cheap pint of booze or a few rocks of crack? That’s if she can wangle any customers. It’s terrible how far a person can fall, right here in one of the richest cities in the world.
Tomorrow, she could be a client, and if she is, I will treat her with dignity and respect. But now, I turn away from her. If you let them engage you, you’re a fly in their spider’s web.
The light changes from red to green and I quick-step across the street, looking both ways to make sure no one else can ambush me.
The concert is wonderful, one of the best of the year. Afterward, Jeremy and I go to Pete’s Café on South Main, a few blocks away, for drinks and a late meal. Heads turn as we make our way through the room. I’m five-ten barefoot, and tonight I’m wearing three-inch heels. Jeremy is six-five, and his mop of hair, which he wears semi-long, is so blond it’s almost white. We’re dressed formally, he still in his orchestra attire, I in a black spaghetti-strap dress that stops just below my knees. We’re a striking couple.
I hadn’t eaten after my workout, so I polish off a plate of lamb Bolognese and a Caesar salad, with a glass of the house red to wash it down. Jeremy, who is not in training, has the house cheeseburger, shoestring fries, and a couple drafts of Sam Adams. The fries are tempting, hot and sizzling, but fried foods are a no-no until I run my race.
I tell him about my day. When I get to the telephone call from Amanda Burgess, the hand holding the french fry he was about to pop into his mouth pauses in midair.
“No shit.” His brow furrows; in surprise? I don’t know. “She was probably at the concert tonight,” he informs me. “Eighth row, orchestra. She’s had her seats since the hall opened.”
The french fry disappears into his mouth. “She’s a member of one of the circles, probably Founders’. I’ve spoken with her at a few fund-raisers. She’s quite impressive.”
“I’m sure she is. I’m interested in meeting her,” I say. “And a little nervous,” I admit. I amend that. “Curious, not nervous.”
“Yeah,” Jeremy agrees. “Rich lady coming down from the clouds to mingle with the plebeians, gotta be on your best behavior.” He pokes me in the ribs and I jerk away, almost spilling my wine. “Make sure you brush and floss.”
“I’m a professional,” I remind him. I twirl strands of spaghetti onto my fork and bite in. It’s delicious, the perfect midnight meal. I drink more wine.
It’s too late to drive home, and I had a second glass of wine, so I’ll spend the night at Jeremy’s. I sleep over about once a week, and he spends one or two nights at my place, depending on our schedules. We strip off our clothes, wash up, climb into bed, and make love. There aren’t fireworks, we’re both too tired, but it’s good, comforting. I cuddle against him for a few minutes before rolling over to my side of the bed.
In less than five minutes, he’s asleep. I’m not.
We have been a couple for almost two years now. We have an easy relationship, which is part of the problem: it’s too easy. The difference in our ages has been affecting our relationship recently, but the anxieties are one-sided—I have them; he doesn’t. It’s not the fact that he’s younger than I am—two and a half years is not a big enough gap to matter—but I’m beginning to hear the ticking of my biological clock.
We’ve talked about getting married and starting a family. Jeremy isn’t sure he’s ready for fatherhood yet, whether he can handle the restrictions or responsibilities. As far as he’s concerned, he still has time before he has to settle down. I do too, but a lot less.
Because of my own history, the idea of bringing a child into the world is a complex issue for me. I’m still not sure that given the liberty to do so, I would. But I would like to be able to have that choice, and I don’t, at least not now. And when Jeremy decides he wants to be a daddy, will it be too late for me
Tomorrow, she could be a client, and if she is, I will treat her with dignity and respect. But now, I turn away from her. If you let them engage you, you’re a fly in their spider’s web.
The light changes from red to green and I quick-step across the street, looking both ways to make sure no one else can ambush me.
The concert is wonderful, one of the best of the year. Afterward, Jeremy and I go to Pete’s Café on South Main, a few blocks away, for drinks and a late meal. Heads turn as we make our way through the room. I’m five-ten barefoot, and tonight I’m wearing three-inch heels. Jeremy is six-five, and his mop of hair, which he wears semi-long, is so blond it’s almost white. We’re dressed formally, he still in his orchestra attire, I in a black spaghetti-strap dress that stops just below my knees. We’re a striking couple.
I hadn’t eaten after my workout, so I polish off a plate of lamb Bolognese and a Caesar salad, with a glass of the house red to wash it down. Jeremy, who is not in training, has the house cheeseburger, shoestring fries, and a couple drafts of Sam Adams. The fries are tempting, hot and sizzling, but fried foods are a no-no until I run my race.
I tell him about my day. When I get to the telephone call from Amanda Burgess, the hand holding the french fry he was about to pop into his mouth pauses in midair.
“No shit.” His brow furrows; in surprise? I don’t know. “She was probably at the concert tonight,” he informs me. “Eighth row, orchestra. She’s had her seats since the hall opened.”
The french fry disappears into his mouth. “She’s a member of one of the circles, probably Founders’. I’ve spoken with her at a few fund-raisers. She’s quite impressive.”
“I’m sure she is. I’m interested in meeting her,” I say. “And a little nervous,” I admit. I amend that. “Curious, not nervous.”
“Yeah,” Jeremy agrees. “Rich lady coming down from the clouds to mingle with the plebeians, gotta be on your best behavior.” He pokes me in the ribs and I jerk away, almost spilling my wine. “Make sure you brush and floss.”
“I’m a professional,” I remind him. I twirl strands of spaghetti onto my fork and bite in. It’s delicious, the perfect midnight meal. I drink more wine.
It’s too late to drive home, and I had a second glass of wine, so I’ll spend the night at Jeremy’s. I sleep over about once a week, and he spends one or two nights at my place, depending on our schedules. We strip off our clothes, wash up, climb into bed, and make love. There aren’t fireworks, we’re both too tired, but it’s good, comforting. I cuddle against him for a few minutes before rolling over to my side of the bed.
In less than five minutes, he’s asleep. I’m not.
We have been a couple for almost two years now. We have an easy relationship, which is part of the problem: it’s too easy. The difference in our ages has been affecting our relationship recently, but the anxieties are one-sided—I have them; he doesn’t. It’s not the fact that he’s younger than I am—two and a half years is not a big enough gap to matter—but I’m beginning to hear the ticking of my biological clock.
We’ve talked about getting married and starting a family. Jeremy isn’t sure he’s ready for fatherhood yet, whether he can handle the restrictions or responsibilities. As far as he’s concerned, he still has time before he has to settle down. I do too, but a lot less.
Because of my own history, the idea of bringing a child into the world is a complex issue for me. I’m still not sure that given the liberty to do so, I would. But I would like to be able to have that choice, and I don’t, at least not now. And when Jeremy decides he wants to be a daddy, will it be too late for me
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