A bottle of cranberry juice sits on the counter in front of me, begging me to make a Champagne cocktail, which I know seems like something a Freshman would drink, but I like them, and congratulations to me!
"Why do they have such a bad rap?" I ask Cheshire the cat as I raise my glass to him. He weaves a figure eight around my ankles and purrs loudly. I pour a smidge of cranberry juice and top it off with sparkling wine, throwing a lone cranberry into the flute as a garnish. Then, while standing at the counter, I down it.
"They are delicious, but I'd better leave it off my resume. I don't think most wineries appreciate the art that goes into making a good one." I reach down to pet Cheshire and he runs away, jumps onto the couch and positions himself onto the top of the cushions. Even he knows I'm talking shit when I put art into a sentence about Champagne Cocktails "I'm sure that waiter today wouldn't approve of these. Do you think he likes cranberries, Cheshire?" God, I'm already tipsy. Then, I then fix myself another.
"I'm entitled to two drinks after spending most of the day with Felicity," I tell the cat while settling into the good end of the couch and use him as a head rest. "You ran and sheltered the minute she got here." My tone is accusing and it occurs to me that I don't have much right to accuse anybody of anything. I'm drinking in an empty apartment and talking to a tabby.
God, I hope I don't turn into a crazy cat lady. Especially not one that drinks alone.
I sip the second drink and replay the events of the day. I wonder how it is that someone as odd as my mother could have been married four, maybe five, times and I'd never even managed one steady boyfriend. Not that anyone says boyfriend.
Significant Other?
Relationship?
Boy Friend—two words?
I don't know, but the Champagne Cocktails are starting to make me feel ... fuzzy.
You've never had a boyfriend, because how can you meet anyone if you sit at home and talk to that cat?
This last question was asked in the voice of Felicity. And, although I hate when my she's right, or at least my mind's version of her is right, there's no denying the truth. So, I decide to get off my ass, put on some party clothes and head to Overture to hang with my friends in the twilight of our college careers. God, that sounds maudlin. I better snap out of it. I fill the glass with another splash of Champagne and some more cranberry juice.
In front of the mirror, I part my blonde hair on the side, and braid one small section in front, to use as a headband to keep the rest out of my eyes, securing the tail of the braid, underneath at the nape of my neck. I keep my make-up, light and natural, except for dark wine-stained lipstick. Tight ripped jeans, a white tank, and wine ankle strap sandals with sky-high heels. Deciding to travel light, I switch everything from the bag I used at lunch and Rilassante to a cross-body messenger with ID, credit card, cash, keys, and lipstick. I refill Cheshire's water bowl and he meows at me.
"How do I look?"
He meows again.
"You never know, maybe I'll meet the man of my dreams and then Felicity will stop bugging me to be on her show. Right, Ches?"
Meow.
Then, I'm out the door.
~~
Overture is already packed when I get there. The nightclub, laid out on two levels, is popular with those who come for the bands, those who like to dance to the DJ between sets, and those who are looking for a hook up off-line. The dance floor and bathrooms are on the first level with a stage for the band at the far end. I walk up a short flight of stairs and find Taylor and her boyfriend, Taylor. Um, yeah, it's kinda too cutesy for words. They've dated on-again-off-again for three years now, and if she would learn one or two of Felicity's tricks for letting go she might not have to go through the rest of her life as T&T.
Not really. That was uncalled for. And mean.
They're a decent couple and I wish them all the happiness in the world. I'm just tipsy and a little jealous.
They had staked out chairs at a bar that runs along the overhang for the stairway, which happened to be the best real estate available. From here, you could watch the band, the dance floor, or new arrivals. It suited everyone's goals no matter what brought you here. Taylor (the guy) gives up his stool for me. I lean against the bar, facing away from the dance floor, and rest my feet on the stool's rail. Along with Taylor and Taylor, Taylor's roommate Jeff, and Jeff's girlfriend Maria are here so I'm the fifth wheel. Again. Jeff asks if I want a beer.
I roll my eyes to the ceiling and look at Tay. "Champagne Cocktails? We're celebrating, right?"
