor in conversation, or at the bar in the back of the room nursing a bourbon and making the bartender laugh.

It almost seems like he’s there for her.

She gathers the courage to ask one night before a show, both of them standing in the doorway to the back alley exit, trading puffs from his joint, another ritual they’ve developed over the past weeks. It’s a rare moment of quiet, Midge simply watching Lenny as he leans against the door jamb, head tipped back to rest against the peeling paint, eyes closed as he exhales a puff of smoke into the cool night air. His suit jacket and tie were tossed aside on some dressing room couch long ago, and she can’t help but stare at his forearms exposed by the messily rolled-up sleeves and the veins in his hand as he takes another drag. He’d just come from a gig uptown, he’d said, and was tired of sweating through his suit jacket.

It’s a more disheveled look she’s rarely around to see, but that she’s more and more coming to look forward to. Mostly because Lenny feels so synonymous with the pressed jackets and tie and polished shoes that it makes her feel that he’s dropping the act a little bit just for her. Like after hours of being paid to be Lenny Bruce, he wants to come see her and just be Lenny for a little while, the Lenny who is all self-deprecation and smiles and quiet understanding. She remembers how she once teased him during her set at the jazz club, joking about whether his private persona was starkly different from his public one. They’ve come a long way since then.

“How did you know I would be here? That first night?”

One eye peels open, a slight smirk appearing as he lazily waves the joint.

“Who says I did?”

Midge levels him an unimpressed stare. “Nice try.” She snatches the joint from him and daintily places it between her lips, can’t help but smile at his little pout as he crosses his arms in mock defeat. “Seriously though - how did you know? I know you’re not here for the girls. You never are.”

He stares at her for a long moment before leaning back more heavily against the door jamb, his head lilting to the side to stare at the street lights across the way.

“Heard it from someone at a bar, said there was a comic running Boise’s place now.” He shrugs, shooting a small smile her way. “Said she was a real spitfire too. Wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

His eyes turn mischievous as he pushes away from the wall, leaning into her space. “Only one woman I know with the balls to make a strip club her kingdom and put men in their place with tasteful references to Aristotle.”

“Men do love women with an unhealthy knowledge of ancient Greek philosophy. None of that latter-day Immanuel Kant here.”

He lets out a sharp laugh and she can’t help her broadening smile in response, feeling more than seeing Lenny gently slip the joint from her grasp, fingers nearly caressing hers with an unexpectedly gentle touch as he withdraws again and goes to take a puff. She hesitates a moment.

“Did you know the first time I saw you was at a strip club?”

“How could I forget? Need I remind you though that despite your best efforts that night, the Gaslight was and still is not a strip club.”

“I’m not talking about that night at the Gaslight.”

He stares at her blankly for a moment. “But…I haven’t done a strip club in years.”

“I know.” She smiles triumphantly, watching his face morph with an incredulous laugh, choking out smoke on the exhale.

“Well fuck,” he chuckles. He smooths a hand down his shirt, and puts on a self-deprecating grin, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow as he leans toward her again. “Was I any good?”

Midge rolls her eyes. “You know damn well you were good.” She spots a fly on his shoulder, flicking it away and smoothing the coarse fabric down. “Talking about sniffing airplane glue and in your element as always.” She retreats back to her side of the door frame, looking away and watching a couple walk through the alleyway arm and arm, the sound of the woman’s red heels clicking along the concrete ricocheting across the walls.

“Joel took me to see you that night. A bit ironic now, really, considering he doesn’t approve of me doing this.”

Lenny cocks his head to the side as he takes another drag, silently encouraging her to continue.

“He thinks I shouldn’t be reducing myself to this, performing at a strip club, that I’m throwing my career away. As if I wasn’t already at rock bottom to begin with, there’s literally no other way for me to go but up.” Lenny wordlessly extends the joint to her and she angrily snatches it.

“Well, from where I’m standing, you’re not throwing your career away. This place was a ghost town before you started shaking it up. Now look at it.” He gestures lazily as two girls stroll by in their wraps, waving to Midge. “You’ve turned this place around. And people come because of you. People are talking about you,” he says, pointing at her for emphasis. “That’s what matters in this business.”

