Page 34 of Woman on the Verge
Christ, what have I gotten myself into?
“You don’t even know me,” she says. Because, really, he doesn’t.
“I get a good vibe. It can’t just be me who felt a connection, right?”
He looks so earnest. It’s the eyes—those eyes! She has never met someone so sincere, so forthright, so honest. Yes, she barely knows him, but she can say that with confidence.
“It’s not just you,” she says.
It’s true. She does feel a connection. But she is older than him, arguably wiser. For all they know, this “connection” is just lust. They are awash in dopamine, stupid from it.
“Okay then,” he says.
The waitress brings their food, places the three plates on the table in front of them.
“This looks delicious,” Katrina says.
They take their first forkfuls, the sharing of entrées not nearly as awkward as she thought it would be. She feels comfortable with him ina way that’s hard to explain, almost as if she’s known him before, like they are old childhood friends who have reunited.
“I love a woman who can eat,” he says.
“So do I.”
They don’t talk much while they eat. When they’ve made a significant dent, he puts down his fork and wipes his mouth with his napkin, then says, “I just realized your car is still parked at the bar.”
“Shit,” she says, imagining the ticket stuck under a windshield wiper. There are all sorts of parking rules in this city.
“I’ll walk there with you. If there’s a ticket, I insist on paying it.”
She sits back in her chair, hands on her full belly.
“Seriously, you are too nice,” she says. “But you don’t need to pay my ticket.”
“I want to,” he says. “I’ll consider it the price to pay for the pleasure of your company.”
“Okay, that just makes me sound like a hooker.”
He laughs again, this one big and hearty.
“You crack me up, Kat,” he says.
Kat.
He pays their bill, and they walk past his apartment to the bar. Her car is the lone one in the lot, and amazingly, there is no ticket affixed to the window.
“It’s a miracle,” she says.
“I wouldn’t say that.” He points to the sign explaining the parking rules. “You abided by the rules, that’s all.”
“My abiding by the rules is a miracle.”
She fumbles around in her purse for her keys. She would be lying if she said she didn’t feel sad saying goodbye to him. She has felt better, more alive, in the past twelve hours than she has in the past few years.
“I’m really sad to see you go,” he says.
“I am too.” A truth amid so many lies.
“I still think you should play hooky from your regular life.”
