by Hammond, T.
Ken left me with a hug and the guarantee my cab should arrive within the next half-hour. We reviewed the contents in my purse including credit cards and money. I preferred to use credit cards, but it was always nice to have cash available if the need arose.
My tall, lanky frame looks best in uncomplicated straight lines which hint at the strength and tone of my body. I have curves, but they are considered gentle contours, unlike Janey's voluptuousness. I dressed in a sleeveless black, beaded knee-length dress with a simple V-cut neckline, showing a hint of my unfettered C-cup breasts. My underwear consisted of a black thong offset by the lace border of thigh high stockings. Strappy three-inch heels added sexy length to my long legs. I was self-conscious about the facial and shoulder scars, deciding to leave my butt-length hair loose, held back in jeweled clips, to distract from the worst of the blemishes on my shoulders.
I never wore much make up when I had my sight, so I didn't see a need to start now. My soft black cashmere sweater-coat was calf-length and wrapped softly around my knees as I walked. When the cabby rang the doorbell, I excitedly slid my sunglasses on. Need I mention, Red felt compelled to remark about my own happy smell?
Spencer's Steakhouse is located at the Doubletree Hotel. The cab driver dropped me off where a hotel employee, valet I assumed, escorted me inside. A woman guided Red and me to the Steakhouse with a welcoming chatter and refused to accept the tip I offered for her trouble. Red told me to save my money next time. “What, do you think I'm not able to follow a scent trail which leads to food?” My dog is a smart ass, in the best kind of way.
The hostess politely asked me if I would like to follow her to a table, or would I prefer to take her elbow. I explained to her we would follow, and Red would be able to guide me to the proper chair if she would be kind enough to pull it away from the table for me. I also asked to have a chair removed so my dog could lay by my feet with a line of sight to the entryway.
My waiter, Mark, was a young-sounding man who patiently explained the evening's specials as he helped me finalize my meal choices: a house salad, a medium rare rib eye steak covered in mushrooms and onions, and a side of roasted garlic mashed potatoes. I assured Red the steak would be large enough to ensure left overs. A treat to celebrate our new-found independence.
With dinner ordered, Red relayed his unfiltered observations regarding surrounding diners: a couple on the far side of the room; a few tables accommodating three or more people who, we concluded, were probably business associates; and a totally dysfunctional family of four. Red was fascinated by this last table which held a mother, father, and two teenagers. They were all holding phones in their hands, texting. Throughout the meal, they never spoke to each other, or acknowledged the waitress who reached around them to set plates down as the courses changed.
If I kept my voice lowered, none of the other diners were seated within hearing distance. Red informed me the bartender was female (so much for Plan A), the waiter smelled of a woman, and at least two distinct children (Plan B went up in flames).
One of the males at a table of, what we assumed were business associates, was staring at me. Red inferred he seemed more curious, than interested in me as a woman. With a sigh, I committed to Plan C: enjoy the meal, with my exceptional canine companion. Hopefully Operation Ken was progressing with better results, I thought with a grin.
Red let me know when a new couple came in. The hostess escorted them by our table, but Red told me they were seated out of hearing distance and so I could still talk softly.
“They smell pretty nervous,” Red observed.
“Maybe they are on a first date. They would be nervous if they didn’t know each other very well, and they would be trying to make a good impression. It can make the couple a little stressed.” I tore off a piece of bread and popped it in my mouth, without butter. There was a clattering noise from the newly seated couple’s table.
“He dropped his knife. She was so startled, she knocked over her glass.” Practice making perfect, thanks to the nearly steady stream of conversation I was now able to easily pick out Red’s mind speak from my own thoughts. I could hear Red’s teasing tone so clearly in my mind. “Puppy love is so cute, don’t you think?”
I grinned in appreciation of my dog’s humor. “When he kisses her goodnight at the door, he’ll probably be so nervous he’ll end up stepping on her toes. I hate the awkward first date stage.”
“Yeah,” Red replied. “It’s so much easier to be a dog. All a dog has to do is sniff another’s butt and within a minute they know what the other dog likes to eat, if they are healthy, where they’ve been, and, if the other dog’s a female, whether or not she’s in heat.”
What could I say to that? In one sentence, he pretty much summed up what I could only guess about a guy over a two-hour dinner date.
My salad was served and I slipped Red a slice of bread with blue cheese dressing when he told me a new man had entered the restaurant and was being ushered to a table close to us. He assured me I could still speak quietly, with my head down. Red informed me the man, an alpha according to his posture and alertness, had watched us as he approached his table. Now seated, the man was observing me intently. “He's not being careful about it either. He's too far away for me to read his scent.”
I broke off another piece of bread and laid my hand against the side of the table so my fingers held the bread over the edge. Tapping my toe against the leg of the table was our prearranged signal to let him know I had a bite of food ready, in case he was scanning the restaurant. Hopefully, to the casual observer, it looked as if I was holding a bite negligently while I sipped my wine.
Red let me know the coast was clear. “Ready,” and I dipped my offering a bit lower. The bread was taken from my hand with swift, but gentle teeth. “Oops, we got caught by the new guy. He is smiling.”
