Senators

I wake up well past twilight, my forehead pounding. I have a couple of missed texts and a missed voicemail. Invitations from friends to hang out that evening. One is from a girlfriend who lives in West Hollywood.

Ellie! I'm heading out with Dean to Pink Taco on Sunset around 8. Come!! I haven't seen you!! 

I take inventory of my body. Headache. Stuffy nose. Dry throat. Stomach still stuffed from the two slices of pizza I scarfed down that afternoon before dozing off. Definitely an empire waist kind of night if I do go out, which I know I probably shouldn't, but I really want to see my friends. It's one thing to stay in when there's nothing going on, but I hate the feeling of missing out. 

I listen to the voicemail. Lorena reiterating her invitation, making sure I get the details in case I want to join them. I glance at the clock before calling her back. She tells me the plan: swing by Pink Taco for a drink and to say hi to some friends of Dean’s, then Bagatelle, then some club in Beverly Hills. Dean has the hookup and we won't have to wait in line or pay a cover. Also—and this is pitched as selling point—the club is straight. I laugh and tell her I'm in, but that they should go on ahead of me. I'll get ready, take the train to Hollywood, then cab it the rest of the way and be there as soon as I can. 

It's been gorgeous out at night, and I'd love to wear something tight and black, but my pizza lunch has ruled that out. I guzzle water while I'm getting ready, telling myself futilely that I shouldn't drink tonight. Knowing that I will anyway. I pull on a sundress with a forgiving waistline. It's cute, but not the right look for where I'm headed. I stare at my dress rack for half a minute, trying to envision what I can get away with comfortably, then decide not to worry about it. I need to hurry anyway.

The subway feels like a swamp, and I'm grateful not to have had to dress more warmly. While I'm waiting at Wilshire/Vermont to switch lines, I text another friend to let him know I slept through his invitation, but would love to make plans for another night. A man on the bench besides me asks if I'm getting cell reception. I nod and point above us.

"I think we're right below the entrance," I say. He offers me his seat, and his friends groan, pretending to object to having to move. I laugh and tell them to stay put, that I'm fine. They ask where I'm headed. I cautiously say West Hollywood, not sure how deep into this conversation I want to go. But they're very chill and friendly, just being generally chatty. They're on their way home from watching jazz and drinking wine at LACMA. 

One of them sits beside me on the train, and we make small talk for another two stops. Have I been to the jazz nights at the museum? No, I have not. Sounds fun though. It is, I am assured. I'll have to check it out sometime, I say. How about next weekend, he smiles. I smile back. No, thanks. Can't make it then. He's unoffended and impassive, and wishes me a goodnight as he and his friends disembark.

The tourist throng at Hollywood and Highland isn't too thick, and I get a cab with ease. It's a van, and I have trouble shutting the heavy door behind me as I climb in. The driver—a hulking, smiling Eastern European—realizes as we're stopped in traffic a minute later that I haven't closed it properly. He reaches back with one arm and pulls it tight.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," I say.

Without turning around, he points at his cheek. "One kiss," he teases. I laugh and my phone lights up. Lorena telling me they've made a first stop at Saddle Ranch, and to let her know when I'm close so they can walk over to meet me. Don't get whiplash riding the bull, I say.

Distracted by the scenes of Hollywood street life on a Friday night, I don't pay attention to where we are, and before I know it, we've arrived. I send a quick text before pulling cash out of my wristlet. Oops, I'm here. She fires back: We're walking down now. 

Getting out of the van with anything remotely resembling grace proves beyond me. Our proximity to the curb combined with my ridiculous clog heels spell disaster, and I nearly break my neck in front of an amused patio full of diners. I scuttle to a corner out of view and text L. I just made a scene trying to get out of the cab. Totally mortified. We have to go somewhere else now, sorry. 

The two of them walk up a minute later, bubbling over with Friday night energy and smiles. Hugs are exchanged and we go inside, where Dean greets a large table of friends of his. Lorena and I hang back, use the restroom, get a drink. We only stay long enough for Dean to have made an appearance at his friend's birthday, then we take a taxi to Bagatelle.