A tech guy pushes brusquely through the doorway, shoving Lenny unceremoniously to the side. Midge laughs as he jumps out of the way of a microphone stand. He plucks the joint from her hand in retaliation as he steps away from the door, the both of them settling side by side against the wall.

“Also,” he says suddenly, exhaling smoke through his nose, “fuck him. He’s your ex-husband, and it’s your life, your decision.” He pauses a moment, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye before quickly looking down to the floor, focusing on shuffling months-old confetti pieces around with his foot. “Do you really care about his opinion that much?”

He’s avoiding her eyes on purpose, as if it pains him to reveal to her that he wants to ask, and it makes her want to give him something in return, makes her want to tell him the truth.

I care about yours the most. The rest don’t matter compared to you.

She knows she can’t say it. Knows it would cross the line they’ve been toeing ever since Miami, the line she’s not sure she’s ready to cross.

“I don’t care about what he thinks.” She realizes she’s twisting her wedding ring nervously, and deliberately forces both hands to clutch her purse.

“But?”

She sighs. “But…I worry sometimes. About how it could affect my family. How it could affect Ethan and Ester. If someone from the Upper West Side found out. And what if - what if this is all I ever amount to? I don’t want to perform for a bunch of rich misogynistic assholes looking for a good time and counting down the seconds until I leave the stage, I want people to listen, I - I want what I say to matter.”

When she looks back at him he’s watching her with a small smile on his face, one she would have once described as teasing but she notices now seems to have a somehow softer touch to it when directed at her.

“Midge. You’re good. You’re really good. And you don’t need me to tell you that. Every time you walk into a room you demand people listen to you, and they do. It’s impossible not to.”

He nudges her gently, shoulder to shoulder, eyes boring earnestly into hers.

“You’re talented, Midge, I’ve known for years. You just gotta remind everyone else too. And don’t take no for an answer.”

She simply nods at him, and the answering warmth in the grin he shoots her before shifting to take a final drag settles her almost as much as their conversation. Her life feels like constant chaos and never quite living up to expectations, but in moments like these it feels like time has slowed down, like she’s finally able to catch a breath, able to block out the noise of the tumult in her personal and professional life with the voice of the one person she knows is on her team no matter what.

“And, you know,” he adds, almost shyly, “if you really are worried, I’m going to be in town for a while, and I’m always looking for a good opener for my shows. I could squeeze you in, if you wanted.”

She smiles at him fondly. “That’s very sweet that you want to help but – but I can’t. I was the one who got myself into this mess with Shy in the first place, I have to earn my way back into the comedy club. Only I can make them respect me.”

His lips curl into a genuine toothy smile that makes her catch her breath. “That’s the spirit.”

She can’t help her wide grin in return.

They stand like that for a few moments, just smiling stupidly at each other, Lenny looking almost proud of her, Midge chin up and proud that she’s been able to draw this particular spontaneous smile out of him.

He chuckles suddenly, lolling his head to the side and drooping further into the wall, turning his body to lean further into her space as if to share a secret just between the two of them amidst the growing hubbub backstage.

“Still can’t believe I don’t remember you from that gig.”

“Please, that was years ago, I was barely out of college.”

“Maybe, but you’re not a face one easily forgets.”

She’s briefly thrown by the compliment before mentally shaking herself, trying to maintain the levity and not appear as affected as she is.

“Well, I was a blonde back then.”

“Ah, that must have been it,” he mutters, eyes drifting off into the distance before flicking back to her, something contemplative in his gaze now. “Can’t picture it. It’s not you.”

“No,” she says, barely above a whisper. “No it’s not. Not anymore.”

Something’s shifted. She hadn’t realized how close they were, but now all she can think about is how their shoulders and arms are still brushing, the electricity of being able to sense the warmth of his skin grazing so close to her hand as their arms hang side by side. All she can think about is the faint smell of whiskey on his breath, the fact that she’s close enough to be able to smell it, and the way his molten gaze is still trained on her. There’s almost a tinge of sadness in his eyes, an aching conflict that she can’t quite understand, but she can’t help but hold his gaze, wonder what he’s seeing as he looks at her, wonder what he’s searching for.

