“I do. I wash my hands a zillion times a day,” he says, placing his hands on the table. I think he did it so I could see that he wasn’t wearing a ring. Then he says, “Tell you what—” as he whips out his wallet. He pulls out a business card, takes a pen from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and scribbles his number on the back of it. He pushes the card across the table and says, “Here’s my number. I hope you use it.”
I crack a smile and say, “Does this supposed to make me feel special or something?”
“It should.”
“Wow,” I responded and laughed out loud. The audacity…
“Why should it make me feel special, Dr. Brixton LaSalle?”
“Because I don’t do this. Ever.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No, but it’s the truth.”
“Then why are you doing it now?”
“There’s something about your eyes that spoke to me.”
“Yet, you didn’t compliment my eyes. You complimented my dress.”
“My bad. I was saving that for our first date.”
“Wow.” Beaming, I responded, “Okay, um, well, if you don’t mind, I would like to return to my dinner in peace,” I say to get him away from my table.
“Of course.” He stands, slides a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet, places it on the table and says, “Dinner’s on me.”
“No, thank you. I can pay for my—”
He walks away from the table before I could refuse his money. He and his crew left shortly after.
Since I got some extra cash now, courtesy of Dr. Brixton LaSalle, I ordered a slice of chocolate cake for dessert and sat here looking at his neat, yet interesting handwriting on the back of a Classic Catering business card. It must’ve been an old card he had in his wallet because he told me he was a doctor, and I believe him. He gives off doctor vibes. The handwriting is a dead giveaway. I wonder what kind of doctor he is, though. What kind ofpersonhe is. If he goes around handing out his number to women all haphazardly, or if he actually took a genuine interest in me. Well, not in me but my looks because he doesn’t know me. Not sure if I’m offended by that or flattered. And he was handsome in his own right – clean-shaven, nice skin, white teeth. He smelled good. Carried himself well. Spoke well. No broken English. I had nothing bad to say or think about him other than the fact that he invited himself to my table.
The arrogance.
I used that hundred and paid for my food, left my waitress the change, and took the card Brixton scribbled his number on.
But I didn’t use it. I hadn’t planned on using it. It was a just-in-case type deal.
It wasn’t untiltwo months later that I ran into him again as he jogged toward me on the trail at Monticello Park, Christenbury’s signature park, wedding venue, and festival headquarters. Anything you wanted to do outdoors it was usually done at Monticello Park.
As he ran in my direction, all I could think about was how yummy his body looked – all hot and sweaty. It was definitely sweatpants season, and he was wearing them well – a lil’ bittoowell.
He removed his earbuds, paused his fitness watch, and said, “Ah, so we meet again.”
“Did we really meet the first time, though, because I remember it more like an intrusion?”
“You’re right. I did make my way over to your table, but I’m the kind of man who’s straightforward. I apologize for that.”
“Don’t apologize for who you are. I mean, who am I to stop you from being great?”
He smiled, his chest rising and falling swiftly beneath the sleeveless gray shirt he’s wearing. I smiled and pretended not to notice his distinct pectorals making an appearance.
We locked eyes, communicating without saying words, but so much is being said. So much.
He asked, “Do you come out here much?”
“Not as much as I would like. I just needed some of this fresh morning air.”