We spend the next hour drinking champagne, sharing appetizers, and taking turns updating one another on the men in our lives. Dean makes us groan with jealousy when he shows us pics of the model he's seeing. Lorena and I have had very similar romantic lives for the past few years. She and I are the same age, yet we both tend to date younger guys. For her, this is a deliberate choice. She likes how playful, affectionate, and attentive they are. For me, it's accidental. At least, as best I can tell. But I definitely agree with her on the benefits.

Sufficiently liquored up, we join some coworkers of Dean’s who are heading to the aforementioned club in Beverly Hills. The three of us ride in the backseat of a spotless black X5, joking and singing along with the music. My headache, I realize, has been temporarily bullied out of existence by the champagne.

We valet the car in front of a smallish club entrance with a massive line of anxious looking, stunningly beautiful people. I'm too tipsy to pay attention to exactly where I am, to glance up or down the street for landmarks - not to mention note the name of the club we're entering - but the immaculate state of the sidewalk registers with me. Yep. Beverly Hills.

Since we've tagged along with a friend of a friend of the promoter (or something along those lines), we are escorted through and past the waiting crowd, to present ourselves to an attractive middle-aged woman in a skintight cocktail dress. She verifies who we're with, then deftly outfits us in wristbands before unhooking the velvet rope to let us pass. I don't make eye contact with anyone waiting in line as all of this happens, but I make a point to politely thank the door staff who usher us inside.

The club is small and very dark. A tiny bar, smallish dance floor, and a raised seating area with about ten sofa groupings for bottle service. There aren't many people here yet.  The three of us fix ourselves drinks at the table the friend-of-a-friend has, and look around. I stash my wristlet and phone under the table, and we take our drinks to the near-empty dance floor. The DJ is jump-cutting crowd favorites from the eighties onward, and we sing to one another as we goof around, still plenty of space between us. Two minutes have barely passed before someone bumps into me, spilling vodka and Red Bull down the bottom half of my dress and my legs. I'm unbothered by the accident - in fact the splash of cold actually feels good in the stuffy nightclub - but we're forced to move to a dryer patch of floor lest we slip.

It fills up fast, and with people that are even more beautiful than I remember them being outside. The three of us have a grand time nudging each other, pointing, giggling, and speculating. Is he looking at you or me? Another drink and another half an hour later, we're ready to mingle.

It's actually a fun little club to be at; it's small enough to not get separated from your friends for too long, but it's filled way past capacity, stuffing patrons into a space that's obscenely undersized for the crowd, and therefore allowing for (forcing, really) plenty of opportunities to socialize with the people you've bumped up against. The three of us are having lots of laughs and enjoying ourselves immensely, and I get pretty brave in my flirtation. Lorena and I have only hung out a few times, and we're still getting to know one another - including figuring out one another's "type", for wingman purposes. She nods towards a tall, polished-looking guy in a white button down who's dancing near us.

"What about him?" she asks me. I check him out. Kind of smirky looking. Smug, really. But he has an interesting face, and I put him closer to my age than most of the crowd.

The man notices us noticing him, and before I know what's happening, he's navigated the two or three steps between us and is dancing with me. In the space of five minutes, I learn his name (Alexis), his occupation (investment banker), and the depth of his arrogance (vast). I almost immediately forget the sarcastic crack he makes about barely being able to afford going out in LA, but it's enough to give him my best really?? glare before mumbling something about needing to find my friends and moving off. But as I do, he says something I don't quite catch. I lean towards his ear to ask him to repeat himself, and he suddenly turns his face to kiss my cheek, though it feels rather like he was aiming for my lips.

"Whoa!" I say, pulling back and putting both my hands up in front of me. If Alexis even recognizes my indignation, his face betrays no embarrassment or regret. He just disappears back into the crowd, as randomly as he'd appeared.

The night goes on.

Emboldened by the drinks and unfazed by Alexis, I press on, making a game of singling out for conversation any of the men the three of us find cute, just for fun. They're all twenty-something. They're all gorgeous. And for the most part, they're very friendly. We take turns being wingman and recruiting for one another, but nothing really sticks.