(You’re staring. So are you.)

For a split second, she thinks she imagines his eyes dropping to her lips. For a split second, she imagines feeling his lips against her own.

“You’re on, Maisel.”

They abruptly shake apart, Lenny awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as she levels an unimpressed look at Boise’s brusque interruption.

“Got it, Boise.”

“And how many times do I need to tell you you can’t be back here.”

Lenny raises his hands up in mock submission. “Alright, alright Idaho, I’m leaving.”

Midge laughs brightly, delighting in the defeated way Boise stalks away from them. She salutes Lenny as she turns away to head to the main stage.

“Hey Midge,” he calls after her. She turns back. He’s still standing there, hands in his pockets, giving her that special smile. “Tits up.”

“Tits up.”

It’s a spectacular set. There’s a bigger crowd tonight, and even the waitresses are stopping in their tracks to laugh at her jokes. Most importantly, Lenny is there front and center, cupping hands over his mouth to cheer and whistling as she swishes her skirts off stage.

He doesn’t heckle her nearly as much as he did that first performance, but some nights when he can tell she’s tired he’ll bring out the schoolhouse antics again.

She knows it will be one of those nights tonight. She’d had to spend all day watching Esther for what Shirley had called “family bonding time” but had actually ended up being Shirley gossiping and griping nonstop and prying at her taste in men for potential suitors in between breaths. She’s too exhausted to think of any stand-up topics other than her family on the cab ride to the Wolford, topics she knows a strip club will have no interest in, and she desperately needs a drink. Lenny seems to sense this need at least when he finds her backstage briefly beforehand, taking one look at her before wordlessly passing his flask to her.

She knows he’s going to mess with her tonight, to get a rise out of her and maybe try to cheer her up.

As she gets ready to go onstage, she spies the props of the girl she’s supposed to introduce and an idea sparks. “Can I borrow this?”

Seconds into her set Lenny throws a handful of peanuts at her. She steadily ignores him and continues on, catching his mock pout out of the corner of her eye. The next time, when he lobs a crumpled ball of paper at her, it is his turn to be surprised as she suddenly reveals the tennis racket she’d hidden behind her dress, whacking the ball expertly to hit him square in the forehead before he can so much as blink.

He stares at her in slack-jawed disbelief as she smirks at him triumphantly, until his expression morphs into something thoroughly mischievous. Oh, it’s on.

Her brief stand-up set becomes part verbal comedy, part physical comedy, a heated back and forth between her and Lenny as they volley the same paper ball at each other in playful retaliation. “You get the bonus privilege of experiencing a sports bar tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” she announces after their fifth exchange. “You’ll never want to go back to regular bars again - how can you, when instead of huddling around a shitty radio with a bad signal to hear sports commentators swap shop talk, you could be witnessing this! Two tipsy comedians engaging in childish fisticuffs! The drama, the intrigue.”

“And of course, of all sports to be witnessing tonight, it’s tennis. I’ve never quite understood the appeal of the game myself.” She sends another paper ball back toward Lenny without sparing a glance. “Tennis. A sport where the sound effects make you think something really exciting is going down but it’s actually just two middle-aged men running around gasping for breath trying to whack balls at each other. Altogether very undignified if you ask me.”

As if to prove her point, Lenny throws the paper ball back at her and then starts steadily throwing oyster cracker bags at her. She hits each one back, the crowd cheering and laughing as she critiques the serves.

“My my, if only I could ward off the potential suitors my ex-mother-in-law throws at me just this expertly. Folks, I think I’ve found my true calling.”

She’s got the crowd eating out of the palm of her hand by the end of the set, and a night she had been dreading only minutes before has become a highlight among her shows of the week.

“Well, gentlemen, if you liked this, you will love our next girl, who handles balls for a living. Tennis balls, gentlemen, tennis balls, honestly. Now please give it up for Faye!”

She looks back over her shoulder and winks at Lenny as she walks away, catching him teasingly tipping an imaginary hat to her before she tosses the racket to the girl waiting in the sexy tennis costume and strides off stage.

