by Roy Glenn
I woke up Tuesday morning feeling so much enthusiasm about the new day. I felt energetic and eager to start the day. When I got to work, I felt like there was some type of magnetic field around me that I couldn’t explain, even if I tried. Some of you may find this hard to believe, but instead of concentrating on the preparation of complex financial analysis and models to aid in investment decisions, I was thinking about the night before. When I should have been focused on identifying potential markets and market trends, I was on Instagram looking at the wedding pictures that Paul and Vanessa had posted. But I didn’t find what I was looking for.
Yesterday and today I’ve been at a marketing event for the company; in meetings all day, preparing marketing strategies, describing the key attributes of client companies, and making client presentations. This is where the money is made. So you can imagine how important my undivided attention was, or at least it should have been. Was it?
No.
I spent my day half-listening to what people were saying to me, because I was thinking about what is and is not, appropriate first date dinner conversation. Trying to remember what was on the menu at Seasons 52, before excusing myself from a meeting to go in the hallway so I could look it up on my phone. I thought about what I should wear. It was a casual spot, but I didn’t want to be too casual, which led me into an internal discussion about what is and is not casual, and whether or not I should just go buy something new to wear.
But it didn’t stop there.
I was thinking about ducking out early on Thursday so I could get my hair cut. Whether or not I needed to get the car washed; should I bring flowers?—I had to stop myself there ’cause I knew I was tripping. I was excited and apprehensive at the same time. I felt stimulated when everything around me was totally uninspiring.
And the reason was Natasha Edwards.
“Where were you today?” My boss, Jack Reynolds, asked at the end of the first day.
Of course my mind was elsewhere, so I was startled by his sudden appearance in my face. “What do you mean?” I asked and stepped back a little, because I don’t like men in my face.
He took a step back because he knows that I don’t like men in my face and just shook his head. “Wherever your head is, I need it back in the game. We got too much riding on today.”
As Jack stormed off, I understood clearly that to mean bonuses.
Day two was a better day for both me and the company, and I was able to stay focused on the task at hand. Sorta. So when the topic of the meeting was conducting due diligence investigations of client companies, I kept myself from thinking about the way Natasha says my name. And when the discussion changed to improving ways for stakeholders, management, and implementation partners to prioritize requirements, raise issues, identify obstacles, and recommend options to ensure success, I was fully engaged and definitely not thinking about Natasha’s exotic eyes or the way her soft lips looked when she spoke.
When Jack was talking about price, distribution and other transactions, and wanted suggestions to improve revenue, I was all over it for him.
“Glad to have you back today, Victor,” Jack said, giving me two thumbs up.
“That’s a fact, Jack,” I said, returning the thumbs up, before I went back to replaying every second of the time I got to spend with her. So, by the end of the day, when the subject was boring-ass research and structure transactions and price of securities, I appeared fully-engaged, but all I could think about was getting out of there so I could see her again. I practically ran to the elevator, and was mad that it wasn’t there waiting for me.
“Big plans for tonight, Victor?” Homer Swain said to me.
“Huh?” I said once again, startled by somebody’s sudden appearance in my space.
“The way you were rushing to get to the elevator, I just thought . . .”
“Nothing special,” I lied, since it was really none of his business. “Just ready to get outta here.”
The elevator opened and we got in. “Did you hear all the talk about low profitability and insufficient revenue?”
“What talk?”
Homer frowned. “Where have you been the last couple of days? That’s all everybody’s been talking about. Well, privately anyway.”
I had other more important things on my mind, so I hadn’t gotten into many, if any at all, of the type of private conversations he was talking about. “Like what?”
“All that talk about loan growth,” he began. “Word is that some of it is risky.” And then he went on to say something about specialization and turnover-driven strategies, and neglecting margins. Homer’s lips were moving, but I was barely listening because I was thinking about whether it was even appropriate for me to be going out with Natasha. I try never to get involved with women that are in committed relationships with a man. Too much drama. But despite all that, here I am.
“Lower margins are not promising,” was all I could come up with as the elevator opened.
“No, Victor, it damn sure ain’t. Have a good night, buddy.”
“See you in the morning,” I said, and gave no more thought to what he was saying, and my mind returned to thoughts of Natasha and the fact that I would get to see her very soon.
I arrived a few minutes early at Seasons 52 for dinner with Natasha. Once I found a parking spot, I got out of my car and walked toward the restaurant. I looked around to see if I saw Natasha’s car in the lot, and hoped that I didn’t see it. I want to make a good impression, so being late was not an option.
Not tonight.
As I walked I gave some thought to how I’ve conducted myself since . . . since the second I saw Natasha. And honestly, I gotta share something with you: I have never done anything like this. Let’s see, since I saw her, I’ve had to negotiate with Vanessa to introduce me to her, then I kissed her hand and schemed on a way to talk to her, and I did it all in front of her man; which was disrespectful on so many levels.
