Penelope
Our walk to the restaurant was at first quiet. Timothy seemed troubled by something, but all at once, his smile came back full force, and he apologized for not giving me his full attention. Then, as if he’d suddenly come alive again, he showered me with questions and answered mine with an ease that told me that his words held no lies. The walk became enjoyable, and holding his hand, such a high school thing to do, was more pleasurable than I remembered it being.
The date progressed well after that. Timothy’s conversation was light and fun, and I could tell that he was interested in me, because he listened. He also remembered the things we’d discussed at the Simons’ house. Despite his wealth and his statue of David appearance, I began to believe that Timothy was someone I could feel comfortable with. I wondered why no one had snapped him up. He would surely be the most popular male at any function. And yet, Judy and Simone had both mentioned that no one had clicked with him. How was that possible?
At one point, I asked about the restaurant we were heading to. Timothy named a place I’d never heard of. I hoped my fancy dress wouldn’t be out of place there. But he was dressed well: his suit had been specially cut for him, his tie was silk, and the shoes he was wearing were obviously of an expensive Italian brand. Cara’s artists friends had cued me in on such things. I wasn’t a snob, of course, but thanks to their instruction, I knew how to tell such things.
When we arrived, it reminded me of Simone’s fancy styling salon. No doubt it was the number one place to be with its thick dark red carpet, elaborate crystal chandeliers, and the twinkling lights all about which gave it an almost magical feel. The host seated us immediately, and the maître d was at our table practically before we sat down. The man gave a slight bow to Timothy and then assured us that the waiter he’d especially chosen for us would meet all our needs.
My friends and I had dined out rarely, but when we did it was at pizza parlors, Mideastern, or Asian restaurants. We ‘d never gone anywhere with cloth napkins, white tablecloths, sparkling water goblets, and maître d’s. I swallowed hard, nervous as a sheep surrounded by wolves. Others had looked up when we entered. Eyes appraised, scouring my dress and Timothy’s style. Even when we sat down and the maître d left, the glances continued, somewhat obtrusively as if their interest were an illicit secret.