I have another mildly shocking interaction with a guy who I notice, and who notices me back. Blondish, chiseled, built but very pretty. A poor woman's Tom Hardy. We throw looks at one another for a few minutes before he maneuvers himself next to me. He's about to speak when suddenly a dazzling platinum blonde appears, wrapping herself around him like a blanket. He kisses her. I turn my back.

A moment later the girl moves away from him. As she does, the man extends his arm just enough to touch my waist and back with a deliberate, slow stroke. I jerk my head around to look at him, and his expression is clear. No, he hasn't mistaken me for his companion. He knows he's touching me. My jaw falls open and I laugh out loud. Unbelievable. I'm too drunk, too surprised, and too amused to react in any way other than to return to my friends.

---

I see him once before we speak. He's stepping past Lorena and I, his body and face mostly angled away from us as he squeezes past, trying to get out of the seating area. Thick, wavy, sandy blonde hair that he's bound up in ponytail at the base of his neck. I can't tell how long it is exactly, but I suspect chin length. Smooth, slightly tan skin with an even tone and pinkish cheeks. The kind of skin that betrays an excellent diet and more daily water consumption than I manage in a week. Pale eyes, though at first I can't tell what color. He isn't smiling, so I won't see the diastema until we're in conversation a little while later. But I do see his very full lips. About six foot, maybe a bit less. A healthy but not ridiculously-so build. There's definitely cardio in his regime. He's wearing a chambray shirt underneath a kelly green blazer, and black jeans. I put him at twenty-five. He is, in my opinion, easily the best looking man I've seen tonight. A true California beach boy. Probably a surfer.

I point him out to Lorena as he passes and she gives me a look that says, Yep. Definitely nice. Also definitely young, girlfriend. She's right, I know. Out of my league looks-wise and way too young. I inwardly sigh and think not for the first time how much aging sucks.

A few minutes later I head to bathroom. I'm not really paying attention to where I'm stepping, other than to avoid the toes of the patrons I'm walking with, so I'm surprised when I feel my foot connect with something solid, send it flying across the hallway, and into the wall next to a photo booth. I realize I've just kicked a glass, full force. I look around guiltily, trying to figure out whose glass I've just punted, and I find myself face to face with Probable Surfer.

He smiles widely in sympathy. Diastema. He looks like Heath Ledger, but prettier. Less angular, less gaunt in the face, which glows with...something.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I think I kicked it before, too."

"You can't take me anywhere," I reply. He laughs and we just sort of look at one another for a moment, assessing. Are we going to keep this going? Do we want to? I want to. Do you want to?

Apparently he wants to, because he makes a subtle join me gesture with his arm as he moves out of the flow of foot traffic, to the only space where we can stand that isn't in the way: next to the obnoxiously glowing photo booth, which is pouring hallogen light on my face at one a.m. I am not happy about this.

I also have a thought as it happens: This is what they mean by "falling" into conversation. 

Over the course of the next several minutes, I gather the following bits of information: he was born and raised in ____. He went to {Ivy League University} for undergrad. He just graduated from ____ law school. We've been to some of the same music festivals, the same years, where we could conceivably have seen one another. He wishes he were going to Burning Man like me. He likes my dress. He really likes floral prints, in fact (I greet this statement with a skeptical smile, as I suspect he's teasing me. No really. I have two floral print sofas at home.) His name is Matthew. He smiles a lot.

Enough time has passed that now I really have to use the restroom, and I say as much.

"So what," he says playfully. "You're walking out of my life, just like that?" Walking out of his life is the very last thing I want to do, but I refuse to ask him to wait for me where he's standing.

"I'll meet you back inside," I say with much more nonchalance than I feel. I'm only 80% sure I'll be able to find him again - it's a tiny place but the crowd is thick - but it's the only option.

"Okay," he says. "You better. Same team, right?" he asks, raising his eyebrows in mock seriousness.

"Same team," I nod. He nods too, and then we turn away from one another.

---

While I'm waiting in the line for the bathroom, I chat up two tipsy girls behind me. They compliment my dress, which, if nothing else, is inarguably unique in the mix of sleek, fashion-forward outfits everyone else is sporting.

"I look like I just came from church," I reply. One of the girls shakes her head vehemently.

"Do you have a ponytail holder?" she asks me.