She doesn’t realize how much she’s come to lean on Lenny’s presence until one night when she looks out at the packed venue and can’t find his trademark suit and tie anywhere. She tries to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest that only deepens as the night progresses. Susie keeps giving her looks she steadfastly ignores whenever she goes backstage to stare absently at the wall between acts. It’s not her fault, not really.

Or maybe it is. She had thought they were friends, after all. But maybe she was wrong.

She remembers finding him drunk, sprawled on the sidewalk the night before, remembers dragging him home to crash on her couch, trying to ignore how his arm had wrapped around her waist for extra support in the lift as his drunkenness had morphed into sleepiness. Tries not to think about how it had almost felt nice.

She remembers the morning after, too. Lenny’s deer in the headlights look coming face to face with Midge feeding Esther her breakfast mush, Ethan eagerly showing him a drawing he’d made, Abe and Rose breezing in and staring back in shock at the comedian sitting barefoot in their kitchen. She remembers how the kitchen had emptied almost as quickly until it was just her nursing a cup of coffee and Lenny looking anywhere but at her.

She’d realized then that they’d never truly interacted in the light of day before, she’d never seen him other than under harsh stage lights or dimmed bar lights or the soft glow of street lamps. And he’d certainly never experienced her personal life beyond the anecdotes in her gigs. She’d tried to find a common ground then, one that might put him more at ease.

“You have a daughter too, right?” she’d asked.

His eyes had almost immediately clouded. It had been the wrong thing to say.

Before she knew it they were fighting in the street, the acerbity of his words in such stark contrast to the ridiculous way he was gesturing with the shoe still in his hand that she would have found it funny at any other moment. But instead, it felt like she had pulled at a loose thread too hard, and was watching something unravel before her eyes.

“If I wanted to talk about my daughter, I’d talk to my mother,” he’d bit out.

“But we’re friends, that’s what friends do. You know so much about my life, and I know nothing of yours.”

“Well, you like to make it everyone’s business. I don’t.”

“But I’m not everyone, and it doesn’t seem fair - ”

“Life isn’t fair, Midge. You should know that by now.”

He’d left her there on the sidewalk, hands shaking at her sides as she watched him flag a cab and drive away, trying not to cry in the middle of the street where her doorman could see her. He’d known exactly what to say to crack the pavement under her feet and leave her shaken in his wake.

So of course he didn’t show up to the gig tonight. Of course he doesn’t want to see her.

The applause that follows her off stage at the end of the show feels hollow now, as she half-heartedly searches for her coat among the haphazardly-thrown clothing in the dressing room. She tries to not think about Lenny, or Susie’s begrudgingly sympathetic eyes on her, focus instead on thinking about how she’s going to need to make herself some sort of dinner when she gets home and try not to wake her parents up in the process.

“Delivery for a Mrs. Maisel?”

She spins around and stares silently in shock.

Lenny stares back.

“I brought you a burger.” He extends his arm toward her, and she realizes with a start that he’s carrying a to-go bag with a familiar logo on front.

“Is that – is that from the Carnegie Deli?

Her favorite diner. Another thing to add to the list of things he knows about her.

She tentatively takes the offered bag. “But aren’t they closed at this time of night?”

“They are. Got there right before closing.” He shrugs, avoiding her eyes. “I remember you saying this morning that you weren’t going to have time to get dinner before the show. Figured you might need this.”

She studies him. He’s in the same clothes from the morning, wearing both shoes this time, and yet somehow looking more disheveled than he did then. Even if part of her wants to drink him in and revel in the relief that he actually came, that he thought of her and remembered, the reminder of their earlier conversation only strengthens the steely resolve and hurt dominating the other part of her.

“Didn’t know we were that kind of friends. I’m a lucky gal.”

He winces. “Midge, I -” he trails off, a furrow in his brow as he stares at her for a moment before looking down to his shoes, shoving his hands in his pockets. A speechless Lenny, not something she’s used to, a sight made only more jarring by the silence of the now-empty room, most everyone already gone for the night. “I was a bit cruel this morning, I know. It wasn’t fair of me to lash out my discomfort at you. I’m deeply sorry.”

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself before meeting her eyes again.

