She’s not like other women at all.
Frowning, I recalled my previous experiences in the bedroom: fumbling, nervous touches underneath the covers with women who didn’t offer words of confirmation or encouragement. The mortifying realization that they weren’t enjoying themselves and I had failed to make them climax. Subsequent awkward conversations, breakups, disappointment, and self-doubt, all made me doubt my abilities as a lover. That summed up my sexual past and I hated thinking about it. Eventually, it drove me into celibacy. Having a brother who openly bragged about his many conquests—the trail of satisfied women all over the Bay Area who, in his own words, were begging him for more—coupled with my own embarrassing experiences had left me despondent and weary.
But then Julia had come along. Julia, with her openness and no-nonsense attitude toward sex, who’d shown me how great it could feel to lose oneself in physical pleasure and not constantly focus on cerebral matters. She was a breath of fresh air and I’d be a fool not to like her for that reason alone.
It’s not a date, but I still want to give her a great night at my place.
I could reciprocate her kindness with a nice home-cooked meal, which I was under the impression was something of a rarity for Julia since she didn’t cook at all. Happy with my decision, I finished grocery shopping and raced home to my apartment, knowing that I had plenty to do before she arrived. Thankfully, I had just cleaned the day before so I didn’t have to worry about that.
Not that she would care with the clutter she’s used to living in.
I started dinner immediately because I knew that Julia was hungry already and I didn’t want her to have to wait too long once she arrived. I had decided to make chicken cacciatore, which took almost an hour to cook, and I was already behind schedule. I could have made her something simpler with what I’d already had at home, but I wanted her to enjoy her time here. It might encourage her to come back another night.
I prepared the chicken pieces and browned them, moving onto the vegetables while I thought about what would happen when she arrived. I found it impossible to predict Julia’s behavior most of the time, but I still tried. As I was thinking through the possibilities, a frightening notion hit me.
What if she cancels?
She had seemed a bit reluctant when I’d invited her and I suddenly worried that she might have changed her mind. I checked my phone, but thankfully she hadn’t texted me since I’d left her apartment. I went back into the kitchen where I covered the chicken and vegetables with diced tomatoes and a little white wine, leaving it to simmer while I boiled water for the fresh pasta that I’d picked up. I decided to slice some ciabatta as well. I knew that Julia could eat a lot compared to most women I’d dated, which was rather refreshing.
I set the table and wondered if Julia might feel inspired to buy a dining table once she realized how nice it was to eat at one. She could just get a small one with two chairs for when I visited her.
No, probably not. I bet she likes eating in bed. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl who cares about doing what others do.
I looked around my apartment and tried to view it with neutral eyes: hardwood floors; white walls with a few paintings in subtle tones, all in metal frames; a dark-gray couch, a coffee table, a dining table, and bookshelves in light-colored wood. It didn’t give much away about the person who lived there, except that he was obviously a stickler for order. My books, records, and movies were alphabetized and divided into genres, the surfaces were clean, and I had a very low tolerance for knickknacks. My apartment looked the exact opposite of Julia’s place, and I was fairly sure that she’d hate it.
She probably won’t come back if she doesn’t like it here.
I pulled out the candles that I’d bought at the store and rummaged through several drawers before I found some candlesticks, a gift from my mother that I had never used. After setting the table and lighting the candles, I thought about dinner music, a more daunting task. Julia seemed to love music and I was a little worried that she wouldn’t like my taste. I decided to let her pick the music tonight.
After a quick shower, I changed into a light sweater and a pair of dark khaki pants, which hung too low on my hips. But as I automatically reached for a belt, I remembered my brother’s criticism—“geriatric.”
And I wear my pants too high, apparently.
Hoping that Matt was correct, I decided to go without the belt and resisted the urge to pull my pants up. I kept my hair as it was since I’d only received compliments since I’d stopped taming it. I still thought it looked a little peculiar, but everyone else said that it looked good.