“Okay, but how are we supposed to get to know each other?”
“I get it. You women need to know everything about everything, all the tiny details. It’s part of your DNA.”
“You say it like it's a bad thing.”
“No, it's not bad, but everything has its place. For instance, if I bring home the bacon and you fry it, why does there have to be fifty questions about it? Can't you just cook the bacon so we can enjoy it together? I do my part, and you do yours. That sort of thing.”
“So basically, correct me if I'm wrong, what you're saying is you want a fifty-fifty relationship, give and take.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve never had that before?”
“Most started out that way. Both parties are on their best behavior in the beginning. But then over time, little grievances build up, and things go sideways, or south in my case.”
“How long did they last?”
“Around seven years each,” he stabbed at the beef, setting the fork aside.
“Ahh, the seven-year itch.”
“I don't buy into that notion. It is what it is, and it is what it was.”
He seemed slightly irritated, and I didn't want to push the issue. I didn't want to come across as a nag, which would surely dishearten him. Besides, who was I to judge? I know relationships can be tough; mine had failed.
The lights dimmed and the salsa music grew louder. David started moving to the rhythm, and my mind drifted back to my younger days when I had spent weekends dancing the night away.
At one point, I had come close to marrying Joey, my high school sweetheart. That was before he started drinking heavily and subsequently cheating on me. I’ve had my guard up ever since, not being able to trust a man or men in general. And then moving to Vegas didn't help matters. If anything, it had only made things worse. The thought of meeting a decent man only existed in my dreams.
Years ago, I kept having the same recurring dream. I was a passenger in a car being driven by an older, dark-haired man. The dream was just one scene, a continual road trip. I was very comfortable with the man in my dreams as we traveled along winding roads in deep conversation.
Every so often, my dream man would take his eyes off the road, glance over at me with a smile, and reach for my hand.
“Would you like to dance?” I heard a voice speak in the distance.
“Val! Earth to Val.”
Upon hearing my name, I turned and saw David smiling at me, his hand outstretched, reaching toward mine.
My heart skipped a beat—his face. I had seen it before, the man in my dreams—the dark-haired, slightly older gentleman. Oh my goodness, could it be? Could I have conjured up David from my dreams?
“Is everything okay?” he asked, his head tilted to the side.
I just sat there staring at him, studying him.
“Why the strange look? I only asked if you wanted to dance.”
“Yeah, sure, why not,” I slowly rose from the chair, my legs unsteady beneath me after three glasses of sangria.
Lacing his fingers through mine, he led me to the small dance floor as the music changed. The sound of the conga drums faded away, replaced by a different, slower-paced tempo.
David pulled me close, one hand supporting my back and the other holding my hand while steadying my arm. I followed his lead. We began swaying side to side, cheek to cheek, being careful not to step on each other’s toes. The temperature between us soon heated up as he spun me around and dipped me to the side, hovering over me with a penetrating gaze.
“Do you know what they call this type of dancing?” he asked.
“Not sure, exactly,” I said, maneuvering to the left. “You’re mixing steps from several styles of dance.”
“I do like to mix it up a bit. Keep things fresh.”
“It feels like you’re making it up as you go along.” My head was spinning from too many twirls, coupled with too much sangria.
“I’m going to call this one the hummingbird tango,” he said, gazing deep into my eyes. “I hope you remember what I said earlier. It’s imperative.”
“Oh, what was that?”
He pulled me in closer, his lips trailing along my neck as he whispered in my ear. “I only tango with one woman.”
10
David
Last night was fun with a capital F. The most fun I’ve had in a long time. I am on my best behavior this time around. I’ll need to keep the alcohol flowing with this one; she seems to open up more and relax when she’s had a cocktail or two. I need someone who can loosen up, someone who can go with the flow—my flow. I can’t handle another uptight woman. They’ve never been my style anyway.
I have to say, though, I’m going to need to take her shopping. Her taste in lingerie differs from mine. I like things much more form-fitting and revealing. Let's just say less cotton and more spandex.
She must realize men are visual creatures. At least the men I know. Sure we let our eyes linger when an attractive woman passes by, even when we’re with you. We’re not dead, for heaven’s sake, we have testosterone running through our veins—twenty-four-seven.
But when a woman’s not dressed the way we prefer, when they’re too covered up, we have to imagine what they’d look like less covered up. It’s more work on our part, and I have enough on my plate right now. I need a woman who will wear the clothes I buy her, not stick them in the back of her closet as if ashamed to own them.
Take last night, for example, the two good-looking women who were dining next to us at the restaurant. The blonde to our left, on vacation with her boyfriend. The brunette to our right, having dinner with her husband. Both were dressed