"I wish," I reply. She bites her lip thoughtfully, looking me over.

"A ponytail and some eyeliner. That's all you need," she declares. I smile, not offended at all. She's exactly right.

"Next time," I assure her, feeling as if I've just promised my daughter to make a bigger effort towards looking cool at her soccer games.

---

It takes a few minutes to find him again, but serendipitously, his table is just a few feet away from ours. The next half hour: dancing, drinking, talking, joking. I introduce him to my friends. I try not to stare at him. He slowly ups the physical ante, and eventually, his arm is wrapped around my waist. I am okay with this. There is no arrogance in the gesture or, it seems, in him at all. In fact, I'm beginning to get the impression he's pretty crunchy. I squint at his ponytail. How long? I ask. He responds by reaching back and pulling the band from his hair. I notice it's the same "ouchless" kind I use. I watch as he finger combs his hair down to show me. Yep. Chin length. Golden and wavy and soft-looking. Devastating. I want to run my hand up the back of his head and gather it into my fist. Instead I just smile.

I allow myself one more moony question. "Twenty five?" I say, cocking my head as if studying him. He snorts, throwing me off. "Hmm, really? Twentyyyyyyy-seven?" I say, hoping I don't sound hopeful.

"Twenty-eight," he says, and that line of discussion stops there. He doesn't reciprocate the inquiry.

The club lights come on. Lots of lights, in fact, which seem unnecessarily bright. I catch my reflection in the mirror beside us. I am, undeniably, a hot mess. I've had a sinus infection for a good week, and have been losing sleep steadily because of it. I haven't touched up my lipgloss in hours. I cringe, taking myself in, and think wryly of the expression we used in my dancing days: ugly lights. Strip club owners, it seems, take malicious glee in flipping the light switch the second the clock strikes 2:00 a.m., leaving the girls to scramble to collect payment from their customers and scurry back to the dressing room, lest the brutally unflattering light turn them into pumpkins in the eyes of those men.

Knowing that these ugly lights aren't doing me any favors, I brace myself for a blowoff. But it doesn't come. In fact, the opposite: do I want to come to after hours with him and his friends? I consider. I know my friends are going to be heading home anyway. But if I leave with Matthew, it'll most likely mean spending the night with him. It doesn't necessarily have to, of course—but I don't predict asking him to drive me back downtown at three, four in the morning.

But I'm enjoying him. I can't say that it's any kind of off-the-charts connection, but he is so, so very nice to look at. My ego is tugging on my sleeve. Do it. Come onnnnn, please? You never go to straight bars! You never meet straight guys! What's the harm? Please? For me? LOOK AT HIM.

He turns to face me directly, and his eyes search mine. "What do you say? Same team?" It's that moment - the one where two near-strangers have an unspoken, closing-time exchange. I'd like to hook up with you. Would you like to hook up with me? Where the terms of the hookup are undefined, precisely, but not by a whole lot.

"Same team," I reply, and he accepts this answer with what I decide is an appreciative smile.

I say goodbye to my friends, and we head out into the warm night.

—-

Once outside, we spend several minutes confusedly trying to coordinate plans with his friends, all of whom have scattered into smaller groups and couples, and none of whom seem to know where any of the others are going. Some are trying to flag taxis, which are in high demand. Some are waiting for the valet to retrieve their cars. Let's go to McNare's, someone says. Hearing his name, McNare joins the conversation. No, not my place. I don't have any liquor. Frowns. Shrugs. I get the feeling Matthew's friends are gamely trying to accommodate his desire to keep the evening going for our sake. I also get the feeling that what they really want to do is go home.

We walk up and down the sidewalk, milling with faces familiar from the past few hours, trying to put together some kind of plan with a quickly vaporizing group of people. One of the men I'd spoken to earlier, Alexis, is standing on the curb with a pair of his friends, waiting for his car. I can sense him staring at me as we walk past, Matthew leading me by the hand. I don't look up.

After a few more moments of chaos, he finally stops and turns to me. "Okay, look. Do you want to just go to my place, maybe open a bottle of wine and talk or something? I can take you home whenever you'd like." The trepidation in his face makes me laugh.

