Chapter Three
Sunday, Monday and Tuesday swept by like a thief in the night stealing precious seconds from the life I could be spending with Breen. Wednesday arrived after a sleepless night, and the hours of morning seemed to crawl past; endless ticking of the mantel clock. I took off work, knowing full well I would be useless at the office. However, Dog, the five-year old puppy that wants to play 24-hours a day on weekends, thought my being home on a weekday was detrimental to his nap time. Then at eleven I drive to meet Breen, arriving twenty minutes early.
Sitting in the parking lot of the restaurant, I stared out the passenger side window, resting my head against the back of the seat. My mind was filled with questions, trivial thoughts; will she like the shirt I was wearing, or do I order food knowing I am too nervous to eat anything. The quietness inside the car was periodically broken by other vehicles driving past. A flashy, emerald green Mustang parked next to me. The door opened and a woman stepped out. She must have been oblivious to my presence because she proceeded to adjust her clothing using the Mustang’s window as a mirror. Skirt length is checked; too short. A full length skirt, one of romantic fluency would have looked better; her thighs were too thin for the rigid, shortness of the skirt she was wearing. Actually, her thinness could be to her advantage if she shopped at the right stores, rather than the local malls. Blouse checked; wrong color for hair. Hair checked; needs work. OK, I don’t like to admit to Donna I know a little something about women’s clothes; picked up from the Costume Design majors at college.
A moment later the car to my right was approached by a middle-aged man who stands and stares at the woman. She turns and looks at him with disdain. He looks at her with a ‘what am I doing so wrong’ look. “Seen enough,” she coldly rebukes him. The man, like a whipped puppy retreats inside his vehicle. The woman walks to the restaurant; a gate of triumph. The man drives off.
It was time to face the reality of my dreams. The crunching of the stones under my feet, as I slowly made my way to the restaurant’s door, was eerie. I thought, ‘was this what it sounded like to the condemned as they were led to the guillotine?’ Was I condemned; finding myself marching across the Place de la Revolution in Paris? ‘Damn Dave, it’s only lunch, not a real date.’ Who was I kidding; this was a date, and the crunching of the stones was like a drum roll. No different from in a movie, with the rise of the orchestra in the scene where the man walks into the room to face the woman of his dreams. He can not escape his destiny because the music controls the mood. Romanticism may be glorious to the woman who receives the benefits – the flowers, the love letters, the small gifts of the heart – but to the romantic it is moments like this that overwhelm logic; overwhelm common sense.
When my hand touched the door knob, when my hand felt the coolness of the brass, when my eyes focused on the etched roses in the glass of the door, I forgot the crunching of the stones and came back to reality. True, I was nervous; nonetheless I wanted to be here. I am standing in the lobby, and to me, at least, it appears the entire staff has stopped their appointed duties and are now staring at me. Was I being a little too self-conscious? ‘GET A GRIP ON IT DAVE!’
I decided to wait for Breen in the lobby, changed my mind and was seated. I had the foresight to reserve a table. For what seemed like an eternity, I passed the time alternately scanning the menu and contemplating the water glass set in front of me.
At a table in a romantic alcove there sits a couple, the woman from the parking lot and a man twice her age; she being charitable? He gets up and heads towards the restroom. She opens the top two buttons of her blouse. He returns. She reaches for her bag, having placed it on the floor next to her. He notices the cleavage and turns redder than a ripe Maryland tomato on a hot June afternoon. She smiles; good dental work. The waiter interrupts this minuet with a basket of bread. I made no pretense of not watching them; her performance, the man’s performance, her surreptitiously redoing the buttons as the waiter looks down and sees her lace bra; it was rose blush; why not hot red or black; what’s with a rose blush push-up bra?
What was I thinking? This was Donna’s influence. Men should only know two things about bras: never compliment her bra choice and, regardless of how long you’ve been married, the one she is wearing unhooks differently, defiantly from any bra you have ever encountered. The waiter moves to my table and asks if I would like anything. As if having answered the question before, he gestures with his head towards the table in the alcove and tells me it’s the third date the woman has brought this month, and the chef is thinking of adding Alsatian Tart to the menu.
Instinctively I look up to see Breen enter the room. I stand. No words were needed to draw her attention to me; there was always a chemical link between us. I watch her walk towards the table, silently wishing she would do something stupid to stop me from building a pedestal for her to stand on. Drop something, or let your hand smack the back of the head of some customer as you amble pass. Anything to stop me from thinking you're perfect.
