handsome, there’s no doubt about that. I wish I could freeze time so that I could stare at him for as long as I want. Thus far, I have taken polite little looks. He is blond, his hair nicely streaked; his eyes a deep blue. He wears a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that I like very much. He is tall, slim. What the hell is the matter with him that he has to have blind dates?
Our drinks are delivered and we both take a sip. I lean back in my chair.
“See?” Jonathan says. “It’s better already, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is.” Inside my pointy shoes, my toes uncurl.
It is over dessert that Jonathan brings up Veronica. “According to my father, she’s quite an extraordinary woman.”
“Oh, yes,” I say. “She really is.” I take another bite of crème brûlée. It is delicious. It is so delicious! It makes me happy, the rough burnt-sugar surface, the smooth insides. Maybe I’ll have another one. If I can have two martinis, I can have two desserts. The silver spoon I’m using is so elegant, so right. Look at these thick linen tablecloths, these lovely ivory-colored candles with their gentle, flickering flames, their flattering glow. I should go back to Tiffany’s and get some candleholders. I was right, when David first left, to want to live this way. This is the way to live.
I take another bite, rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth. It feels wonderful. I look at Jonathan’s mouth. Sexy. Deep inside me, a pleasant stirring. I want to kiss him. Oh, I want to kiss him. Later, I will kiss him.
Or now.
I stand up, go over to his side of the table. “I just want to do something,” I say. I bend down and kiss him lightly on the mouth. Then I go back to my side of the table.
“There,” I say.
“Well, thank you,” he says. “That was nice.” And then, “Are you … all right?”
“I’m fine.” I sigh, rest my head in my hand. I wonder where my shoes are. Well, they couldn’t have gone too far.
“I’m afraid we’ve had a bit too much to drink,” he says, but his voice is kind, and rich, and he makes our overindulgence sound stylish.
“Yes,” I say. “We certainly have.”
“I don’t usually—”
“Oh, me either!” What friends we are, able so soon to complete each other’s sentences!
“You know, Jonathan,” I say, “you are a very good-looking man. And: I would like to kiss you again.”
“Well,” he says. “Likewise.”
“Should we do it here? Or should we go and make out in the car with the heater turned up?” I am quite pleased with my forwardness. This is really very good for me. I need to do more of this, yes, I do.
“Why don’t I get the check,” he says.
Oh, he’s paying. What a wonderful, wonderful man. So … Gregory Peckish. I feel for my shoes, slide into them, and then stand, only a bit unsteadily. “I’ll just go to the bathroom,” I tell him.
I should have said “powder room.” That would evoke the image of me sitting before a beautiful gold mirror, a vase of fresh flowers nearby, freshening my makeup, rather than sitting on a toilet. “Just want to powder my nose,” I add, lightly touching his shoulder as I pass by him. There. All fixed. See? Life is easy. Full of choices and quick remedies, if only you look. There’s no reason in the world to mourn one relationship when another is so easy to find. Why, Jonathan is reading the same book as I am!
After I use the toilet, I stand before the mirror, put on lipstick, then blot it. I arrange my hair with my fingers, pull down on a strand to make it rest near one eye. I put on a little more eyeliner. Then a touch more blush.
I have always been a champion kisser, and I have a feeling Jonathan is, too. I can’t wait to get back to him. I am a woman in my forties, and I know what’s up. I can do whatever I want. I take in a deep breath, straighten my belt, head back to the table. This urge is growing stronger and stronger. Well, good. It’s good. I’d thought I was broken. I’m not broken. I am an attractive woman, out with my new friend Jonathan, who is a very attractive man. My mother is quite good at this fixing-up business, I will thank her; yes, I will send her a pretty