"That sounds great," I say.

A moment later, we find ourselves in the backseat of a cab. He's incredibly polite to the driver, apologizing profusely when there's confusion about the address of his condo, which is just a few blocks away. As soon as that's settled, Matthew leans close to me. He puts both of his hands on my legs, just under the hem of my dress, and squeezes, hard. Too hard.

Ow. It takes a second for me to register why I'm in pain: fingernails.

I don't really have time to adequately process this fact, however, because now I'm being kissed. His kiss isn't particularly aggressive or forceful - certainly nothing to match the attack on my thighs - but it isn't exactly skilled, either. The word for it, really, is immature.

I have the first stirrings of a thought, floating to me from a familiar place: This is why we decided to stop dating so much younger, remember Ellie? It's been our experience, says my brain dryly, that the under thirty-five set has some learnin' to do in this arena, yes yes? 

Chastising myself for not feeling more gratitude for the gift sitting beside me, chatting me up about law school and writing and the Los Angeles light rail system and how nice my "energy" is, I try to get my head in the game. But I can already tell that even if I bully my brain into submission, my body wants nothing to do with this scene. My body, in fact, is making some brutal calculations and comparisons.

We head down one winding street, then up another, onto what appears to be a private drive. Seconds later we're parked on a semi-circular drop off in front of his building. Plate glass windows frame a small, minimalist lobby, manned by a single, suited employee, who opens the taxi door, greets Matthew by name, and hands him a bundle of pressed white shirts shrouded in cellophane.

“Thanks, Doc," he says jovially, taking his dry cleaning and stepping to the elevator, me quietly in tow. Doc reaches in, hits 17, and nods goodnight to both of us. I haven't said a word since we exited the cab, though once the elevator doors close, I ask if the doorman's name is really Doc.

Matthew shakes his head no. "Long story," he smiles.

The lobby, Doc, and the sheer proprietorial air with which Matthew entered the building have all prepared me, so I'm not surprised when we exit the elevator into a lush hallway lined with tasteful carpet, textured jacquard wallpaper, and glinting, mirror-finished tables. Still, I'm not expecting what comes next.

He slips his key into the lock of a door a few paces away from the elevator. After you, he gestures. The first, slightly echoing footfalls of my heels on the hardwood floor give it away: his place is large. Exactly how large I won't realize until a few minutes later, but just walking into the kitchen, which opens to a grand living room, connected to a full dining area, which is lined by an entire wall of floor-to-celing windows, is enough for me to realize that, three years into my residence here, I'm about to have my first glimpse of Serious LA Money.

I do my best to take it in stride. I don't stare in the way I would have, had I been even five years younger. But details are popping out at me left and right, and I'm frantically cataloguing them for my memory. Oh yes. This will be blogged. 

His home is astonishingly beautiful, in the way that would make me sigh with envy and delight, had I seen it in a magazine, or on a Pinterest board. Immaculate. Stylish. Youthful. Stunningly decorated and accessorized. Every last inch of it has had, if not love, plenty of consideration poured into it—and plenty of cash. I'm already strategizing how I can sneak a few photos for my friends. I note random things. The wall-mounted rack of radiant copper cookware. The kitchen cabinetry, which is white, but manages to be everything unexpected about white kitchen cabinetry. It's fresh and pretty, the cut and hardware like something out of Restoration Hardware, but still somehow nontraditional. A crystal chandelier above the dining table, the prisms of which bear not a speck of dust.

Crown moulding lines the entire apartment, which has several built-ins filled with books and framed photos. Walls of a pale blue the exact shade I can't make out in the dimmish light. Two giant midnight blue velvet chesterfield sofas face one another across a flat file that I suspect was commissioned. And the piece de resistance: a giant glass-framed vintage American flag, spanning an entire wall. It's easily fifteen feet wide and ten feet high. I step over to examine it, marveling at both the flag itself and the frame, which is a solid, chocolatey wood, a good six inches thick. I cannot fathom how something like this could be framed, much less transported up to the 17th floor and through a standard doorway. I want to ask how old the flag is, but I'm afraid the question's subtext (how much it cost), will be too obvious. Instead I point at the velvet chesterfields.

