the rent is cheaper than where I live now.
He went to University of Chicago in Hyde Park and worked as a mechanic through
college and law school. I learn more about Drake than I have ever shared with
myself with any guy in a fifteen minute drive. He pulls his car up to the
entrance and a valet attendant immediately runs up and opens my door for me. I
precariously attempt to not give him a crotch shot and gracefully step out of
the car while balancing on my heels. It’s not as easy as I make it look and I
feel relieved, as though if I pass that small test the rest of the evening will
be a piece of cake.
Everything inside Crimson looks
like a palace and is, of course, entirely done in red. I heard something once
a few years ago when it opened that the owner had paid four million dollars
just for the décor and had entire walls flown over from Tunisia or Morocco or
some other exotic country I’ll never make it to. Crimson is as close as I’ll
get, so I decide to really enjoy it and pretend I’ve been whisked off to some
faraway land. We are led by a gorgeous hostess to cushy chairs that are low to
the ground where you lounge while you eat. It probably isn’t conducive to
digestion, but it gives you the impression that you’re being pampered and
relaxed. Our table is privately shielded with gauzy gold curtains that are
draped from the ceiling to surround us in a personal cove. I feel like I’m in
an opium den, but it’s cozy. I tuck my legs beneath me and open the gold
leather menu and bite my lip to prevent myself from gasping at the prices.
Everything sounds rich and expensive, from the coconut cumin lobster ravioli to
the braised truffle chili duck confit. I’m way out of my league, but Kate
would be too, and I am holding her within me so hard I’m trembling. We order
some $14 cocktails that are stronger than they taste and thankfully I relax a
bit. Mine is a dark violent orange color and tastes like how I would imagine
Hawaii does. I find myself nibbling on parmesan edamame and peanut-coconut
olives. It’s all strange and wonderful. The flavors and alcohol are intoxicating
me like nothing I’ve ever had before. I think to myself about how if I eat
this way more often I probably wouldn’t be as drunk and oversexed as I am. A
life of cheap food and liquor will leave you feeling empty, I suppose. I am on
my second fancy martini when our meal comes, and I forget what I even ordered.
There’s a hunk of meat in front of me that looks like something Fred Flintstone
would eat. I am suddenly starving and can’t really remember the last time I
actually ate a meal. A can of soup before bed doesn’t count. It was very
likely after Jack’s funeral. The effect of actual food is mildly sobering and
it’s a new feeling for me, and suddenly I realize I’m getting a strange and
curious stare from my dinner companion. I completely forgot he was there.
“What?” Having to pause between bites is killing me.
“You’re eating with your hands,” he
says. I look down. So I am. There’s also a trail of grease running down my
arm. Oh yes, I ordered the lamb shank. I femininely lick the grease off my
arm from elbow to wrist with a mild attempt to be seductive yet humorous and
note the way Drake is looking at me. I realize the effect was intended to
intoxicate him with my charms but I feel myself getting slightly aroused. Dammit,
what was his crazy effect on me? I can’t remember the last time a guy made me
feel this way, and I’m terrified and thrilled. I rest a bit on the cushion so
I am closer to Drake under the low table and lean back against the pillows
behind me. I decide I’m full and likely to explode if I consume more of the
dead flesh that was my meal.
“Shall we talk business?” I ask
him. Drake raises one eyebrow, shrugs, and reaches into his briefcase. He
pulls out the stack of paperwork and slides it over toward me across the
He went to University of Chicago in Hyde Park and worked as a mechanic through
college and law school. I learn more about Drake than I have ever shared with
myself with any guy in a fifteen minute drive. He pulls his car up to the
entrance and a valet attendant immediately runs up and opens my door for me. I
precariously attempt to not give him a crotch shot and gracefully step out of
the car while balancing on my heels. It’s not as easy as I make it look and I
feel relieved, as though if I pass that small test the rest of the evening will
be a piece of cake.
Everything inside Crimson looks
like a palace and is, of course, entirely done in red. I heard something once
a few years ago when it opened that the owner had paid four million dollars
just for the décor and had entire walls flown over from Tunisia or Morocco or
some other exotic country I’ll never make it to. Crimson is as close as I’ll
get, so I decide to really enjoy it and pretend I’ve been whisked off to some
faraway land. We are led by a gorgeous hostess to cushy chairs that are low to
the ground where you lounge while you eat. It probably isn’t conducive to
digestion, but it gives you the impression that you’re being pampered and
relaxed. Our table is privately shielded with gauzy gold curtains that are
draped from the ceiling to surround us in a personal cove. I feel like I’m in
an opium den, but it’s cozy. I tuck my legs beneath me and open the gold
leather menu and bite my lip to prevent myself from gasping at the prices.
Everything sounds rich and expensive, from the coconut cumin lobster ravioli to
the braised truffle chili duck confit. I’m way out of my league, but Kate
would be too, and I am holding her within me so hard I’m trembling. We order
some $14 cocktails that are stronger than they taste and thankfully I relax a
bit. Mine is a dark violent orange color and tastes like how I would imagine
Hawaii does. I find myself nibbling on parmesan edamame and peanut-coconut
olives. It’s all strange and wonderful. The flavors and alcohol are intoxicating
me like nothing I’ve ever had before. I think to myself about how if I eat
this way more often I probably wouldn’t be as drunk and oversexed as I am. A
life of cheap food and liquor will leave you feeling empty, I suppose. I am on
my second fancy martini when our meal comes, and I forget what I even ordered.
There’s a hunk of meat in front of me that looks like something Fred Flintstone
would eat. I am suddenly starving and can’t really remember the last time I
actually ate a meal. A can of soup before bed doesn’t count. It was very
likely after Jack’s funeral. The effect of actual food is mildly sobering and
it’s a new feeling for me, and suddenly I realize I’m getting a strange and
curious stare from my dinner companion. I completely forgot he was there.
“What?” Having to pause between bites is killing me.
“You’re eating with your hands,” he
says. I look down. So I am. There’s also a trail of grease running down my
arm. Oh yes, I ordered the lamb shank. I femininely lick the grease off my
arm from elbow to wrist with a mild attempt to be seductive yet humorous and
note the way Drake is looking at me. I realize the effect was intended to
intoxicate him with my charms but I feel myself getting slightly aroused. Dammit,
what was his crazy effect on me? I can’t remember the last time a guy made me
feel this way, and I’m terrified and thrilled. I rest a bit on the cushion so
I am closer to Drake under the low table and lean back against the pillows
behind me. I decide I’m full and likely to explode if I consume more of the
dead flesh that was my meal.
“Shall we talk business?” I ask
him. Drake raises one eyebrow, shrugs, and reaches into his briefcase. He
pulls out the stack of paperwork and slides it over toward me across the
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