"Excellent! She hands her beer to Taylor. "I'll take one, too, Jeff."
Jeff makes a face, but not I refuse to let him rain on our parade. "Made with cranberry juice," I tell him, reaching into my bag for a twenty.
Taylor makes me recount my day: the celebrity sighting after graduation, mom's "suggestion" to me about going on "the Matchmaker", her pitch to our waiter.
"He was that good looking?" Taylor asks and takes a sip of her beer.
"Chiseled."
"His face?"
"Everywhere. Like a Greek god."
Taylor laughs and teases. "He was naked?"
"No," I smile, imagining Antonio without clothes. "fully dressed, but I could tell. Chiseled."
Taylor laughs again. "Be careful with that cocktail. You're already half-way there."
Below us, the band starts to warm up, a few strums of guitar chords, a roll of the drums and so we spin around on our stools to watch them. The stilettos are already pinching my toes like crazy, and I haven't even hit the dance floor yet. I'd like to take them off but decide to ignore it. They look fantastic
The band, Bongo and the Brass Monkeys, plays classic rock—Pink Floyd, The Police, that kind of thing. They're good, but most people aren't into it. They want something current, something they can sing to, or preferably dance to. Every time they end a song, you can hear the low murmur of conversation blanketing the club. Even Taylor and Taylor are reminiscing about a party they went to last year, but I like to watch musicians. Usually, I focus on the singer, or lead guitar player. Inexplicably, tonight I can't take my eyes off the drummer. He's wild and loose with crazy expressions that remind me of Flea from the Chili Peppers. The songs they've picked let him show off his talent, too.
Seven songs later they finish their first set, and the drummer hops down from the stage onto the dance floor. He does a back handspring into a split, pops up and then climbs the stair case toward the bar. As he passes by us, where my feet are dangling over, he lifts my foot like Prince Charming in Cinderella. Instead of putting on the glass slipper, he kisses the top of it.
That was weird.
Taylor leans over and whispers in my ear. "Am I hallucinating-drunk, or did he just kiss your foot."
"The second one," I say and then he's standing over my shoulder, bent over to whisper in my ear. "I have a foot fetish and you have the prettiest ones here tonight."
I laugh. He gets plus ten for creativity, but minus five for creepiness. Maybe, plus one for humor if he's not serious. It ends up being merely an average pick-up line.
He takes my laugh as encouragement and buries his face in my hair at my neck, shaking it back and forth like a dog with a bone. Taylor's eyes are wide, and I would shrug at her if his head wasn't, like, right there in the way of shrugdom.
He rips his head backwards with the same kind of dramatic movement he used on stage, my bobby pin gritted between his teeth, then plucks it from his mouth with his thumb and middle finger, like it's a joint, finally laying it in my palm. My braid headband comes loose from its mooring. "You should wear your hair loose and down. You'd look as fantastic as your feet."
He's funny and a little cute while weird at the same time. And way too intense. If this had been any old Joe that walked up and done this, I'd have already given him the brush-off. Being a musician—and a drummer no less—I cut him slack. Too much slack.
I take the bobby pin and work at reattaching my braid.
"Aw, don't do that. You're spoiling my fantasy."
"What's so special about my feet?" I ask to distract him and because I'm curious to know if he's serious about the foot thing. I cross my legs and hold my foot out like I'm offering it to a shoe salesman. The combination of the free feeling from graduation plus wine at lunch plus Champagne Cocktails has brought out a flirt I didn't even know existed.
He bounces from side to side, all nervous energy that reminds me of a third-grade boy during recess, one that's not quite sure what to do with it. "May I?" He slips the sandal off and holds it in one hand while the other one points out a few details. "It's the arch, really, thin ankles, and you have a nice tan," His hands move around my foot, not quite touching it, and I can tell this isn't about a creative pick-up line. He's into feet. "But what makes them special is the second toe." He touches it. "It's not that long second toe that looks a little alien. They are just beautifully proportioned toes." He smiles at me, and I know for sure – he's definitely into feet.
While I'm flattered, I'm also more creeped out than before.