“Hi.” That was all we said; ‘hi’ to each other as we sat down. No hug, no air-kiss; I was unsure if her desire for a lack of affection was me or our being in public; I deferred to her lead. Conversation came easy and we hardly noticed the food that seemed to appear, then vanish from our plates as we talked. She had a niece who was nine and starting riding lessons, a car that needed a new tire, her trip to see a Broadway play. A hundred little pieces to her life. I listened, selflessly wanting it to be her time; somehow to make up for all those moments I never heard what she was saying to me. From her candor I could tell she felt at ease.
I tell Breen I am trying to learn Spanish, or attempting to learn what I had forgotten since high school. She asks what brought this on. “About three years ago I finally got to Puerto Rico…for work. The people were so hospitable and polite...I felt bad that I could not speak Spanish beyond ordering off the Taco Bell menu.”
She laughs, “Three years of study? You should be good by now.”
“Breen, you know me, I have trouble pronouncing, remembering English. Besides I only started a few months ago.”
Breen starts to say something than stops, as if she may not want to know the answer to the question she was about to ask; probably because she suddenly remembered that I once commented - while we were still just acquaintances - that I had a thing for Puerto Rican women. So she does that head shake people do when they want to let you know they have decided to clear out the incubating thought and start on a new track to avoid the obvious answer. She reaches for her diet Pepsi and as she lifts it to her lips asks, “So, what brought on the sudden need to learn Spanish three years later?”
In your everyday, matter-of-fact voice, with impeccable timing, “I was waiting for a hotel elevator and the nice housekeeping lady did not know how to tell me my fly was open.” Breen had just taken her sip of Pepsi and when she started to laugh she was hit with fizz nose and dribble mouth.
“You ass,” a little too loud, looking somewhat embarrassed, now voice lowered, “you did that on purpose didn’t you?” I tried to hide the smug smile, but not very successfully since I was silently patting myself on the back for catching Breen off guard, “Yeah. But you’re so beautiful when you get fizz nose.”
Well, this is the moment of truth. You may be asking does she get up and walk away, but first show her anger, disgust by pouring the remainder of her soda in my lap? I know Breen, or I hoped I did, and thankfully she reacted as I felt she would by asking me in a playfully angry voice, “Why?”
“To put some levity in this conversation; we have been too tactful with each other.”
She smiles at me, “You’re right.” And I felt relieved. Breen had reacted to the dripping soda by putting her napkin to her face. She now looks at it and tosses it to me, “let me have yours...fizz nose?”
“And dribble mouth, you had dribble mouth.”
I look for the waiter to ask for another nap
kin and Breen informs me that I better ask for two because, in a dry voice, “Dribble Mouth expects a fresh one.” Napkin order placed, “So Dave, how far have you progressed with your Spanish?”
“Well, I bought a CD to listen to while making the weekly trips to see my mom, and I can now say ‘La ducha no fuciona,’ and ‘Quiero algo menos caro’. But, I don’t think the CD has anything about zippers.”
“You’re probably right, I doubt if that’s a common phrase.”
The waiter is back at the table with the fresh napkins. As the waiter starts to turn, Breen, in her best ‘sexual innuendo’ voice offers, “So it would have been easier for her to lean over and zip your pants back up.” The waiter gives me a knowing half-smile, as in ‘do you want me to book the other table for you,’ and as he walks away I get to look at Breen’s Cheshire cat smile, that grows wider at my expense.
For the remainder of lunch we shared stories and no serious words strained the moment. But all moments have to come to an end. The waiter has brought the check and I had still not asked her to spend more time with me. I looked at the bill, “My mom once asked a waiter how come if the check says ‘thank you for being our guests,’ why do your guests have to pay?”
Her laugh is soft and she shakes her head in mock disbelief, “Do I have to pay for being your guest?”
“Since you asked, yes. You have to spend Saturday with me.” I left no room for escape. Before I would have added something like ‘unless you have other plans.’
“Where are we going?”
“The zoo or a baseball game. Your pick.”
“What if I want the opera or a ballet…or to visit my aunt?”
“What if I say yes to visiting your aunt?” She smiles and takes out a piece of paper that had her address on it. “Thought you would want this…and knowing that you would wait until the last minute to ask me for it.”
Taking the note, sensing the closeness of her hand to mine, “Nine for the zoo, one for the ball game, not sure about the opera, ballet, or your aunt’s.”
“You would go with me to my aunt’s?”
“Yes; but how would you introduce me…aunt Myrtle I…”
“Margaret…Aunt Margaret I would like you to meet the man who wanted to take me to the zoo rather than spend time with you.”
“Breen, more like…Aunt Margaret this is David, he’s going to take me to a thousand places, half where I want to go, half his choice.”
“I take that as an invitation to spend a lot of time together.”
“You are so perceptive. Breen, I would like to…I need to…Breen, let's do a thousand things together, but let’s get to know each other, not just travel side by side. I mean, give us a chance to be the person inside us. I know that sounds corny. I need to start from the beginning, difficult as that may be.”
