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There’s a reason I don’t get into relationships, and it has nothing to do with being afraid of them. I just don’t want to get involved with someone I’m incompatible with.
It took me years to learn that lesson. Hitting it big with my first company placed me in a fast crowd, and after flirting with that lifestyle for too long, I realized it did nothing for me. I don’t care about being seen around town or being the most successful investor in Denver. I don’t even care about having a ton of money, although admittedly it’s easy to say that knowing that I have enough to be comfortable. But still, I lived that life after my first big investment, networking with the biggest wallets in the city, attending the best restaurants and parties, having the most beautiful woman on my arm. I won’t lie, that was a huge boost to my ego, especially after skipping college against my parents’ wishes and knowing that they expected me to fail. But over time, that life lost its appeal because it wasn’t real. No one knew me for me, they knew me for my wallet, and while I didn’t abstain from going out completely, I didn’t get to a second date if it was clear the lady wanted to date my credit card instead of me.
I park in front of her house and jog up the porch to ring the bell. Seconds later, Lisa opens the door, a pair of tight jeans hugging her long legs and a wide smile on those soft lips. Without thinking, I reach out and pull her to me, pressing our bodies together as my lips graze hers. I intend for the kiss to be gentle, sweet, but the moment we touch, heat wells up inside me, and I tilt my head for a better angle. My hands cup her face as I nudge her lips apart and find her tongue with my own. She lays her hands on my chest, matching my intensity, exploring and tasting until a groan rumbles in my throat and I start to regain my senses. Damn. I place a soft, chaste kiss on her swollen lips and slowly pull away.
“I thought the kiss came after the date,” she says, breathless.
“I couldn’t wait until after the date. Ready?” She steps outside to close the door, twisting the key until the lock clicks in place. I take her hand and lead her down the path toward my car. When she’s settled in the passenger seat, I close the door and walk to the driver’s side, gently lowering my large frame into the small car. As I buckle my seatbelt, I notice her cocked stare.
“I like the way they drive.” I chuckle, anticipating her question about why a large man would choose a small car.
“You barely seem to fit,” she observes wryly.
“I’m not that big.”
“You’re not that small, either.” She stifles a laugh.
“Thanks?”
“I just mean you’re built like an athlete, tall and lean but still muscular.”
“Is that bad?”
“No.” She studies my profile and smiles. “I just don’t understand why men like cars they barely fit in.”
“They’re fun to drive.”
“Does this drive so well it’s worth squeezing yourself into it?”
“Maybe I’ll let you drive on the way home and you can tell me.” The glint in her eye tells me she likes that idea. I knew I made a good choice with the car show.
The convention center is already bustling when we arrive and collect a map of the facility. “What do you want to see first?” I ask.
“Didn’t you want to see the sporty models so I could check out their tires?” She nudges my elbow with her own.
I take her hand, lacing my fingers with hers. “I just said that to get you to come with me.”
“You think talking about tires is the key to my heart, huh?”
“It’s the key to a first date.” I wink. “But seriously, I think you’re on to something with the whole ‘shoe’ metaphor, and I want to test my theory.” I don’t miss the smile that crosses her face after deliberately slipping in a word she, as a writer, would appreciate.
“What am I on to?”
“Well, I think for the most part women aren’t interested in tires, and men aren’t interested in shoes. But they’re kind of the same thing. If you tell me what you like about the shoes on these cars, maybe I’ll understand women and the shoes they put on their feet.”
“You think that will be the secret to understanding why women like shoes?” She looks at me skeptically.
“I think it will help me understand more about you. And maybe I’ll even gain enough insight to help some other poor guy understand women and shoes.” I kiss the back of her hand.
“I am the woman who ditched her fancy heels for a pair of tennis shoes. Are you sure I’m your best teacher?”
“I liked the tennis shoes. They looked good on you. And they even looked good with the dress. So, yes. I think you’re the perfect teacher.”
She glances at me, seemingly unsure of whether I’m serious or not, but she doesn’t protest. “Okay, let’s get started,” she says.
We spend the next several hours wandering around the showroom looking at the different models. When Lisa sees something she likes, or doesn’t, I have her explain her reasons. At first, she seems a little hesitant to offer her critique, but the more cars we look at, the more she opens up, and the more I start to follow her thought process.
I learn that, to Lisa’s mind, shoes should be proportionate to the car. Wide tires on a narrow car don’t work, nor do narrow tires work on a big truck. Thick tread is undesirable on a sporty car because it distracts from the sleek profile of the car, sort of like mixing masculine and feminine accessories. But it works on a big truck because it enhances the masculinity. As we walk around, we begin to notice shoes on people, and we discuss what we like, or don’t, about their choices. I knew it was a gamble to take Lisa on a date to talk about tires and shoes, but she seems to be having fun, and I love how she’s game to do something beyond the typical small talk over a meal. Something that gives real insight into her mind. It doesn’t hurt that we hold hands the entire time, either. This is easily the most entertaining date I’ve ever been on, and by the time we finish with the car show and sit down for a bite to eat, I’m even more enamored with her than I’d been this morning.