"Okay, I think it's time to put my shoe back on," I say to Tay, who is laughing into her palm, which is clamped tightly over her mouth. I look to Taylor2 for help, but he shrugs. He probably thinks it's funny, too. Jeff and Maria are on the dance floor. It looks like I need to rescue myself.
I lean forward, woozy, reaching for my shoe.
"No, don't," the drummer begs, pulling it back, just out of reach.
That's when I manage to snatch it from his hand. Even semi-drunk, I can tell he's not quite sane. My naked foot feels exposed and I want my sandal back on. He blocks me. "Not yet, please not yet."
I'm hunched over trying to wedge my foot into my shoe, so that I don't feel obscenely exposed and the drummer's getting in the way. I swat at him like the gnat that he's become. We're in some kind of epic battle for possession of my toes.
Then, I hear one word float above my head, "Frederica?"
Everyone calls me Freddie, only Felicity calls me Frederica, but the voice was male, so I crane my head to look up and over my shoulder.
Chiseled.
I consider that I might be drunk-hallucinating. "Antonio? Is that you?"
"Si. Do you need my help?" He sounds like he says halp.
I need his help and his halp. Both of them.
"Please."
It sounds like he says, scuzi, and then I'm free from drummer boy, who takes off quickly. Antonio takes my stiletto sandal and puts it on my foot gently, like it's the glass slipper. "There," he says and smiles, "That looks nice."
"Thank you."
"What was that ..." he vibrates his hand like a fish tail "guy doing?"
"He said he liked my feet. He didn't want me to put my shoes back on."
"Let me see them again. I wasn't paying close enough attention."
I hold out my foot to Antonio and he gently slips off the sandal and stares at my foot, his forefinger brushing his lower lip. God, drummer boy was creepy, but this might be the hottest thing ever.
Well? I look at Antonio, but don't want to ask, because, because ...His dark eyes are like chocolate. The expensive kind with a high percentage of cacao, not Hershey's.
"You have a beautiful sole and feet. Lovely like a fawn."
A fawn? Bambi? It's a strange analogy, but everything sounds extraordinary when said with that accent. "Thank you, but you don't really know me well enough to be commenting on my soul."
He looks confused then laughs and runs his finger along the bottom of my feet. "Your beautiful sole." Without a word, he puts the shoe back on Prince Charming style.
I can feel my cheeks getting hot and can only imagine how much I must be blushing.
It doesn't seem to faze him. He points to my nearly empty flute. "Would you like another drink? What are you having?"
My tongue unties long enough to say, "Yes, please. He I'm drinking champagne Cocktails made with cranberry." I'm parched, unsure whether if it's from wrestling with the drummer, or from the heat Antonio has generated. He strolls away and I get a good look at him for the first time, realizing he's not wearing his waiter uniform. Jeans that hug him nicely, the way I'd like to, and a long sleeve v-neck in ice blue with the sleeves pushed up slightly.
Taylor grabs me by the bicep and pulls my ear to her mouth. "Tell me that's the waiter. Tell me."
I look at her and say, "Chiseled. From the finest marble in Italy."
"Thank God," she says. "It wouldn't be fair for you to meet two guys like that in one day."
~~
Antonio returns with flutes filled with a pale orange hue.
"Umm ... it's fine, but that's not what I ordered."
He hands a flute to me. "I want you to try a Bellini. It's the Italian version of your drink made with Prosecco and peach nectar."
First the wine, now the cocktail. Why does this guy think he knows what I want more than I do? It's a little annoying.
Antonio gazes into my eye and raises his flute, "Cin cin"
I shrug and take a sip. Delicious. Now, I'm not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed.
"Do you like?"
"I do."
The Roman god settles into the empty stool next to me and asks, "Were you celebrating this afternoon at the restaurant?"
I understand why he's asking with the way my mother was dressed.
"We were. I graduated today with a degree in public relations. I want to work in the wine business. Hopefully for one of the wineries in Napa or Sonoma."
"Ah, is that why you were studying the wine list? What did you think of my selection?"