"Those aren't floral," I say.

"Those ones are in my room. I'll show you in sec. Come here, help me pick out music."

Matthew rounds the corner of the living room into the adjacent room. I follow, and find myself walking into a space about the size of my apartment, divided clearly into office/workspace, and den/library. I bite my lip lest I laugh. I'm standing in a residential library. An honest to goodness home library. I pivot on my heels and take it in, less concerned with reading the titles on the shelves than getting a good impression of the whole room, before we open the wine and my short term memory gets drowned. I suppress a hilarious urge to twirl in my dress and sing Little Town.

Meanwhile, my host is leaning over his desk, clicking through his music library. When I join him, he sinks into a leather office chair, spreading his knees to invite me between them. "Your home is beautiful," I say softly, telling myself to leave it at that. He knows, after all. But he smiles in acceptance of the compliment.

"I did it myself. Gutted the place. Picked out everything, all the furniture, the fixtures, the art. The floor was parquet. It was a disaster. Do you like art?"

"I do, but I'm not all that educated about it, I'm afraid." I watch him select a playlist, his face bathed in light from a desktop monitor roughly the size of my desk. "How long have you lived here?"

"Three years." He rises and takes my hand, leading me out of the room through a different entrance. I realize the apartment is even bigger than I'd thought. "Do you want anything?"

I ignore him momentarily, thrown off by my realization that we're now walking through an entirely separate wing. Before I can stop myself, I ask how many square feet the place is, my voice almost accusatory in tone. I can't help it. It's one of the biggest apartments I've ever set foot in.

"Little over thirty-five hundred," he says lightly. There's no arrogance, no boastfulness. He's matter-of-fact about it. Matthew walks back down a hallway lined with built-in shelves towards the kitchen. I trail him like a puppy, glancing as I pass them at the dozens of framed photos that line the walls. Many are black and white. In the kitchen, we contemplate the contents of his fridge. "Do you want wine?" he asks.

"Not really," I say truthfully. He pulls out a large blue glass bottle of water and walks backwards out of the kitchen, grinning and pulling me to him for a kiss. He dips his head slightly to kiss my chin, which he then bites. Hard. And it hurts. And not in a good way. I wince and pull away and laugh a laugh that I hope communicates Slow down. I'm starting to second guess my decision to come. It's the second time I've been in actual pain since he laid hands on me.

As we're making our way through the room I suddenly realize there's a massive sliding glass door next to the dining room table. "May I?" I ask, letting myself out onto a balcony with a small contained garden and a few teak lounge chairs. Matthew is saying something about the food he's trying to grow but I'm not paying attention. Instead I'm staring out across the glittering city lights, at the cluster of high rises in the distance that denote my own neighborhood. I sigh. I feel arms wrap around me, again, too tight, too rough, and I realize that if I'm going to leave, I need to do it now.

"You look amazing in this dress," he says, the fabric pulling under his weird, pinching grip. "Oh yeah, let me show you those sofas," I'm taken by the hand and led back through the photo gallery hallway, where he stops and pulls a frame off a shelf. Black and white. A football team. {Ivy League University} football team. He isn't bragging. He's only showing me because when he'd earlier mentioned having played, I'd been skeptical, due to his lithe frame. "See? Thirty pounds heavier."

I skim the picture politely but my eyes flit almost immediately to another on the bookcase before us. A family photo, which, when Matthew follows my gaze, he lifts down wordlessly to let me examine close up. Later I'll tell Mason about it. You should have seen these people, I'll say. They all looked like senators.  

LOL, he'll reply. My family photos everyone looks like bank robbers.

I hear myself saying something inane about the photo but now it's my companion's turn to ignore me, because he's busy pulling me down the hall, toward his bedroom and the two floral sofas that constituted our initial talking point about an hour ago.

—-

Sure enough, there are two floral love seats in the sitting area of his bedroom. They face one another across a coffee table littered with cards and crumpled wrapping paper. Two foil balloons on their last breath of helium hover just above the table.

"Birthday?" I ask.

