A Likely Story

There seemed a moment at which it became more clear: there was a distinct difference between objectively good-looking and astonishingly good-looking. This too was apparent: Maurice was the latter. I had fritted away at dates, some decent, some not, and the only ones worthwhile ended up with me being dropped suddenly for another woman like me, neither objectively good-looking nor astonishingly good-looking. I paid it little mind. Two years out of a serious relationship and a seriously complicated one at that and I wasn’t worried about the time flying by solo flying. It was what it was, but what this was was peculiar. What did he see in me?

“May I see the wine list?” Maurice purred the query to the waiter, a shy young man with a heavy dose of nervousness on his weary eyelids when he looked at his formidable patron. Maurice’s perfectly coiffed hair was a spectacle. He was extremely muscular, but not grossly so. A hard-cut jaw and a dashing twinkle on his white teeth that could barely match the one in his eye capped off a perfectly symmetrical face.

None of this was lost upon the waiter, who, maybe at four or five years younger than I, looked as if he was finishing his Masters in Anthropology or spent all his time on computer game subReddits.

Maurice had let me choose the restaurant. “No, Esther, when I take a lady out I take the lady out where the lady wants to go,” he had said. I sprang on the opportunity, I had my favorite restaurant and chances where nine times out of ten I couldn’t afford it. So, again, what did he see in me?

“Do you have a favorite wine? The restaurant isn’t the only delectable you are to choose.” Maurice’s swarthy, velvet voice cooed across the tiny, white-covered table.

“I don’t drink, sorry. But feel free, Maurice, you can-” The interruption was the first warning.

“None of that, lovely Esther, one glass is one glass, and to pair with the veal? I think the Merlot 2014 would do nicely.”

It was against my better judgement, but I broke at that moment. Truth is, I did drink, I just didn’t feel like getting sloppy in front of this specimen of a man quite yet, and my tolerance as a ballet dancer was particularly low. Coupled with my plain face and the anxiety it was giving me, chances are I’d ruin things. But, like I said, I caved, and the wine was ordered.

He was pouring the glasses and the second warning sign popped up, this one far more concerning. Or, perhaps, far more obvious, like flashing red lights from a fire alarm instead of the deep stink of smoke. My glass was filled to the brim. His? One fifth full.

It was my turn to query handsome Maurice.

“Where are you from, Maurice?”

“I was born in Athens, actually.” His eyebrow raise seemed less sexy and more arrogant at this point. “I moved here after growing up in Orange County.”

“Georgia or Greece?”

Maurice let out a knowing chuckle.

“You’re smart Esther, you’re smart and you’re sexy.”

I smiled my most charming smile, which was returned by my date. Maurice’s teeth twinkled not this time, at least not in the same way as they had.

“Thank you, I’ve had to be smart. So, Georgia or Greece?” I wasn’t feeling uneasy, not in the slightest, but perturbed about the levels of wine poured and the implications thereof.

“I’ll tell you when you try the wine, if you couldn’t guess already.” Again, Maurice was a pillar of charm.

“I’ll try the wine when you go get the piece of food out of your teeth.” I smiled, perhaps not charmingly so, but instead couldn't help but my grin be impish, clever.

Maurice turned red as a lobster and his left eye-twitched, smile disappearing. “Excuse me,” he muttered as he hurriedly left the table for the restroom.

It was then that the waiter approached once more. He nervously looked at me and mumbled, “And how is the wine tasting, Miss?”

I grinned back, pointed at the unhinged difference between the pours and looked at his name tag. “Gus? Gus, do you see something wrong with this picture.”

His eyes finally met mine. “Yes, Miss, I suppose, I suppose I see something a little off kilter.”

I picked up the wine bottle and poured more into Maurice’s glass, equalizing the amounts with both filled to the brim. “Do you have steady hands, Gus?”

A confused look was added to his perpetual nervousness. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

I grinned at him, trying to withhold any devilishness from my smile and failing, no doubt. “Gus, would you mind switching the glasses around?”

Gus’ eyes got wide as he realized what I was hinting at. He nodded curtly, picked up both wine glasses, and traded their spots before walking away in a hurry.

Maurice was back momentarily, and the date began. It continued, as did the eating and drinking. However, one thing was remarkably amiss. I made a point to drink at the same speed as Maurice, seemingly eager now to ease his shaken nerves at some food in his teeth that he couldn’t find because it wasn’t there. The same speed, sip for sip. Maurice was getting sloshed, hammered, pissed, sloppy, and fast. I was stone-cold sober.

By the end of the night it was clear not only what had happened, but what Maurice’s intentions were and how he went about them as well as that it was Athens, Georgia he harkened from. I finished my plate, barely understanding the drunken, drugged spectacle of the man’s words. Sincerely, I felt no shame in what I had done.

Gus had returned to our table a surprising amount, each time looking at me with not only more respect, but relief. Maurice was nearly sleeping on the table by the time I asked Gus how he was getting home. Gus smirked, the first real smile I had received from him, and wryly said, “The cops are on their way. They know what he did.”

I smiled back and stood up to leave, setting a hefty tip upon the table. “Dating is the worst, Gus.”

“Miss?”

I looked back at Gus. “Why are you so nervous, Gus?”

“Well, what’s your name, or, I do know your name, I read your article in the paper about, you know, the opinion piece, well, lots of them, I liked the one about not chopping down the trees in the park to make a new paved path, and it’s like, I mean, Miss Esther--”

I couldn’t help but smile at this young man. “Just Esther.”

“Okay, fine, sure, Esther, I was wondering if I could meet you to interview you for, well, I’m getting my Masters in Anthropology, and if I could meet, and, you know, interview you I would-”

“Gus, why don’t you take me on a date instead?”

Gus grinned. “I have a discount here,” he said with the cutest mixture of honesty and excitement. And, also, a dash of impish delight.

I too felt excitement.