“If he doesn't seem to care, then make sure he's the only one who sees me hand you food. I don't want the restaurant to get in trouble if people complain about me feeding you from the table—I didn't ask Janey what the rules were for guide dogs at restaurants.”
I took a sip of my Merlot and enjoyed the flavor for a moment before I tore off a piece of bread for myself. I'd had enough salad, but Red informed me he really liked the smell and taste of the dressing, so I tried my best to dip slices of bread into the remains on my plate before passing them down to him. I finished my bite and tapped the table again when the remaining morsel was prepared for my boy.
“Ready,” Red warned. “He caught us again. I was more careful this time,” Red assured me. “He's laughing at us now.”
Red's tone changed, “Waiter coming with steak. Oh man, dinner smells so good.” I sat back in my chair and was ready when the server announced himself and asked if he could take my salad away. I assume the roughage remains were whisked off to a waiting bus tray and I inhaled the steak's aroma as it was placed in front of me.
The server cleared his throat nervously, “Errr, ma’am, I don't know the right way to ask this. I don't want to offend, but can I give you any assistance in cutting the steak, or offer any direction as to the food placement?”
I smiled at his well-intentioned thoughts, and genuinely appreciated him asking if I needed any help. I found it endearing. Flashing him a grateful smile, “I'm not offended, Mark. Thank you for asking. I can handle my own cutting, but if you would be so kind as to pretend my plate is the face of a clock, and the point farthest from me is 12:00, then tell me where the food is placed?”
There was an answering smile in Mark's voice. “The rib eye is sitting between ten and seven. The mushrooms and onions are under the steak. Potatoes are at one through three. I placed a steak knife on the table at nine, next to your regular knife. I moved your wine glass a touch when I put the plate down, and you will find it at two, a couple of inches from your plate. And, so you know, there is a glass of water on the table at one, approximately six inches from the plate.”
“How is my bread situation looking?” I asked. I c
ouldn't help my widening smile as I imagined Red's ecstasy when I started dipping bread in steak juices.
Mark's tone was mock solemn, “The bread situation is looking grim, I'm sad to report. I may have to dump another roll or two in the basket for you.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Do you need a small side of dressing?”
Busted! I laughed but declined the additional dressing, although I gave a green light on a few extra rolls. I shared with Mark I’d hoped to be sneakier than I'd obviously been. Mark chuckled and reassured me he happened to look up from another table he was serving when he caught me in the act. “You've been very discreet,” he praised.
Mark wandered away. I tipped my head down toward Red, “That's twice we've been seen. You need to pay better attention, or you'll lose your bread privileges until we get home.” I was assured “stealth mode” was his new catch-phrase.
The rest of the meal progressed without incident until Red alerted me the man across the room, the one dining with business associates, had stumbled to his feet and begun a weaving approach toward our table. “Incoming.” Red informed me. He stood on his feet at my side for the first time since we arrived, protectively barring the man from standing too close to me.
I cautioned Red to do nothing more than stand in his way. “No growling or threatening. If I think your teeth are bared in anything but a polite doggy smile, we will have words. Our conversation will begin with the phrase, 'So sorry we forgot your steak doggie bag at the restaurant.' We are in a public place so there's nothing he can do to hurt me.”
As the man got near, Red told me, “He smells wrong.” He leaned against my leg, as he focused on the man I suspected was drunk, hence, the “wrong” smell and unsteady walk. “The Alpha has noticed the other man coming our way. He is in a dominant posture, watching us,” Red whispered with a definite sense of urgency in my mind.
“Hey, lady. Are you, like, famous or something?” a voice slurred in my direction.
“No,” I replied.
“I think you must be in disc... desg... disguise, 'cuz you're, like, wearing those sunglasses, and the waiter dude is paying you special attention, like. 'N they let you bring your dog in here too?” The speech definitely displayed signs of intoxication.
I could feel him bend closer and I caught a whiff of his breath. “What's wrong with your face? Oh wow, are those scars? No wonder you're wearing those glasses.” The words were almost unintelligible, and the volume of his voice rose with each remark. Red moved away from my leg and must have shouldered him away. “Hey,” the guy protested, and I heard a soft thump.
“Red?” I asked, as he fell against my thigh.
“I got a knee in the side. Can I bite him now?” Red whined. “Here comes the Alpha... and he is not wearing a polite doggy smile.” I could hear the approval in Red's tone. Can dogs chuckle evilly?
I stood up in confusion. “Red, are you hurt?”
“Sit down, Teresa, it’s okay, I'm fine. The Alpha grabbed him by the shirt. They have moved to the doorway and are having a...” there was a pause, “conversation.” There was a longer pause before Red asked innocently, “So are balls what I think they are? And how DO you remove someone's balls through their throat?” The satisfaction in Red's tone led me to believe he was asking rhetorical questions and my dog had a firm grasp of concept of sarcasm. Ha, as if I had any doubt.