“I like you, Midge. You know I do. And I like knowing things about you. But your life – the Upper West Side apartment with a park view, the aprons, the milkman at your door, the Catskills resort vacations – it’s not my world. I’ve never been a part of it, and I never will. Being reminded of it all was…overwhelming.”

She can feel her resolve soften, and she puts the food down on the side table next to her before taking a tentative step toward him, only for him to step back and turn slightly away, becoming particularly interested in cataloging the nearby costume rack.

“Lenny, you know I don’t care about that.”

He nods his acknowledgment, but his shoulders still slump further, a frown as he stares ahead unseeing, hesitating on something. His next words are uncharacteristically halting and quiet, like it costs him to tell her.

“I don’t share much of myself with anyone because it’s easier that way.” He shrugs, an attempted smile in self-deprecation. “There’s always more at stake when people really know you. You have more to lose.”

“You think I’ll think any differently of you because of your personal life?”

His gaze is piercing in its defeated acceptance. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

She pauses a moment, trying to find the right words. “Giving away pieces of yourself is always a risk. But less so when it’s to the right people.”

She turns away to let him process his thoughts, swiping the bag of food and walking over to the mauve velvet couch in the corner. She sits down and pulls out the burger and a box of fries before looking up, seeing him still standing rooted to the spot, watching her with an inscrutable expression on his face.

She pats the seat next to her, and he quietly joins her.

She takes a deep breath and turns to him. He looks back at her. She realizes this might be the longest, most deeply-personal conversation they’ve ever had during their friendship. She feels a bit uprooted by the unfamiliar dynamic between them. But she knows there’s one more thing she wants – needs to get out.

“Thank you. For telling me. I appreciate that. And I understand if you don’t want to talk about this stuff. We can pretend this morning – hell, this entire conversation – never happened. But if you don’t want to tell me because you think I’ll think less of you…it’s a part of you. And I want to know you too. If you’ll let me.”

The ached conflict is back in his eyes. But a warmth is there too that makes her give him a hopeful small smile in return.

“But you’re under no obligation. The only obligation you’re currently under is to start helping me eat these fries right now before they get cold, or I’ll never forgive you for letting them go to waste.”

Lenny chokes out a laugh, puncturing the tension in the air. He reaches out, and his hand covers hers as he gently pulls the box of fries from her grasp. “Yes, ma’am.”

They sit together in silence for a few minutes eating. Midge remembers a heckler she’d gotten tonight who she’d utterly destroyed, and eagerly swallows a bite of burger so she can regale Lenny with the tale.

“Kitty.”

Caught off guard that he’s the first to break the silence, her eyes snap to his, confused. He smiles softly, leaning toward her, arms brushing as he offers her the box of fries to share.

“My daughter. Kitty’s my daughter. She’s actually around Ethan’s age, now that I think about it.”

Midge smiles, taking a fry, and it shouldn’t be a big deal, but something lightens in Lenny’s eyes as he watches her, his smile widening.

“What’s she like?”

He smirks, dipping his head near hers as he roots around in the box for the perfect fry.

“She’s a fucking nightmare, if I’m being honest, she’d get along great with your kid.”

“Oh god, the power of all that trouble in one room, they’d be unstoppable if you’re right.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely not exaggerating, she’ll crayon all over the fucking walls when I’m not looking, just to make a point at me. But she’s creative. And wicked smart.”

They talk and swap bites of fries until the building staff kick them out to close up.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious, the man was reciting Shakespeare at 3am in the laundry room of my building – to the rhythm of the washing machine. Perfect iambic pentameter and everything.”

Midge nearly doubles over with laughter, tears leaking from her eyes, and Lenny grins back at her, lighting a cigarette.

Several months have passed, the lingering warmth of the fall nights making way for winter and they’re huddled together in a far corner of the room, coats and scarves still on.

These moments where they can swap jokes and stories about their weeks over a shared cigarette are few and far between nowadays, with Lenny having more and more gigs that conflict with her shows. Things have picked up for him ever since he booked Carnegie Hall.

She remembers the day he closed the deal, the uncharacteristic glitter in his eye as he had strode towards her when he found her backstage that day. She’d gasped and cheered when he’d told her, throwing her arms around him in a hug before she could overthink it, and it was worth it to feel the chuckled exhale of his breath against her ear and the weight of his arms around her as he squeezed her in thanks.