Then I see her again and I am overjoyed. I was trying to be cool, but on the inside I’m jumping up and down. My legs got weak when she opened her mouth and her voice danced in my ear. I touched her hand by chance and my heart beat faster. I leaned against the car next to her and it sent chills all over my body. I look at her lips and they scream “Kiss me, Victor.”
Like right now, I’m nervous. Standing here, right now, outside this restaurant, I am nervous about seeing her again; nervous about everything about us. And the problem with that is, I’ve never felt this way about seeing any woman.
Chapter Four
When I saw her car drive by and she waved at me, my hands started shaking from the excitement. I balled my fists and willed them to stop. Natasha parked, and I watched as she opened the car door and her leg appeared. First one; then the other. She was wearing a dress and my hands started shaking again. I watched her walk toward me. Her sleek legs were sheathed in silk. Her black pumps emphasized the contours of her calves.
“Hello, Natasha.”
“Hello, Victor. Have you been waiting long?”
“No, I just got here a few minutes before you. You look incredible tonight.”
“Thank you very much, Victor. You’re looking very handsome yourself.”
“Thank you. But I feel like I’m not dressed appropriately for the evening.” I was dressed casually, but Natasha was wearing a black and pale pink color block, close-fitting dress that covered her svelte but luscious shape that moved me in ways no woman ever had before.
“Don’t feel like that. I’m the one who is overdressed. I was working late on a project and I didn’t have a chance to go home and change. I’m sorry.”
I looked Natasha over from her beautifully done hair to the pumps on her feet. “Don’t be.”
We were escorted to a table and shortly thereafter, the waitress arrived with water. She gave us our menus and asked what we were drinking.
“I’ll have a Pomegranate Margarita Martini, please.” I looked at Natasha. Her eyes were driving me insane.
; “Excellent choice,” our waitress said.
“What’s a Pomegranate Margarita Martini?”
“It’s served with Patrón Silver Tequila, Patrón Citrónge, and pomegranate juice,” the waitress said.
“I’ll try one of those, too, please.”
Natasha smiled. “Adventurous.”
“I am,” I said confidently.
Once our waitress had taken our drink orders, she told us about the daily specials. “Oak-Grilled Rack of Lamb; and that is served with caramelized root vegetables, Yukon Gold mashed potatoes and pomegranate sauce.”
“That’s sounds tasty,” Natasha commented.
“Believe me, it is. It’s one of my favorites. Also we have Oak-Grilled Filet Mignon with harvest mushrooms, roasted tomato, broccolini, and Yukon Gold mash in a red wine sauce.”
Once again, Natasha and I looked into each other’s eyes. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I think I could eat a rack of lamb.”
Then she smiled that smile and looked at the menu. “I’ll have the Wood-Grilled Pork Tenderloin.”
Natasha closed her menu and handed it back to our waitress; then she took a sip of her water and said, “So, who are you, Victor?”
“Excuse me?” Her question caught me off guard.
“I’m curious to know: what type of man goes to see Carmen Jones by himself on a Monday night?”
“He’s the type of guy that used to spend hours as a child, rubbing his grandmothers feet, and watching old movies.” I paused and leaned forward. Her sweet scent was intoxicating. “The same could be said for you. I am desperate to get to know the type of woman who goes to see Carmen Jones on a Monday night. And by herself, at that.”
Natasha leaned forward. “She’s the type of woman that grew up watching old movies with her father and two sisters.”
“Your father likes the classics, too?” I laughed politely, and wondered if her mother ran out on her, too.
“My father’s a historian.” Natasha paused. “He likes anything old.” Then she sat back and smiled.
This time I laughed because it was funny and I wondered if she was. “So you’re Dad’s into history.”
“Yes, he is very into history. My father was a history professor at Princeton.”
That raised an eyebrow and made me sit up just a little straighter. “What about your mother?”
Natasha took a deep breath. “My mother is a professor of ecclesiastical history at the Harvard Divinity School.”
What was I supposed to say behind that family résumé? “Impressive,” was all I could come up with; and I felt like a fool as soon as I said it. I took a sip of water and hoped she didn’t agree. “How many sisters do you have?”
“Two sisters: Victoria and Kathryn.”
“Let me guess—you’re the oldest?” I asked more than said.
“And you’d be wrong. Victoria is the oldest and Kathryn is the youngest.”
“The middle child.”
“Yes, I am the middle child,” Natasha said in a spooky kind-of voice, and then she let out the cutest giggle. “And I’m afraid to say that I’m a text-book middle.” Her voice dropped and her facial expression changed. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
“Not at all. One of my favorite people is a middle child.”
“You?” Natasha asked.
“My older brother, Stevie.”
“You’re the baby,” Natasha said, and her gaze became soft and playful.
“Guilty as charged. I’m the baby. There’s my sister Rhonda, Stevie, and then came me.”
“And I bet your mother spoiled you, too,” Natasha said as our waitress returned with our drinks, just in time to save me from any discussion about my mother.