"It was amazing, and I can't believe I'd never heard of it. That's really what I want to do with public relations; help people discover a new wine that deserves more attention."
"That wine is better known in Italy. That's why my uncle stocks it. But you should tell your friends about it." He laughs, which is strange, but I don't mind because the way his eyes crinkle and spark is extremely appealing.
"Yes, you said you're helping your uncle. Are you enjoying your time here?"
"California is beautiful, but so is my home. I could easily say arrivederci to the restaurant business.
Now it's my turn to laugh. "I'm sure it's hard. What do you do back in Italy?
"I work in the family business."
Family business? That's very mysterious. The mafia? Unlikely, but you never know.
The DJ puts on the latest dance hit and Antonio extends his hand. "You dance?"
"Not very well."
He shrugs and tilts his head toward the dance floor. "I would like to form my own opinion."
I look at Taylor and shrug, then laugh. "Okay."
We dance to two songs. He moves with a fluid grace, but it's not always to the rhythm of the music that's playing, almost like he's hearing another song in his head. Afterward, back where we've camped out by the railing, he finishes his second Bellini. Our bar stools are so close together my leg has to rest against his. It's distracting. We both lean in to hear each other over the music. "I had a nice time with you tonight, Frederica. Can I ask you a question?"
Here it comes. Second date. Yes, yes, yes! "Of course." I'll stay cool and only say one yes.
"Your mother—was she serious about television?"
Oh.
No.
So that's what this whole evening was about: my feet, Bellinis, the chit chat, the dances. He wants to be a star. "I can assure you my Mom never jokes when it comes to The Matchmaker." I pull away for the first time tonight.
"What is the show about?"
I hadn't expected that question, because I'd forgotten that not everyone in the world has watched it. He just moved here from Italy so of course he doesn't know it. Maybe I was too hard on him. Maybe he's just curious. "My mom has reputation for finding a person's match, as she calls it. I'd call it a partner or mate."
"A soul mate?"
That's nice. "Yes, exactly."
"How does she do this matching?"
"Well, it's not very scientific, not like an on-line dating site. She says she uses her intuition and then guests on the show are matched with three blind dates. She arranges everything. Where they go, what they do. It's like an all-day affair and usually very glamorous. Then, at the end of three dates, it's decided if she made a match. She has a perfect record of second dates, and fifteen, or actually she just told me today, sixteen matches from the show have stayed together and gotten married."
"Sixteen? That's good. How much does it cost?"
"It doesn't cost anything."
"But these dates, I would pay."
"The show pays. That's the way it works."
Eyelids lowered, he leans in, so very, very close to me I can feel his breath when he asks, "What happened when she matched you?"
I don't pull away, instead whispering, "She's never matched me."
"Why not? She sounds like she's good at it."
How would I explain Mom's four-possibly-five, husbands? Or that my second date percentage is garbage? I certainly don't know him well enough to explain that I don't want to ruin her perfect record on the show. And honestly, she doesn't want me to ruin it either. Because while Felicity O'Hara has great stats when it comes to others, I'm not sure she's that great when it comes to the Brubaker women.
"She's my mom," I say. "Would you want your mom to pick for you?"
Antonio laughs again. It's a good laugh that delivers the eye crinkle and spark again. "It happens in Italy more than you know, but I would want to pick."
I laugh along with him, "See?"
"But, I would seek my mama's opinion. There's nothing more important than making a good choice. She is a very good judge of character and wants the best for me. I bet your mama wants the best for you."
While that's probably true there are days you could convince me otherwise.
"Maybe someday you will let her match you."
"Maybe." Hell no.
"One more question, Frederica?"
"Okay, but my friends call me Freddie."
"I prefer Frederica. It's a beautiful name. So, Frederica ... can I take you home tonight?"
My eyes scan his lips, his hands on his knees, his washboard stomach. I take all of him in and then meet his calm, unwavering eyes. It might be better than a second date, and second dates for me are about as likely as letting my mom feature me on her crazy show. Which is to say it hasn't happened yet and probably never will.
"Okay," I lay my hand on top of the one of his that's still sitting on his knee. "Take me home."