“Everyone this is your 5 minute call, uh…Mr. Bruce?” She’s broken from the memory by the shocked voice of a boy who doesn’t look older than nineteen, carrying a clipboard. He’s not one she’s seen around before, clearly a newbie.

Lenny raises his cigarette in acknowledgement before going to take a drag.

“And, um…Mrs. Bruce?”

Lenny chokes on smoke. Two of the girls nearby start tittering.

“Hey, that’s Mrs. Maisel you’re talking to, she runs this place, show some respect, kid!” One of the girls yells.

The poor boy looks like he might dissolve on the spot and he quickly looks down at his clipboard, making a note. “My apologies, Mrs. Maisel,” he mumbles, before turning away.

“That’s Mrs. Schneider to you, young man!” she yells after him. The girls only laugh harder, and Midge winks at them before turning back to Lenny.

He’s staring at her, slack-jawed.

“What? I remember you saying Mr. Bruce was your mother, would be very confusing by that logic if I was your father.”

He doesn’t bite, doesn’t have a quip in response like he usually does. Her teasing smile slips into hesitancy the longer he stares. Did I say something wrong? she wonders.

He seems to mentally shake himself after a moment, taking a proper drag of his cigarette as he steps toward her, a small sly smile on his face.

“Skipping a few steps, are we?” he teases. “Haven’t even taken you to dinner yet.”

There’s something almost vulnerable lingering behind his eyes that makes her think he might not entirely be joking with her.

“You did actually, remember? In Miami.”

The teasing twinkle in his eye settles to something more contemplative. “Miami. That’s right.”

Part of her wishes she could take the words back, but it’s too late. The ghost of that night hangs in the smoky air around them, the memory of the weight of his stare bathed in pastel blues and pinks, and how he’d held her close in his arms on the dance floor. The goosebumps scattered across her skin as he’d brought her hand to his neck and gently held her arm. His tousled curls beneath her fingertips, his involuntary shiver as she discovered how soft they were. The feeling of utter peace in her mind, with her head nestled in the crook of his neck, the smell of bourbon and sweat and him at her nose, and only a sense of them and the crooning music and the soft dimmed lights.

The unnervingly earnest way he’d looked at her afterward by the waterfront, like she might be the answer to some question she hadn’t known he’d been asking. The feeling of falling – the thrilling anticipation of what if?, the anxious undercurrent of what then?

Maybe it’s the memory of what could have been, what almost was, that makes her speak before she can fully process her words.

“I did say someday.”

His gaze sharpens, something shifting.

“What about now?”

“I… Lenny, I have a show right now,” she attempts to tease. She’s not sure how well she’s succeeded.

He simply smiles, gently leaning further toward her. She finally places the look. It’s the same one he’d had outside his motel in Miami.

“And then?”

“...Then?” she breathes.

“Would you say yes? If I asked you again?”

They’ve danced around this so many times, ever since Miami, and yet it’s here, standing on the sticky linoleum floor of a backstage strip club, mere minutes before a set, that it seems they’ve finally decided to come face to face with what’s been brewing so long. Now, of all times, she consciously feels her life hanging in the balance of the before and after.

“Why?” she whispers. “Why now?”

His eyes never leave hers.

“‘Cause I think you’re worth the risk.”

She tries to shake herself out of her shock. She has to think about this rationally. Because it isn’t worth it to her for one night. Not if it means losing him, the bond they share now.

“Is this a one-night-only, forget-about-it-the-next-day kind of risk, or - ”

“No,” he cuts her off. “Not unless you want it to be.”

Her heart hammers in her chest. “And what do you want?”

His head has dropped even closer to her, a fire behind his eyes now unmistakably trained on her lips.

“I’d like to be able to kiss you for more than just a night.”

She vaguely hears Boise yelling places, but it feels like she’s hearing it from underwater, only able to focus on how close they are now, how if she nudged forward just a little her nose would brush his cheek. How she’s simultaneously overwhelmed with giddiness by the revelation, and fear for what acting on it could mean.