“Waiter, incoming.” Red warned seconds before Mark arrived at the table and began to make a fuss. Oh man, so much for enjoying a quiet meal (Plan C, crashed and burned). I sat down as Red had suggested and squirmed uncomfortably as the waiter fretted.
Yes, I did want the name of the person who accosted my dog, and the name of the company he was in town to represent (moments later Mark pressed the man's business card into my hand).
No, I didn't want to press charges, unless I had to take my dog to the vet to get x-rays (Red assured me again, he was fine, only a little sore).
No, it was not necessary to comp my meal. I didn't hold the restaurant accountable for some drunken jerk's actions.
And yes, I would love a complimentary dessert, thank you, Mark. (I felt obligated to accept the latter, as Mark was so distressed—the lightweight, so easily upset).
The man, or as Red referred to him, Alpha, stopped by briefly to ask if my dog way okay. He knelt and ran a practiced hand over Red's ribs before pronouncing my dog fine, and praising Red's good behavior in a deep, gravelly voice. He solicitously asked if he could do anything for me. I let Alpha know I was fine and thanked him politely for his concern and intervention. I hoped I didn't sound rude or abrupt, but I found I was still upset and distracted by what happened.
Red told me Alpha returned to his table, and then informed me the man was VERY interested in me. But, I was done. I wanted nothing to do with the man who accosted me. I had no interest in pursuing the man with the wickedly sexy voice who had stepped in to help us. I asked Mark if he could make the dessert “to go,” box up my leftover steak, bring me my check, and call me a cab.
“I'm tired, Red.” I said, after finalizing the credit card payment. I swiped at a tear escaping the corner of my right eye, hoping no one noticed. Removing my hair clips, I tilted my head downward to use the dark strands as a shield to hide my face. A self-conscious attempt to cover the scars which were evidently more noticeable than Janey or Ken let on. Love is blind, I thought to myself, noting the irony.
Mark was kind enough to help me into the sweater coat I had left with the hostess at my arrival. I flipped up the soft collar to conceal more of my face. A tidy package of meal remains, and my purse in one hand, I let Red lead me from the restaurant.
I had no desire to banter with Mark when he escorted me past the hostess station to the cab outside. More significantly, all interest I had in the third drawer of my nightstand died a quick death. I didn't feel attractive or sexy.
Another tear escaped as I ducked into the back of the cab. So much had changed in a few hours—well, except one thing. “I'm lonely, Cat.” I whispered under my breath. Thankfully, Red was quiet for the trip home.
Chapter Five
** Wednesday, July 9th **
I spent a sleepless night bundled up in the window seat feeling sorry for myself. Nothing is more depressing than a pity party of one. I had no plan for moving out of my funk, but I did know I didn't want to ruin Janey and Ken's budding, whatever—dare I say romance? I pictured them going at it like a couple of rabbits. Nope, I'm pretty sure they were skipping the romance and diving headlong into lust. Silly rabbits.
The first thing I did (even before coffee), was toss the flavored lube. I completely creeped myself out with the idea of taste tests... not to mention, on further reflection, at what point does the stuff go bad anyway?
And no, there was no pack of batteries in “The Drawer.” Although, I DID find one of my silk scarves tied in a large, loopy bow around Oh-Henry. Yep, Ken was toast. I'd have to bide my time for the perfect moment. On a positive note, I got a good laugh over the fact Ken not only man-handled a synthetic penis, but he went so far as to pick it up in order to tie a bow around it. That thought, combined with his faux-gaydom, might somehow figure into my revenge plotting. It was the early days of Operation Revenge on Ken, but I had years of age and experience behind me. I would think of something epic.
I admit it. It was a ploy of avoidance on my part. I left the house the next morning by 10 a.m. I didn't want to deal with a cheery Ken or, heaven forbid, a cheerier Janey if she decided to accompany Ken back to the house after a night of unbridled passion. I made a point of leaving my cell phone on the kitchen counter, as though I'd forgotten it.
First thing Red and I did was head off to the beauty salon to get a manicure. As awkward as it was to get around town without my sight, I had to wonder how much more difficult things were for someone who had always been blind. I had a set of mental maps, and so benefitted from a mind's-eye concept of where things were, what they looked like, and I knew colors. Is it worse to have been born blind, or
to have once been able to see things and have sight taken away? I suppose it was a matter of perspective. I, for one, was happy to have once had my sight. I missed many things, but there was comfort in the fact I had images to hold in my mind.
“Just a clear coat today, Cyndi,” I told my manicurist, as she placed my fingers in a little dish of something wet, “and let's cut them all the way down to fingertip length.” Red asked to stay outside the door, as the chemical smells bothered him. So, I was alone in my thoughts, barely registering Cyndi's voice drone on about her daughter... something about goats, a yellow prom dress, and a tractor. In retrospect, I wish I had paid better attention. As it was, I puzzled over the trio of items for the rest of the afternoon wondering how they all entered into the same conversation. It was the start to a crazy joke, or maybe a really weird dream: a goat, wearing a yellow dress, rode a tractor to prom…
On impulse, I asked, “Do you have time to cut my hair?”