“You mean the way we should have the first time.”
“Yeah, I need to show you who I am, see who you are, let us discover who we are.”
“OK,” her.
“OK,” me.
We walk to her car, close but not touching. At the car she uses her remote to unlock the door and I step forward and open it for her. Breen turns and reaches out touching the side of my face, “I’m glad…really glad I saw you at the coffee place, had lunch with you today,” hesitation, “you’re right Dave, we need to go slow.”
Her eyes do a quick glance at my hand holding the door, “Just wondering, do you plan to treat me like a lady forever, or just until you get your first kiss?”
“Well, seems as if it might be forever before I get that first kiss.”
“Tisk, tisk…double tisk, tisk; you are so slow to catch on.”
Breen is standing facing me, between the open door and the car. The pounding in my chest is in stark contrast to the slowness of my arm as I raise my hand to her face, softly touching her cheek with the back of slightly curled fingers, brushing some stray strands of hair away from her eye. I lean forward and gently kiss her lips. She takes my hand and holds it to her cheek as we kiss. How do you describe a ‘bridge the waters of time kiss.’ Her response was not a hesitant kiss, not a light giddy peck on the lips kiss, not a take advantage of the mood kiss, simply a wonderful kiss. The act lasted but a few seconds. Nonetheless, had this been night time she would have taken the stars out of the sky and shamed the moon.
I watch as Breen starts to back her car out of the parking space. She stops the car and lowers the driver side window, "zipa."
“Zipa?”
“Think she was probably just mesmerized by the bulge in your pants?” The smug smile again, “David, I may look like an easy target of your tactless ‘got ya’s’ and a little rusty dealing with them, but trust me on this...you will always come out on the bottom.” Then, realizing what shot through my mind, she quickly adds, “Don’t even go there!” Breen blew me a kiss as she backed out of the space and drove away.
Needless to say I drove home pleased about date one. To ease the conversation I had taken a chance with the ‘fizz nose.’ I wanted the Breen I knew, the one who made me smile and feel alive; the one who needed me to make her smile and feel alive. Thankfully, she has made it known that she wants the same thing. But I also learned from her reaction that I had to tread lightly in the ‘got ya’ department; I did not want to go overboard. I guess I subconsciously chose that moment because of the subject of our conversation, language. Breen, like Donna, has a natural ability with languages; but unlike Donna - who studied language development - Breen’s clear diction and fluency allows her to conduct professional simultaneous translation between English, French, and several other languages. Of course in my unprofessional, chauvinistic rating scheme it’s her wonderful voice, particularly with French, that gets the high marks; turns me on big time.
That evening I went to Donna’s apartment so she could feed me broiled Red Snapper, broccoli in butter sauce, baby carrots, and Italian bread. Donna likes to cook and I like to eat. Except any food that has a name that invokes memories of diseases, childhood medications, or advocates the damnation of steaks and other decent food. For example Gorgonzola cheese, scrod, and cauliflower. OK, I’m a food snob. Donna knows my culinary limitations. I am a charter member of the ‘real-men-do-not-eat-quiche/Texans-do-not-even-know how-to-pronounce-the-word’ club. I also believe that restaurants should lose a rating star if they have names that are off the scintillation meter or impossible to pronounce, like the Photophosphorylation Café; which translates something akin to The Flash of Brilliant Wit Diner, which would be a far better masthead if you ask me. I made that last barb just before Donna uncorked a bottle of wine and said I should either shut- up and eat, or she would most likely drink the entire bottle herself before the night was over.
In a change of pace she asks, “You look happy tonight Dave, is it Breen, seeing me, knowing I have slaved away all afternoon to prepare a feast for you, or all three?”
“All three.”
We discuss my day. Breen and I at the restaurant; received good marks from Donna. The Mustang woman and man at the restaurant; I chastised Donna for undue ‘womeness’ fashion influence on my manly thoughts. With the promise of braised rabbit for our next dinner, I confided to Donna that rose blush would probably have been a killer in the Mark Jacob V-neck dress Donna swooned over when she led me through Bergorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue the week before Breen reappeared.
We discussed Breen’s acceptance of starting fresh; however, Donna won’t give odds on my being able to control my arms and lips. We discussed date options; but Donna leaves the subject half explored, because something else is on her mind, “You noticed the rose blush bra. Were you interested in the woman or the activity? No, don’t answer that. I know you too well. If it was the woman you would have started the sentence with ‘I just happened to be looking in her direction.’ Dave, what attracts a man to a woman?”
“You serious?”
“Give me a break,” a little defensive, “I’m being
philosophical here. What attracted you to Breen?”