How his eyes seem to reflect the same conflict. How in spite of it, he doesn’t hide from the emotions, leaves it all on display for her to judge him, size him up, see him, and never looks away.

Maybe that’s what finally settles it.

“You can ask me again,” she whispers in the scant space between their lips. She takes a step backward, watching his body instinctively drift toward her before he collects himself. “After.”

“Is that a yes?”

She pretends to think about it. “You’ll have to find out.”

She catches the grin on his face as he crosses his arms, a hand rubbing his jaw, before she turns to head to the stage wings.

Someone yells at her to take off her clothes early on in her set. Clearly a new patron, if he’s not aware who she is by now. Before she can put him in his place, a distinctive voice breaks through the murmur of the crowd.

“Hey man, that’s my wife!”

Some confused laughs and whispers pepper the crowd, but Midge only has eyes for Lenny and the smirk he throws her way in response to her exasperated look. She can already imagine the clipboard kid having a mental breakdown in the wings.

She can’t help the wide smile across her face when she breaks their gaze to turn to the heckler.

“Good sir, you must be new here.”

He hasn’t called her. It’s been a week, and he hasn’t stopped by the club, and he hasn’t called her.

She’s clearly not doing a good job of hiding her confusion and worry, since Susie takes one look at her halfway through a night at the club and mutters “I’m not going to date a comic, my ass.”

Shirley sets her up on yet another date, with yet another doctor, and she still doesn’t have an excuse to refuse, so she’s back at a nice restaurant attempting to enjoy her roast chicken while the man with oil-slick hair across from her goes into great detail about food processing.

She waits five agonizingly long minutes after he asks her if stand-up involves giving inspirational speeches to groups of well-to-do housewives (“I mean, you’re a woman, that must be the target audience, right?”) before making her excuse to the ladies’ room.

“I think I picked the wrong hat,” she mutters into the payphone. “And I might be converting to veganism.”

“That bad, huh.”

“I’m serious, Susie, help me.”

15 minutes later she’s contemplating the sharpness of her butter knife and the archery classes she took as a kid at Steiner when a booming voice interrupts her musings.

“Miriam? Miriam!”

The knife clatters to the table as her eyes snap up to find none other than Lenny Bruce striding up to her.

“Are you here on a date? With another man? I am your husband Miriam, how could you do this to me?”

He has a hand on his chest in mock affront, and she can see his mouth twitching in his effort not to laugh. She doesn’t know whether she wants to punch him for causing a scene she’ll have to explain to her mother, laugh at how he’s barely keeping it together, or do something worse like hug him.

“Why, Leonard,” she drawls, egged on by the grin that splits his face a moment before he composes himself, “what am I supposed to do? You’re never around, am I supposed to be forever waiting for you?”

“Um…am I missing something here?”

“And how,” Lenny cuts in, ignoring her date, “how can you explain this to the kids?”

“You have kids?”

“I have mentioned my son Ethan several times tonight, Ronald.”

“Speaking of Ethan, we need to go, he’s been asking for you. And we need to have a serious conversation about this.”

She thinks she fumbles through some sort of half baked apology to her date before she’s briskly cutting through tables to head out of the dining room, a hand at her elbow gently guiding her along.

“What the hell was that?” she mutters surreptitiously, leaning into him slightly as they pass the disapproving glares of neighboring tables.

“Hello to you too, Midge.” She slaps him lightly in the chest. “That was me being your knight in shining armor. You’re welcome, by the way. Besides, it’s not like we’ve never pretended before, and on television no less.”

“Miami After Dark was different, and you know it.”

“True. Not nearly as fun as this. Did you see the guy’s face?

“Yes, and I saw the owner’s as an added bonus. You do know I can never show my face here again after that stunt you pulled, right?”

“Will you miss it terribly?”

“The chicken was dry. And the waiter judged me when I ordered a second gin and tonic.”

“Admit it, you had fun.”

“Nope.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Hey, no, bad smile. Stop that.”

They’ve reached the foyer of the restaurant when Midge takes stock of the situation.

“Wait, wait, I’m supposed to be waiting for Susie, she’s supposed to be rescuing me.”

“Relax, Midge, I’m the rescue tonight.”

“When I asked her to get me out of this dinner I didn’t think she was going to phone you.”

