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“Hello, Victor. Have you been waiting long?”
“No, I just got here a few minutes before you. You look incredible tonight.”
“Thank you very much, Victor. You’re looking very handsome yourself.”
“Thank you. But I feel like I’m not dressed appropriately for the evening.” I was dressed casually, but Natasha was wearing a black and pale pink color block, close-fitting dress that covered her svelte but luscious shape that moved me in ways no woman ever had before.
“Don’t feel like that. I’m the one who is overdressed. I was working late on a project and I didn’t have a chance to go home and change. I’m sorry.”
I looked Natasha over from her beautifully done hair to the pumps on her feet. “Don’t be.”
We were escorted to a table and shortly thereafter, the waitress arrived with water. She gave us our menus and asked what we were drinking.
“I’ll have a Pomegranate Margarita Martini, please.” I looked at Natasha. Her eyes were driving me insane.
; “Excellent choice,” our waitress said.
“What’s a Pomegranate Margarita Martini?”
“It’s served with Patrón Silver Tequila, Patrón Citrónge, and pomegranate juice,” the waitress said.
“I’ll try one of those, too, please.”
Natasha smiled. “Adventurous.”
“I am,” I said confidently.
Once our waitress had taken our drink orders, she told us about the daily specials. “Oak-Grilled Rack of Lamb; and that is served with caramelized root vegetables, Yukon Gold mashed potatoes and pomegranate sauce.”
“That’s sounds tasty,” Natasha commented.
“Believe me, it is. It’s one of my favorites. Also we have Oak-Grilled Filet Mignon with harvest mushrooms, roasted tomato, broccolini, and Yukon Gold mash in a red wine sauce.”
Once again, Natasha and I looked into each other’s eyes. “What do you think?” she asked.
“I think I could eat a rack of lamb.”
Then she smiled that smile and looked at the menu. “I’ll have the Wood-Grilled Pork Tenderloin.”
Natasha closed her menu and handed it back to our waitress; then she took a sip of her water and said, “So, who are you, Victor?”
“Excuse me?” Her question caught me off guard.
“I’m curious to know: what type of man goes to see Carmen Jones by himself on a Monday night?”
“He’s the type of guy that used to spend hours as a child, rubbing his grandmothers feet, and watching old movies.” I paused and leaned forward. Her sweet scent was intoxicating. “The same could be said for you. I am desperate to get to know the type of woman who goes to see Carmen Jones on a Monday night. And by herself, at that.”
Natasha leaned forward. “She’s the type of woman that grew up watching old movies with her father and two sisters.”
“Your father likes the classics, too?” I laughed politely, and wondered if her mother ran out on her, too.
“My father’s a historian.” Natasha paused. “He likes anything old.” Then she sat back and smiled.
This time I laughed because it was funny and I wondered if she was. “So you’re Dad’s into history.”
“Yes, he is very into history. My father was a history professor at Princeton.”