"Graduation. Did I tell you that? I thought I told you that." He did. I'd forgotten in the space of an hour. He walks to the further sofa and stands behind it, running his hand across the back to showcase the print: cabbage roses the size of his palm, strewn across an optic white background. Designed by a friend of his, using vintage fabric from the UK. “She's amazing, so talented. They're one-of-a-kind. Cool, right?” I suspect that the friend he's describing is a current or former lover. There seems to be no other excuse for these couches, which sit there embarrassedly, like a pair of lace hankies left in the men's locker room.

I turn to take in the rest of the room, but when I sense Matthew approaching me, I bound across the bed, pretending to inspect the stack of books on the opposite nightstand. The top one is a collection of Matisse prints. I touch it absently, as if admiring the texture of the jacket's paper.

"That's nice," I say, pointing towards a painting on the wall. I'm kneeling on his bed, turned completely away from him, still in my heels. "Who did that?" I'm given a short speech about the artist, a local woman who's "about to blow up", according to my host, who has now rounded the bed to stand in front of me. He tries to push me backwards, but the position I'm in prevents this from working very well, and instead I just sort of tip over awkwardly onto my side, in the way Chaucer does when he finishes a particularly arduous side scratch.

"Hang on," I say, aware that a passive-aggressive primness has crept into my voice. I take my time pulling the jewelry from my fingers and wrist before setting it delicately on top of the Matisse book. "Don't let me forget those." Rolling over to sit back up on the edge of the bed, I reach down to unbuckle my shoe straps. I hear myself sigh with genuine difficulty at the maneuver and wonder what interest this paragon of youth and beauty could possibly have in me, and how many minutes I have before he sobers up and I see the desire evaporate from his perfect face.

As if to answer my question, Mathew, still standing beside the bed, pulls off his shirt. He has the sort of physique that comes from natural athleticism vs. long hours logged in the weight room. Proportionate and muscled, but not unnaturally defined or bulky. I can see the yoga; the football is long gone. It's a delightful sight that I can certainly appreciate, though that's about the extent of my response, mental or physical. But even bad pizza is still pizza, and this is a delicious slice of localganic deep dish that any foodie would scold me for not, at the very least, trying a bite of. So I place a napkin on my lap and pick up my knife and fork.

Five minutes of disastrously bad making out ensue, during which I alternately deflect, unsuccessfully attempt to redirect, and just plain suffer through more of the weird chin biting, some alarmingly rough handling, and general ineptitude of touch. When I can't stand it any more, I launch myself out of the bed, claiming a need to use the bathroom. I pad back down the main hallway in the dark, unsure of where I'm going. I sense more than I see an open doorway beside me, reach in to fumble for the light switch, and stand gaping at a room that I instantly decide I could happily reside in.

The master bathroom is about a third the size of my loft, with a toilet room, a walk-in shower, and a massive, gleaming, stand alone bathtub at which I stare for a good minute. Nearly as long as my sofa, the smooth white lip of it reaches to my mid-thigh. An impressive network of chrome hoses and four-pronged faucet nobs anchored to the wall beside it promise unfailing efficiency. And the sheer, egregious size of the thing promises relaxation on a level I don't reach unless Vicodin is involved. It looks brand new, but I know it's not. I know the housekeepers just want me to think it is.

"That tub," I say, walking back into the dark bedroom.

"Yeah, you like it? You want to take a bath?" Before I can answer, he springs from the bed, injected with purpose and, I suspect, hope for amplified interest from me. "Let's take a bath!" Despite my better instincts, I follow him wordlessly back down the hall and into the bathroom.

I watch as Mathew expertly wrenches faucet dials left and right, calibrating the temperature with his bare feet as water pools quickly around them. I shed the last of my clothes, silently cursing my cheap underwear, and climb in beside him, feeling childlike in the oversized tub. He uncaps a bottle sitting on the ledge beside the tub and tips it carefully into the stream of water. Creamy white suds form around my ankles, and an unmistakable scent fills the room.

"Lavender," I say.

"Lavender," he echoes. "Lots of lavender. Be right back." Mathew steps nimbly onto a crisp white bathmat and then disappears back down the hall. I sit down in the bubble-filled water and look at my surroundings. A shelf behind me is lined with various bath and grooming products, mostly Kiehl's. There are fluffy white towels stacked on a built in shelf below twin sinks. I can't tell if the walls are painted the same icy blue as some of the other rooms, or if they're greener. A small silver square has been pressed into the edge of the tub's enamel: the manufacturer's seal. I run my fingertip across the single, cursive script "m".

