His For More Than One Night

“I’ll have the same, then.” The waitress nods and moves away. “No wine ever?” He’s studying my hand he hasn’t let go of.

“Not much for wine, really. I only drink when I go out for, you know.” My eyes don’t go up and stay on my hand in his grip.

“Why?” The question is almost a whisper.

“He drank. He smelled of it all the time.”

“You drink for the courage or because you think it’s a part of what happens?”

“Courage.”

“Hmm, did I mention you look beautiful? I’m pretty sure I didn’t get a damn thing done today.”

“You know what I do, but you never mentioned what you do.”

“That’s because it’s very boring. Corporate paper pusher in retail. I don’t want you falling asleep when I’m talking. Now that you got your promotion and are making more, are you considering moving?”

The waitress is back, and we place our order.

“I haven’t thought much about it. Everything happened so quickly. It seemed too good to be true. I wouldn’t even give it a thought until I was handed the paperwork and it was in print. My building isn’t the greatest, but Uptown is changing. It’s getting better.”

“Actually, I was thinking of you being in something better than a studio.”

“For me the studio works. I like it being cozy. Just enough room for a bed and nice chair.” His look is searching, and he tightens his grip on my hand. “Okay, for me it’s like the first foster home I settled in. At first the emergency home was full and there was chaos. When they moved me, it was a home with just girls, and I got my own room. It felt safe. I was there for a while until the whole pregnancy thing, then I was moved to a group home and I hated it.

When I aged out of the system, it was roommates, and I hated it. For me, whatever it took, I wanted my own space. I remember thinking the studio was a first step, and eventually I would go up in space. After a while I liked it, and I don’t really have any desire to change it.”

“Have you seen a therapist since you aged out of the system?”

Shrugging, I shake my head. “No.” I guess my look of disdain is clear at the mention of a therapist.

“There’s nothing wrong with seeing a therapist. What you went through can take years to resolve. If you broke your leg, you wouldn’t wrap it up and try and walk on it. You set it, put a cast on it, and give it time to heal. You are stronger than you think you are, and seeing a therapist doesn’t make you weak.”

Our food arrives, and he lets go of my hand with a lingering squeeze. As we eat, he mentions an exhibit at the Art Institute, asking if it sounds like something I want to see, and I laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing, ignore me,” Realizing how rude it sounded and knowing he didn’t deserve it.

“Ignore you? Not going to happen, sweetheart. You thought it, tell me.”

“It sounds mean, and I’m sorry. I was just thinking, now I get to do the rich people’s version of dating.”

“And how is it different than the poor person’s version of dating?” He doesn’t seem offended.

“Poor people it’s the simple, free stuff of only going to the Art Institute on free nights, or matinee shows. Rich people it’s the symphony, exhibits when you want, and dinner at the nicest places.”

Throwing back his head, he laughs, and it’s a rich, throaty laugh, and the vibration runs up my spine. “You left out the opera and sailing.”

His laughter tells me everything is okay, and I can relax. “Do you have a boat?”

“No, but I’ll get one if you want.” Sincerity ringing clear.

“I’ve never been on one and I’m okay with that. Do you like the opera?”

“Boats can be fun but also a pain. I enjoy the opera. The look on your face makes it clear you don’t believe me.”

“It seems odd to be able to enjoy something if you can’t understand the language. Foreign movies are fine, they have subtitles, there aren’t any for an opera.”