“Here. In Boston.”
“Does she know where you are tonight? Well, how could she?” he asks, answering one question with another. “Don’t think she’d approve of your agreeing to have dinner in a stranger’s apartment, would she? Are you always this adventurous?” He cocks his head to one side, a gesture some have called charming, and waits for her response.
Another hesitation. “No.”
“Should I be flattered? ’Cause I’m feeling kind of flattered here, I gotta admit.”
She blushes, although whether the sudden redness in her cheeks is from embarrassment or anticipation, he isn’t sure.
“Is it because I’m so good-looking?” He says this playfully, accompanied by yet another smile, his sweetest one so far, and although she doesn’t respond, he knows he’s right. Heisthat good-looking. (“Pretty boy,” his father used to sneer.) Much better-looking than the picture he posted on the dating site, which in truth isn’t a picture of him at all, just some shirtless model with handsomely generic features and washboard abs whose photograph he saw in aMen’s Healthmagazine.
Good-looking enough to make a woman silence the nagging voice in her head warning her to beware, to follow him out of the crowded bar where they’d agreed to meet and go with him to his apartment near Sargent’s Wharf, where he’s promised a gourmet feast.
“You’re not eating,” he says. “Is the steak too rare for you?”
“No. I just can’t…”
“Please. You have to at least try it.” He cuts a piece of meat from his own plate and extends his fork across the table toward her mouth. “Please,” he says again, as blood drips from the steak to stain the white tablecloth.
She opens her mouth to receive the almost raw piece of meat.
“Chew carefully,” he advises. “Wouldn’t want you to choke.”
“Please…” she says, as the cellphone in his pocket rings.
“Hold on. I’ll just be a minute.” He removes the phone from his pocket and swipes its thin face from left to right, then lifts it to his ear. “Well, hello there,” he says, lowering his voice seductively, his lips grazing the phone’s smooth surface.Finally,he thinks.
“Hi,” the woman on the other end of the line responds. “Is this…Mr. Right Now?” She giggles and he laughs. Mr. Right Now is the name he goes by on the multiple dating sites to which he subscribes.
“It is. Is this…Wildflower?”
“It is,” she says, more than a trace self-consciously, not as comfortable with pseudonyms as he is.
“Well, Wildflower,” he says. “I’m so glad you called.” He’s been anticipating this moment for what feels like forever.
“Are you still in Florida?” she asks. “Is this a bad time?”
“No. It’s perfect. I just got back into town about an hour ago.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Much better. Thanks for asking. How are you?”
“Me? I’m fine.” She hesitates. “I was thinking maybe you were right, that it’s time we give this another try.”
“No maybes about it,” he says, eager to nail her down. “At least on my end. How about Wednesday?”
“Wednesday is good.”
“Great. Are you familiar with Anthony’s Bar, over on Boylston? I know it’s usually crowded and it can be pretty noisy, but—”
“Anthony’s is great,” she says, as he knew she would. Crowded, noisy bars are always a woman’s preferred place to meet.
He smiles at the woman sitting across the table, notes the tears now wriggling freely down her cheeks. He checks his watch, making no move to wipe the tears away. Anthony’s Bar is where he met her less than two hours ago. He is being rude and insensitive.
“Say six o’clock?” he says into the phone.
“Six is good.”