“She didn’t. I was already with her when you called.”

She stops in her tracks, staring at him in disbelief. “At the Gaslight? What on earth were you doing there?”

He shrugs, an almost embarrassed smile on his face. “Looking for you. I had to go out of town this week for some shows in Philly, and I wanted to call you as soon as I got back, only I realized I don’t actually know your number.”

She laughs incredulously. “Well. I’m glad you’re here.”

His smile softens. “So am I.”

They stand there for a moment just looking at each other before the maître d’ behind them clears her throat. Lenny makes to head to the door, before suddenly turning back around, contemplating her with a slight twinkle in his eye.

“You were right, by the way.”

“About what?”

“You did pick the wrong hat.”

“I - what are you talking about? That’s just my code with Susie, what do you mean this is the wrong – hey!”

He plucks the hat from her head. “You don’t need one. You look beautiful without it.”

He leaves her gaping in the restaurant foyer as he walks toward the doors.

She’s rummaging through her bag when she steps outside, so it takes her a moment to realize that it’s snowing. Since arriving for dinner, a thick coat of snow has already fallen along the sidewalks and dusted the streets, something she was not quite prepared for when she’d run from a show dress rehearsal straight to her dinner date.

“Where’s your coat?” Lenny asks.

Midge shrugs. “Didn’t bring one.”

She takes a deep breath of the cold night air, looking up at the falling snow and the white capped trees along the road, closing her eyes to take in the quiet. “Don’t you just adore New York in the snow?”

“Not so much a fan of the slush myself,” Lenny laughs, draping his suit jacket over her shoulders.

“No, I mean as it is now.” She wraps his coat more tightly around her as she spins around, not catching his fond smile as he watches. “New York in the snow, late at night. It’s like some alternate universe. Everything else feels dampened, it’s just you and the snow. it’s magical.” She looks up at the falling snow, closing her eyes and sticking her tongue out briefly like a five year old, laughing with childlike delight when she feels a snowflake melt on her tongue. “What do you think?”

“Magical.”

She opens her eyes and glances over to him. He’s already staring at her.

He extends his hand to her. “You wanna get out of here?”

It’s there, under the muted lamplight, little flecks of snow dusting his hair, a sincere, soft, hopeful expression on his face, that something clicks into place.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The next moment, they’re running through the streets of New York, laughing giddily, one hand firmly in his, the other holding a newspaper he’d tossed to her over her head. Gotta protect those curls, he’d winked at her.

“It’s not that far, I promise.”

“It’s snowing, Lenny, and I’m in heels, is the running really necessary?”

“Yes because it’s freezing out here and we’ll get there faster this way.”

“Well we’d get there faster if we just took a cab.”

“But we wouldn’t get to experience New York in the snow, now would we? Plus I wouldn’t have an excuse to hold your hand.”

She can’t argue with that logic.

“If I slip and fall I’m taking you down with me.”

“I won’t let you fall.”

He kisses her under the awning of the Mayflower hotel, a cold press of lips that warms her to her toes as one hand cradles her cheek while the other gently pulls her closer at the waist from beneath his jacket. When she pulls away to catch her breath, she can’t help but giggle at the mess of his curls, covered in snow that’s already melting, dripping down his collar. Can’t help but reach up to tousle his hair, Lenny’s answering laugh as he tries to duck out of the way echoing down the empty street. It’s the most boyish he’s ever looked, and she can’t stop staring as his expression morphs from playful to something almost shy, his hands catching her wrists and bringing them down to his chest. She can feel his heart racing under her palm, and it throws her and thrills her, that the confident, flirtatious Lenny Bruce is just as affected by their kiss as her.

He looks down at his hands holding hers.

“My god, Midge, your hands are freezing.” He cups her hands in his, eyes never leaving hers as he blows a warm breath across her hands. She tries to remember how to breathe as his thumb rubs gentle circles to bring more warmth.

“Well that…that might be rectified if we…you know, got out of the snow to someplace warm.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, you’re right. But before that, I – just – let me - ”

He shakes his head, dropping his forehead to hers, nudging her nose with his before smiling into a firm kiss.

It feels like the first breath of spring.