His stare was piercing, as though he were attempting to reach into my head and read the truth from the gray matter of my brain. After a prolonged moment, he expelled a heavy breath. “So…you’re a psychiatrist?”
I nodded into my half-empty third glass of wine, my butter chicken long forgotten. “I am a psychiatrist.”
“You’re a psychiatrist who makes her dates cry.”
I frowned at him, at the edge in his voice that sounded accusatory. “Wait a minute, do you think I do it on purpose? Do you think I like ending each date with a goodbye cry instead of a goodbye kiss?” I may have slurred the word kiss. I couldn’t be sure.
Regardless, my questions were met with flinty silence, the corner of his mouth turned up in disbelief. But he looked interested, so I continued.
“Do you want to know how long it’s been since I was kissed? Guess!” I flicked my hand in his direction, then slapped it on the table. He didn’t flinch. “Two years,” I said.
I may have slurred the word years. I couldn’t be sure.
“Two…years. Actually, it’s been more than two years. It’s been two years and quite a few months, like maybe ten months, which makes it almost three years. And you know what? The last kiss was….” I frowned and shook my head in disgust at the memory of my last kiss. I leaned forward and whispered my next words, letting him in on the secret of my nonexistent sex life. “It wasn’t a good kiss.”
His lips stiffened, tugged ever so slightly to the right. I was tipsy, but I didn’t miss the way his eyes moved to my mouth during my tirade. He was probably looking for lip fungus or some other physical manifestation to explain my kiss-dearth.
“And I’m a good kisser, dammit!” I gripped my wine glass and finished it with two large swallows, relishing in the delightful vertigo settling behind my eyes and making my gums tingle. I set the empty goblet on the table and attempted to level him with a penetrating gaze, but instead I found myself struggling to keep my eyes from crossing. “And I don’t have a lip fungus, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
His attention abruptly moved from my mouth to my eyes. “I wasn’t wondering whether you had a lip fungus, but thank you for getting that awkward conversation out of the way.”
“You’re welcome!” I scooted to the end of the booth. Everything looked a little blurry. The room rocked as I stood and proclaimed, “I have to go pee!”
“Bathrooms are behind…”
“I know where the bathrooms are, Alex.” I squinted at him, my feet stumbled, and I inadvertently did a jazz square as I tried to remain upright. “I do take all my first dates here, you know. Granted, they usually leave before the entrée. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I half bowed for no reason in particular and walked to the ladies’ room. I felt satisfied in my admonishment of the pretentious upstart. How dare he! How dare he accuse me of making my dates cry on purpose! How dare he be so masculine, and strong, and sexily somber! How dare he stare at my lips and warm my internal organs to inferno levels of hotness! How dare his magma voice melt ice, steel, and my femme innards! How dare he…
Wait.
I blinked, halted, backed up two steps, and peered into the kitchen. It was dark. I thought about that for a minute, and came to the conclusion that the kitchen was closed and the cook and the manager and the dishwasher had gone home. I shrugged for no one’s benefit then continued on my way to the bathroom.
I flipped on the light, closed and locked the door, and did my business, all while trying and failing to reignite my indignation. Instead, I settled on the words masculine, strong, and sexily somber. Then I recalled the word kiss.
Mmm…kiss.
I washed my hands absentmindedly and scanned my appearance. My awesome strapless red dress still looked fantastic, and even my bleary eyes could tell that it hugged my body in all the right places girls are told men like to look.
I winked at myself in the mirror, as I was prone to do. “Hey, sexy lady, I’m not drunk, I’m just intoxicated by you.”
My mirror theater provoked a half laugh, half moan, and I covered my face with my hands.
The dress, paired with a padded push up bra, should have guaranteed me a night filled with torrid passion. It was why I’d purchased it. Alas, and to my inner orgasm enthusiast’s infinite sexual frustration, the hottest thing that happened so far was a hand squeeze from Chuck the chuckling—then sobbing—honeydew.
Glancing up, I noted that my teeth were now slightly green due to the consumption of red wine. For no discernible reason, I took a paper towel and scrubbed at my teeth until they appeared whiter. I often did this, especially when intoxicated.
Satisfied, I nodded once at my reflection, and stumbled out of the single stall bathroom into the small square space at the back of the restaurant. I managed three steps before I realized that the path leading to the front of the restaurant was blocked by Alex.
And I discovered this fact by bodily colliding into Alex’s chest.