Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir Read Online Free Page B

I couldn’t ask. He’d be hurt, and I’d seem rude. So I put on the new Guster CD and told him, “Shh, no talking.”

    Just before falling asleep I giggled.
     
    Mushrooms.

     

    I WAS WEARING TURQUOISE, DESPITE THE CHILL OF spring. Turquoise is for tanned skin, open-toed shoes, and girls with braids and bandanas. It’s not the making of spring. Besides, I was too lazy to shampoo that day—my hair was twisted, frayed ribbons. My makeup was leftovers. As I waited for my friend Smelly to meet me for a drink, I sidled up to the MOBar in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, and asked for a wine list. They were without a list and had only extended a verbal blur of choices.
     
    “You know what? Even easier, do you have anything from South Africa, New Zealand, or Germany?” Negative. The female bartender poured me a taste of some white wine. I tasted oak and felt myself staring for longer than appropriate at her overflowing breasts. “I don’t mean to be a pain, but anything unoaked? Do you have something other than Chardonnay?” I know what I sounded like. I didn’t care. I wanted what I wanted—go ahead, say it.

    “I hear they’ve got a nice Sancerre,” I like to believe were the words the man beside me offered. In truth, though, I can’t remember his first words to me, or if we even talked about wine. Somehow, though, he ended up paying for mine. Pleasantries were not exchanged. We didn’t talk about the weather or about jobs. We talked about his day, and he presented me with the proof. His day’s activities were wrapped in shiny black cardboard boxes and nestled into a Thomas Pink bag. The boy could shop.
     
    “Well, you might as well show me what you’ve got in there, cause Jeez, you’ll have no chance of dating me if I hate your taste.” I can’t believe I used the word “Jeez.” Now, there’s no subtext here. This isn’t Pulp Fiction —it wasn’t his soul in there. I approved of more than just the shirts. I don’t know if it was his shoulders, his voice, or those liquidy overcast eyes. I was lost. Our banter was truncated upon the arrival of Smelly, my old college roommate. Her younger identical twin brothers lent me her childhood nickname, “Smell Adele, go to Hell,” in lieu of Adele, despite the fact that she now considers “hell” a swear word and smells only of Quelques Fleurs and Aveda lipstick. Introductions were made; my attention shifted. The wine kept coming.

    I don’t understand how any woman can be seen in stockings and sneakers, even if it is a commute. There is absolutely no excuse for this. I told Smelly just this after she complained to me about her blisters. She was wearing Pumas with a skirt, and she responded with a wrinkled smile and raise of her glass. After we covered work, wardrobe, and weekend plans, I realized he might have to leave. I might have to leave. As Smell excused herself to make a phone call outside, I dug in. In my handbag, I found one of my business cards. I turned to him and smiled. He smiled. I pushed the card to him as if it were a bill. “Just in case I need to go, or you need to abscond, I wanted to give you this. It was nice not quite meeting you.” It wasn’t the wine.
     
    “Abscond, huh? I hope this doesn’t mean you’ll be departing for the evening. I still want to talk.” I think that was a blush.

    “I’m not leaving.” What I meant, of course, was “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

    Smelly had to return to her office, kiss, kiss, I’ll call you tomorrow. He asked if I would join him for dinner. We were, after all, in a hotel bar, beside a hotel restaurant, and I was, after all, hungry. Okay, let’s face it, had I just eaten a full-course tasting menu at Danube, I would have feigned starvation to break bread with this man. Suddenly, he was ready to leave. “You didn’t think we’d eat here, did you?”

    We were in a cab headed south. Blue Ribbon. Oysters were slurped. Even more wine, something unoaked and perfect. He