I'm buzzing. Like a beehive.
A beehive full of bees that will all have hellacious bee hangovers in the morning.
Two glasses of wine is my legal limit. I've had three.
And part of a fourth.
Dinner goes course by course. We share a dessert made of sin and chocolate.
Peter reaches across the table to wipe a caramel dribble from my chin.
On impulse, I lick it off his finger.
Yeah, I did that. In public. Me.
Which is not me. At all.
I feel ... vampy. Bolder than usual. But only for a moment.
I blush. Giggle. Not me.
He smiles, shakes his head, amused.
I'm besotted with more than wine. I admit it.
Our dinner talk was illuminating, yet not.
Peter doesn't say much about his work, unusual for a Wall Street guy. And refreshing. He's in banking. He oversees investments.
Or is it overseas investments? I can't remember.
Doesn't matter. He rolls around naked in tubs full of money all day for all I know or care.
I picture that. Like the picture.
"Come on in, the money's fine."
Ha.
He says little about his family. He has two sisters, I gather. Relatives in Europe. Father lives in London. Mother passed away years ago. I say I'm sorry to hear that. He nods, with a sad gleam in his eye.
Or so it seems to me.
Never married, no children. No crazy ex-wife.
Good. Lack of crazy ex is a good quality. And so rare.
Key points. Filed away.
High school and college, I'm not sure. Top notch and exclusive, though.
With mandatory Latin.
He sails. Dives. Skis. Golfs. Haunts museums. Collects art.
These are promising hobbies.
He has traveled. We compare countries.
I've been to England and France with a college tour group. Canada once on a family road trip. Mexico on a spring break I'd rather not think about.
"I don't keep track," he says. He smiles. "I've never had a passport expire with blank pages in it."
We laugh.
Peter settles the check with a wave of his hand. They know him at Barbat.
We pause in the restaurant's marble-floored sky lobby, fifty floors up. Admire the view of the city and the Hudson and ... New Jersey.
The night is clear. The stars are bright.
Or bright as they get against the permanent glowing haze that hovers over Manhattan like a cloud.
Forget stars. I drink in the city lights instead. The looming shapes of the buildings. The dark canyons between.
The Empire State Building is lit up in holiday colors. Lesser skyscrapers wink and twinkle around it like an entourage.
Cars surge up and down the avenues in an endless line of red taillights and white headlamps. I spot boats on the river, planes circling JFK and La Guardia.
Nice view. Impressive. Much better than I'm used to.
Like Peter.
He puts his arm around me.
The view is now ten times better.
I lean against him, rest my head on his shoulder.
Feel the warm, solid lines of his athletic body.
Breathe in his scent. He smells manly.
Cedar. Musk. Currency.
I want to rip his clothes off right now.
Or have him rip mine off.
Honestly, I don't care who rips what.
Clothes need to be ripped off. Immediately.
I'm tipsy. I know that.
But not drunk. Not really.
I know there are all sorts of games I'm supposed to be playing here. But I can't remember the rules.
(Or The Rules. Remember that one? Stupid book.)
What would Molly say?
I'm sure she has said lots already. Sure there are a hundred unanswered texts on my phone. But it stays in my purse.
Not like me at all.
I look up at Peter Sutaf. He looks down at me. Smiles.
Confident smile. Self-assured.
Maybe a little arrogant?
Used to getting what he wants, I bet.
My eyes narrow. I haven't asked the one question I'm dying to. Not in all our conversation.
Why me?
I mean, come on. Why is Peter — rich, handsome, charming, stylish Peter — here with me? Why did he, literally, pick me out of a crowd I wasn't even part of — a crowd I was serving coconut crab cakes to — and bring me here? Why is he not with a model or heiress or actress or someone like that here at Barbat?
Me? Charity Blaze? I'm nobody. Nothing. One more name in the Manhattan phone book nobody even opens anymore. Do they even print those now?
I don't even have a landline. But the point stands.
I open my mouth to ask the question. My mouth goes dry. My throat tightens a little.
I kiss him instead.
Yeah. Me. Me doing that. I never do that.
Make the first move like that.
He returns the kiss. Cups my face with one hand. Strong hand.
He tastes better than the caramel.
"I want to take you home, Charity."
His other hand wanders down my back.
"Whose home?" I murmur.
"Mine. Home with me."
I nod. "That's good."
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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.
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