“Two Pomegranate Margarita Martini’s.” Then she placed a platter of lump crab, roasted shrimp, and spinach stuffed mushrooms on the table between us. “Compliments of the house.” She put two small plates on the table. “Your food will be out shortly,” she said and left us alone.
I picked up my drink and took a sip, and watched as Natasha picked up a spinach stuffed mushroom. “How do you like the martini?” she asked.
I took another sip. “It’s good. What about you?”
Natasha took a bite and shut her eyes like it was the best-tasting food she’d had in years. “It’s good,” she moaned, and then she opened her eyes and looked at the way I was looking at her. “I’m sorry, I skipped lunch today and I’m starving.”
“No problem.”
“You have got to try one.”
Just as I was about to reach for one, our dinner arrived and was served. After that, we talked our way through dinner. We actually did more talking than eating, and found that we have a great deal more in common than just a mutual appreciation for old movies. We were both numbers people. I graduated from the University of Chicago with a BA in finance, and then got my masters in information systems and operations management at the University of Florida. Natasha went to UF, too, but her degree was in mathematics. The more she talked, the more I understood Natasha Edwards was an impressive woman. And I was impressed by her.
Anyway, our getting-to-know-you conversation somehow rolled back around to growing up, and Natasha was telling me that she was a daddy’s girl.
“All three of us were.” Natasha dropped her head. A smile slowly crept across her inviting lips like she was remembering a very happy time.
“What is it?” I asked. “If I’m not intruding.”
“I remember one weekend we were going to Boston for some event for my mother, and I didn’t want to go.”
“Why not?”
“Her events were boring. A bunch of boring people making boring speeches.”
“How old were you?”
“I was fourteen. Thought I was grown,” Natasha said in a sassy voice, and laughed a little. “Anyway, I waited until the car was loaded and I just walked away.
“Why?”
“’Cause I didn’t wanna go, and I knew they had to go because of the event.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I waited in a spot where I knew they’d have to pass when they left. Once I saw the car drive by, I went back to the house.” She giggled that giggle. “So I walked in the house and, to my surprise, there’s my father sitting in his chair.”
“Uh oh. You’re in trouble now.”
“I thought so, too. I thought I had outsmarted myself.”
“So what happened?”
“I looked at him, he looked at me, and then he said, ‘You didn’t think I could leave here not knowing that you were all right?’ and he turned the television back on, and I went upstairs to my room.”
Once again, Natasha had me speechless. Her relationship with her parents was the exact opposite of mine. Her father wouldn’t leave without her; both my father and mother left us. Again, I quickly moved the conversation along before it could stray to my parents. We talked about this and that as we finished our meal and the waitress cleared the table. “Would you like another drink?” she said, and I waited for Natasha to answer.
She thought for a second, glanced at her watch, and said, “Please” Natasha said and I couldn’t help but wonder if she was having a second drink because she was enjoying my company, or if she just wanted to have another before she went home to Lloyd.
“And you, sir?”
“I’ll have another as well.”
Over our second drink, our getting-to-know-you conversation turned to the—shall we say, more trendy topics. But it was when the conversation turned that I could tell that it was stimulating her in more ways than just intellectually. I know it was stimulating me. Natasha was stimulating me.
We had gotten into an impassioned discussion about income distribution and I’m really feeling her passion for the subject, and I could only hope that she was feeling mine. Then Natasha turned her chair to get more comfortable, and then she crossed her legs. I heard the sound of her thighs rub together and I almost passed out.<
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“Real median household income, adjusted for inflation, was statistically unchanged,” I said.
“Yes, but my point is that median household income was eight percent lower than it was before the latest recession.”
“You’re right, it is.”
Natasha smiled. “I know I’m right.”
I liked a woman with confidence. And Natasha had not only articulated her point, but then she convinced me to agree with that point. I had to fall back on my facts.
“One economist wrote that median household income was nine percent lower than at its peak in nineteen ninety-nine, and it’s essentially remained unchanged since the end of the Reagan administration.”
Natasha smiled and leaned forward. “What does that tell you, Victor?”
“That the recovery hasn’t translated into higher incomes.”
Then we got into a deep discussion about the root causes of wage stagnation, the decline of labor unions, and globalization. How foreign-produced goods became sharply cheaper, meaning imports climbed, and production moved overseas, eroding middle-class jobs growth and suppressing wages.
“We’re getting pretty intense for first-date dinner conversation,” I said, and both of us sat back.
“This is not a date,” Natasha said.
“What is it then?” I laughed, but stopped quickly when I saw that she wasn’t.
“It’s not a date.”
“Okay, what do you call it when two friends have a fascinating conversation over dinner and cocktails?”
Natasha paused. “I call it two friends having fascinating conversation over dinner and cocktails. But it’s not a date; definitely not a date.”
Chapter Five
Natasha
In the week since we had dinner together—and no, I still wasn’t willing to call it a date—Victor and I had talked to one another almost every day. On most of those days we talked more than once. The calls were never long; five or ten minutes at most. One or the other of us would have some little thing we simply had to share with the other.
