so,” I prompted.
“He asked me to dinner tonight. I said yes. Do you mind? I know that you wanted a formal dinning experience last night, and that didn’t happen.”
She put it all out there. Her concern for me was obvious but really misplaced.
“MaSoeure, what kind of question is that? You know I don’t mind.” I said.
“Oh honey, no worries. I just wanted a chance to wear the new blue cocktail dress and there is plenty of time for that.”
“Go.” I said. “Enjoy your engineer. Are you dinning at their table?”
“He’s taking me to Sabatini’s. Our reservation is at 7:30.”
She said the last bit as she looked at her watch.
“It’s 5:45 right now. I’m going to have to talk to you later; I’ve got to get ready.”
She took herself and her excitement into the stateroom and disappeared.
The march on the CD filled in the space that she left and I settled again to listen.
“I guess that makes you free for dinner.” Michael said as he reached for my hand.
“How about you have dinner with me tonight, on my balcony? I wouldn’t mind seeing that new dress.”
He squeezed my hand ever so slightly and smiled a sweet little pleading smile. Not waiting for my verbal answer, the slight nod of my head was enough for him to say, as he leapt to his feet, “I’ll pick you up at 8:00” and disappeared through the small balcony-divider door and into his stateroom.
He left me sitting there with a ‘what was that’ look on my face. Well, I’ll have to think about that. Let’s face it; I’m always a bit suspicious when a man wants to spend time with me. I’m not like my sister; men aren’t drawn to me. I’m not pretty – I’ve been called ‘handsome’ and attractive’ a couple times but never pretty, though I did get a ‘she’s so cute’ one time. But I think that had more to do with my personality than my looks. My looks aren’t an issue for me because I like the things about myself that are different than other women. I like that my ears are large and stick out from my head – really only one of them sticks out. I don’t care that my feet are tiny or that my boobs are big. But, all of those things together create the person that I am which, let’s face it again, scares off just about any man.
Men don’t take the time to even talk to you if you aren’t symmetrical. Scientifically it has something to do with carrying on the species. It’s kind of like God telling men that if you can’t figure out what you want, here’s your cheater card - look for someone who’s even on both sides.
I’m not lacking in male friends; actually I have quite a few. These are men who had no choice but to spend time with me because of work and were forced to get to know me for more than my physical appearance and now make it a point to talk to me on a daily basis about stuff that has nothing what so ever to do with work. I like that they are my friends and that they value my opinion and seek my advice.
I can carry on a decent conversation on most subjects other than rocket science and that’s only because I’m afraid of any talk about quantum physics. I recognize and appreciate a good joke, dirty jokes included. Like every one I’ve ever known, I love to laugh. I’m not without wit and humor, myself. I’m coordinated and have rhythm; I can dance. I’m not lonely but sometimes I’m sad. I have a personal mission statement that is lofty and I honestly work at making it true every minute of my life. Again, I like that they recognize and value some things about me that I like personally.
Those friendly relationships were not and have never been anything other than innocent, completely lacking in carnal knowledge. I am bound by my marriage vows.
What I knew about Michael was: he spent the night semi-unconscious in my lap; he remembered me; he liked my hands; he’s easy to enjoy the music and the balcony with; he wasn’t averse to a nice bowl now and then; he’s comfortable to be high with; he spent the entire day with me and he still wasn’t done with me.
For me, being with him was enjoyable, maybe more enjoyable than being alone. Being alone is usually my favorite thing.
The balcony was empty and mine again. I went to the rail to let the wind blow on my face for a few minutes and to think about the night before and to think about what was happening right then.
Done with the marching music, I slid ‘the best of the 60s’ into the machine to listen while I waited for my sister to vacate the bathroom.
‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ made me smile and remember back when I was a kid when the Beatles were on the Ed Sullivan Show. Mother was threatening to turn off the set because their hair was too long. I mean really, how sweet the song, how innocent and pure and simple the lyrics. The contrast in young people’s music between then and now is mind boggling. These days, it’s nothing to hear very vulgar lyrics, even profanity. “You Want Some Pussy?” or “It’s All About the Dick.” Granted, not all the newer music is vulgar and, luckily, if you hear stuff you don’t like or find offensive, there’s usually an off switch. I’m just saying that the difference between the music that I grew up with and what the kids were listening to is big.
How could I not be partial to the early years of pop when love was something to be revered and put into sweet lyrics of longing?
I was just thinking about ‘liking big butts’ when I lost my train of thought; Denice opened the slider a bit more forcefully than necessary; it rattled as it banged hard on the opposite side, sending it back the way it came, nearly closing itself. That woman does not know her own strength or she’s unhappy about something.
She stood there in the doorway with half of her head covered in hair rollers and mouthed the word “Help!” at me like I was the person who could save her life.
“Do the back for me, will ya? Please,” she said as she cooed and handed me a hot roller. Ok, evidence of her weirdness – we are, after all, related – but who coos to get their way – answer, she does. One day I’ll tell her that the cooing is not getting her what she wants, I just want her to get what she wants, so I’ll always give it to her, and would even if she never cooed again.
Did the rest of her hair, cleaned up the balcony, and took a shower before she was ready to remove her rollers. I removed the rollers for her, putting them right back on the hot posts to reheat for my use. Then I sat down on the corner of my bed to give her more room to move around as she needed to finish getting ready.
‘I’ll just lean back and close my eyes for a few minutes.’ I told my self just before I went under.
“Hellie, Hellie, come check me out – critic me, please.”
Denice cooed as she gave me a shake. She went to the bathroom, when it didn’t look like I was going to be able to wake up, and came back with a cold compress for my eyes and forehead. It worked.
A sweet vision that is my sister is what I opened my eyes to. She was wearing a long sundress that was a swirl with bright green and blues. Her shiny hair, thick salt and pepper hair, tumbled down past her shoulders in hearty curls, held back on one side of her head with a clip of white gardenias. She wore a bright white sparkly shawl over her arm – very light – it stretched out when in use to a lovely lattice stitch.
She did a pirouette so that I could see her from all angles. I fussed a bit with the back of her hair and pronounced her ready for an evening of fun. We stood side by side looking in the mirror at her reflection for nearly a minute before she lifted her eyes to my eyes in the mirror. The question in her eyes was answered without a spoken word by my heart as I smiled and gave her a squeeze. ‘Yes, she was perfect’.
“Hellie, if he asks me back to his place, I’m probably gonna go.”
She was somewhat embarrassed to mention that little side bar, so she said it in a very quiet voice and made for the door.
“Wait an ever-loving minute.”