Single In The Suburbs, Installment 32
Our writer has a date with a guy who previously only wanted to be friends… seems as if things have definitely changed!
To read the entire series of articles from the beginning, click here.
n the last installment, our columnist — who just had her nose pierced — had a flirtatious encounter at the supermarket went with Kevin, a guy she’d previously gone out with. Then, he had said he only wanted to be friends. Now he’s looking at her in a very different way. Find out what happens on their date.
Saturday, 8:09 p.m.
This is inauspicious: Kevin is late. By six minutes. The wine bar is actually more than a bar; it’s a posh, cavernous, artsy place with clusters of sofas, plush arm chairs and coffee tables. I’m sitting at one of those clusters, playing Boggle on my cell phone, waiting and worrying. The server asks if I’d like something to eat or drink but I tell her I’d just as soon wait for my guest. Assuming he ever gets here.
Saturday, 8:11 p.m.
He’s here. He looks good, he smells good, and his face has that just-shaved look. He
leans in for a quick kiss (yes, on the lips) and settles into the couch beside me. He’s close. Very close. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his nicely shaped forearm. He orders a bottle of red wine (I would have preferred white and sweet, but at this point I’ll drink anything.)
|I can tell I’m drunk and I think Kevin might be tipsy, too… |
Kevin says that when I suggested meeting in the tapas place he thought I was saying “the topless place” and was shocked—but not unwilling. “Then I realized what you meant and had to bite my cheek to stop from laughing.”
Saturday, 9:05 p.m.
Kevin has been pouring freely from the bottle and now orders white, a Riesling for me. “I’m not surprised you prefer the sweet wine,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “You look like a sweet-wine kind of girl.”
I don’t know how to take that but it doesn’t matter. I’m drunk. Even though I don’t drink much I can tell I’m drunk because (a) I’m very relaxed, (b) my cheeks are hot as hell, and (c) I know I’ll be dizzy if I try to stand up. I think Kevin might be tipsy too, because his eyes are full of — well, I don’t know how else to say it — they’re full of lust. As I talk, I see him watching my mouth. He moves closer and now has an arm around my shoulder. I can smell the wine on his breath, and it’s deliciously sexy. He puts a hand on my thigh, and now my head is ready to explode.
He leans close to my face and whispers in my ear, “Want to get out of here?”
Oh, haven’t we all heard that line in a million movies and TV shows? A hot-to-trot couple goes galloping out of the restaurant and straight to the bedroom. There’s the inevitable trail of clothes, first the shoes and socks, eventually the underwear, and even if the camera doesn’t pan toward the bedroom you can be sure that this couple has had hot, wild, mind-altering sex. But that’s in the movies. My life is never like the movies…
Saturday, 11:50 p.m.
Sunday, 10 a.m.
The sex was exquisite. After Sleep Apnea Man, I was beginning to wonder whether I’d ever have a satisfying sexual experience. Last night restored my faith.
The problem is, I can’t stop checking my email. There’s no message from Kevin. I also
keep looking at my cell phone; I’ll think I hear it ringing, but then it turns out to be one of those phantom vibrations in my upper thigh; I don’t even have my phone on me. (I’m convinced that the popularity of cell phones have spawned new psychiatric disorders, among them feeling your phone vibrate when it’s nowhere around or turned off altogether.)
|He whispers in my ear, “Want to get out of here?”|
OK. Sara. Act like a grownup. You had sex. You didn’t get engaged. Go do something productive.
Sunday, 10:15 a.m.
I’m outside in my garden now, feeling restless. Everything is in bloom, and I should be happy but I have the unbearable urge to uproot every flower and shrub and put something else in its place. This garden, like the house, will always represent my life with Craig. The stubby, stinky Japanese hyacinth. The tacky forsythia. And then there are the Bradford pear trees with their white blossoms that smell like dirty socks.
God. Listen to me. I should be celebrating spring — and sex — but I’m sour and whiny instead. All because Kevin hasn’t contacted me since I got naked with this guy. I think the least he could do is send me an email. Am I wrong?
Sunday, 11 a.m.
Yes, I’m checking my email again. I can’t help it. Wait. What’s this? Finally. A message from Kevin.
I have a bad feeling about this.
Sara Susannah Katz is a writer in the Midwest.
Read Single In The Suburbs, Part 33