When Mathew returns, he hands me a highball filled with some pungent, amber liquid and lights a candle on the vanity. I sniff the glass, but cannot determine the contents. I set it on the ledge behind me and watch the man I've known less than two hours join me, naked, in his tub.

Several minutes of tragically comic fumbling follow.

At some point we move to the shower, which is large enough for me to lay completely flat in, with my arms extended straight above my head. But the change of location doesn't improve things, and after what feels like a polite amount of time has passed, I announce that I need to go home. When Mathew expresses surprise and disappointment, I am genuinely befuddled. Our complete lack of chemistry and physical incompatibility could not be more glaring. But his objections seem sincere, and I reject offers of breakfast in bed and an early morning ride home as kindly as I can. "I'm sorry. I really need to go now. My dog has a small bladder," I lie.

"Okay, but you have to come for yoga on Tuesday," he says, reaching for his phone to arrange a ride home for me.

"What, like, here? Private instruction, at your house?"

"Yeah."

"Fancy!" I exclaim teasingly. I don't actually respond to the invitation. Instead I inquire about the car service. "So, this isn't a taxi then? I don't have much cash..."

"No no, don't worry about it. It's taken care of." I thank him, feeling guilty as I gather my things. But he doesn't seem fazed or upset or hurt, just mildly surprised by my abrupt departure. He walks me as far as his door, slipping on a pair of seersucker shorts he grabs along the way. He thanks me for coming over, for the dancing, etc, and I thank him once again for providing a car for me. I close the door gently behind me and walk to the elevator, glancing at my phone to check the time. It's just after four am.

When I reach the lobby, the first thing I see is Doc, his hand on the backseat door handle of a shiny black Lincoln MKT. The lobby doors have already been propped open in preparation for my departure. I'll tell Mason about this moment later, too. It was like an invisible red carpet leading me straight to my Ride Home of Shame. I walk the ten steps to my waiting chariot and Doc bids me good evening with a tired but neutral expression.

I feel pretty tired and neutral myself.

I tell the driver my cross streets and he nods quietly before asking me if I'd like some water, or gum, or a change in the temperature. I decline all of these and relax into the cool leather, grateful that the sun hasn't yet risen. When we reach my building, I unzip my clutch to look for cash to tip the driver. "No, is payed for," he says, shaking his head. I hand him a ten anyway.

The next morning there's a missed text from Mathew on my phone: a picture of the two rings and the bracelet I left sitting on his Matisse book, captioned Perfect for a still life. I mentally kick myself, hard, before replying.

- Gah! I knew I'd forget those.

- I take it as a lovely reason for us to hang out again this week.

I have no idea what to say to this. I finally settle on Yeah? What do you have in mind?, mostly because I'm curious.

- Hmm, putting me on the spot for an adventure... Picnic in the park? Reflexology in side by side chairs?

- Wow. Those are some graduate level activities right there.

- Haha, I also cook dinner and watch movies.

I don't answer. Instead I text Cameron. Are you around? I had an adventure last night...

---

Mathew texts a couple more times over the next few days with invitations that I decline. On Friday, I take a break from writing the final lines of a blog post about him to ask if he'd mind dropping my jewelry in the mail. No rush, just whenever you have a chance. He answers immediately.

- Boo! No hanging out for us?

I tell him that he's awesome and very fun, etc., but that I don't have a car and he lives hecka far, blah blah blah. I put the phone down and return to writing my post.

He counters right away with an offer for a "subway date". Meeting me somewhere I can easily take the train to, like Hollywood. I also bike downtown all the time, he adds. I stare at his text, reflecting back on the evening, wondering if it was really as bad as I've since made it out to be. His enthusiasm for wanting to see me again is, after all, really nice, and not something I've experienced very much in the past year. I think of what Lorena and I discussed that night, about the attentiveness of younger men.

I look at my phone.

I look at my blog post.

I don't know what to type in either place.