Sure you’re being philosophical Donna, and the Mississippi River has just reversed flow, ease into this one Dave. “The alignment of the stars, predestination...predetermination. There is the obvious sexual attraction, the lose-my-mind when she smiles attraction; however, there is something deeper. In a field of beautiful wildflowers, why does a single flower attract a specific bee?”
“My husband told me that he was attracted to me because I was cute. For a long time I wondered if I was pretty enough for him. He never said I was pretty, only cute.”
A woman hates to be called cute as a descriptive term of looks; ‘you have a cute ass’ is OK, but not ‘you’re cute.’ A woman wants to be pretty; cute is for puppies, babies, and little red sports cars; but not for a woman. “Donna, people hang nonchalant definitions on pretty, cute...beautiful. Me, I jump from pretty to gorgeous, because I feel beautiful is more than looks, it’s the person...a beautiful person. Unfortunately, words like pretty and beautiful are so commonly used in everyday conversations. Like the word ‘want.’ ‘I want’ is different from the 'want of love'.”
“Dave what attracts your attention?”
“Loud sounds.”
“Besides loud sounds Dave, what is it that turns your head when a woman walks by?”
“No one thing. Long, silky black hair; shoulder-length curly red hair; well cut, any length blond hair. Clothes; clothes that fit well and are right for the moment. A well-dressed woman in jeans to one in an evening gown. Definitely a cute ass in snug jeans. Long, tanned legs. Those are all attributes that attract, but attraction is far different from wanting to turn that first look into a conversation.”
“What about breasts?”
“I like them.”
Definitely aspiration, “Dave, why did you leave out breasts?”
“Because large breasts don’t turn my head. Cleavage can turn my head, so add cleavage, but not Grand Canyon cleavage.”
“You’re telling me that Vegas has built an empire on something Dave is not attracted to?”
“I did not say I was not into breasts, I said large breasts do not turn my head. I have seen breasts in Vegas that were mesmerizing; but on my radar scope, larger is not better.”
“So I should put off the boob job.”
“What boob job? Oh, geeze Donna! If you’re asking my opinion, that should be a nonstarter. Any more carrots?”
“You’re the strangest man I have ever met.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, even if you did not intend it to be.”
“How can you talk about food and breasts in the same sentence? Here!”
“Are you contemplating a boob job?”
“Might be.”
“This for you, or some guy’s likes?”
“Me.”
“What do the girls at work think about this?”
“They agree with you...so you want to join our Friday night women’s group?”
“No, I’m fine being one of the men hitting on the group, thank you. But, seriously, is this an ego thing?”
“Yes, no use denying it. I just have been toying with the idea.”
“Donna, keep the word toy in mind, because here’s a little manly secret, men like to ‘toy’ with images of breasts. That’s why we can’t wait for the latest Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue; skinny models with well-formed breasts.”
“You have a way with words and, sometimes, you even make sense!” And Donna has always taken the scenic route to a question; which is difficult for me. My natural tendency to make off-the-cuff sarcastic comments is a dangerous habit.
What a collage of a day; Breen, Rose Blush, boob job talk, and a fine dinner. All the way back to my house I thought about attractions. Interesting she would bring up Vegas, that was an old vignette from the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino. A coworker and I had stopped in for a hamburger and the waitress takes our order while bending down like she trained at the Playboy Bunny school, keeping her back straight while affording us one hell of a view of her well-formed, medium size, no doubt medically enhanced, below eye level, nice breasts, cleavage and ‘this will earn me a good tip’ view. Reality, I can only remember two girls that had one hundred percent natural artist vision breasts; the kind described in books; the kind Japanese anima cartoonists draw on Western women; the kind that makes me want to linger over the women in Jockey’s for Her ribbed cotton knit tank for stretch, comfort and cool absorbency, magazine ads; but that’s only if ads like that attracted my attention.
Both girls were very pretty. The seventeen year old was in our summer bowling league and she wore tee shirts that would snuggle around her braless perfect breasts. She would cause the place to stop moving when she got up to bowl. The other girl was nineteen and worked near where I lived. The women at the Pub on Trinity Street would send daggers from their eyes at her; envy, pure envy, and I am sure at least one of them asked a doctor to give her a set like Veronica’s. Yes, they were like Archie’s love dream Veronica’s breast; that’s why I remember her name. I wish I could convince Donna that what I desire in a woman is the woman herself, the person. The body of a woman may attract attention; but hair, breasts, shapely legs, are not what keeps my attention. It’s signs of her inner beauty that really attracts me, and it’s her depth of beauty that holds me. That’s why smiles and expressive eyes are like neon signs to me.
When I arrived home I wrote a note for myself, “remember to avoid talk of breasts,” which was the only way I would remember.
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Through a Stranger's Eyes Page 3
