The Beginning

“Hey, kiddo! It’s so great to see you,” David says as he slides into the passenger seat of my SUV. “Give me a hug.”

Obediently, I reach over and we wrap our arms around each other. He smells delicious and masculine. Is it just my imagination, or does he linger just a moment too long with his arms around my waist and his face buried in my neck? The thought excites and unnerves me, and I pull away from him.

He takes a long look at me, a small smile on his face. “You look really good,” he finally says.

I lower my eyes. “Thank you.” It's been so long since a man has looked at me this way that I’m not quite sure how to react. So I clear my throat and shift the gear into Drive. “How have you been?”

“Okay, I guess,” he replies. “Same shit, different day.” Then he looks at me with that same odd expression on his face. “But I’m much better now!”

Smirking, I roll my eyes and shake my head, but inside my stomach is knotted. How am I supposed to respond to that? Should I just play along? Laugh it off? Pretend he didn’t say it at all? Fuck! Why does he have to be so charming?

The ride into the city is shorter than I’d anticipated, although it is still rush hour. I had worried that our conversation would lag awkwardly, but David chatters happily and I am at ease with him almost immediately. Before I know it, we arrive downtown.

When we had spoken several weeks earlier about the logistics of this evening, David suggested having dinner before the concert at the Italian Bistro on Broad Street. We’d eaten there many times before, almost ten years ago, when we were still together. Would going there be a good or bad decision? I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t deny the convenience factor. His father lived in a high-rise condominium just around the corner from the restaurant, and we could park in the building’s garage for free. From there, we’d have dinner and catch the Broad Street subway line to the Wachovia Center.

I pull into the parking garage and we get out of my SUV. As David joins me and we walk together toward the restaurant, I discreetly appraise him. He looks good, too. People used to tell him all the time that he could be a model, and it is still true. He has a beautiful face: full lips, sculpted cheekbones, dark green eyes, full brows and sooty eyelashes, and short, dark spiky hair. I note that he is now sporting a light scruff on his cheeks, chin and upper lip. It is a different look—when we were together he was always clean-shaven—but it suits him, gives him an air of maturity, of manhood. And I’d forgotten how tall he is! Even though I’m wearing my boots with three-inch heels, the top of my head comes up just short of his broad shoulders.

As we walk the two blocks to the restaurant in companionable silence, I recall the rush of pride I used to feel when we were out in public, this beautiful man and I. Here we were, together again. A thrill charges through my body. It's going to be a good night.

Almost as if he’s read my mind, he suddenly turns to me and says in a low voice, “I’ve been amped for this night for months.”

Before I can respond, we arrive at the restaurant. David guides me into the vestibule, his warm hand resting on my shoulder blade, and politely asks the hostess for a table for two. She looks him up and down appreciatively, smiling widely at him while flat-out ignoring me, and ushers us to our seat. As we settle into a deep, plushly-upholstered booth in a remote corner of the restaurant, the hostess hands us our menus and says meaningfully to David, “Enjoy your meal.”

If he notices the hostess’s blatant eyelash-batting, he gives no indication of it. Instead, he scans the menu, closes it, and gazes at me. “I already know exactly what I want.”

“Oh, yeah?” I answer, trying to sound casual. “What’s that?”

He stares at me for a few beats and for a moment I am afraid, yet strangely hoping, that he will lean across the table and kiss me. But then he says, “The lobster ravioli here is awesome.”