11.27 The Abyss of WonderLand
The risotto was okay. I don’t think it matched whatever the amount of its high price tag. (The girls and I could probably have bought dinner for all three of us, plus leftovers to take home with the price of my risotto. And that wasn’t including the wine.) When we got to the point that the restaurant tried to sell us dessert, I opted out. Although they had Lava Cake, one of my personal favorites, I just didn’t have the urge to expand my tummy in the slinky black dress I was wearing. Besides, the risotto had left me feeling stuffed, even though I’d only eaten a third of what was on my plate. But piggy me had also nibbled (consumed) a second bun. That was after the waiter had exchanged our basket of buns for fresh ones, just out of the oven. (Temptation overload. The way those buns smelled, oh, my!) Timothy agreed that he didn’t really want anything to top off the meal either, so we opted for coffee and sipped the delicious brew with pleasure. I took note that Timothy drank his just as I did, black — no cream, artificial sweetener, or sugar. The night was still young. He suggested we visit a nearby nightclub. I’d never been to one before so it sounded like a good idea. But when we walked there, the first thing I noticed was that there was a long line of people waiting to get in. Timothy walked us straight up to the front, flashed some kind of card at the bouncer, and we were waved in. The power of money? Or was it something else: like connections, prestige, bribes? Always curious, I wanted to ask, but we were already heading inside, and Timothy was easing my coat off me. My first reaction to the place was an ear-cringe for the volume. Music blared from speakers hung on every wall. The noise was vibrant in its beat, although the loudness attacked at a primary level, like a kindergarten playground. Screams, laughter, giggles, clinking glasses, feet stamping and low-toned conversation seemed to echo the noise all around us. Big screens clung to the wall beside the speakers, displaying scenes around the club. Mostly they showed the contortions of dancers, many of whom were practicing pre-sex body rubbings against their partner. The costumes the women were wearing displayed firm breasts, most of them heavily perspiring and almost completely dangling outside of their overly tight and thin dresses, some which were more like transparent shower curtains than clothing. In the center of the arena, up on a high stage, stood a rock group in shaggy jeans displaying rips and gouges. Their tees had been painted with graffiti. One of the men was growling into a microphone while massaging his privates. I did not belong in this place. My reaction hit with a wave of revulsion. I despised everything the place stood for: the noise, the tension, the anger, and the way hundreds of bodies were pressed too closely together in what seemed more riot-like or sexual orgasm than a simple, pleasurable night out on the town.
11.26 The Abyss of WonderLand
My glass had been filled with white wine. I can’t remember what kind of wine it was, but it was nice. I knew I’d need to be careful about sipping it. I asked for ice water in case I got thirsty from all the salty fish. The waiter had placed hors d’oeuvres on our table: green olives, carrot and celery sticks, green and red peppers and a bowl full of some kind of sauce, which I skipped. But those buns! I could have made a meal on them. Fresh bread straight from the oven was a particular weakness of mine. I limited myself to one, however. Piggies probably never got invited on second dates. Timothy and I started chatting about current events. I found my date to be knowledgeable, much more so than I was. I could tell him more about the facts I’d read in novels than what I’d seen on recent news broadcasts. But instead of being negative about my lacking knowledge concerning the stock market, politicians, and what sports teams were in the playoffs, Timothy praised my reading, commenting that he needed to broaden his own knowledge of the classics. “I can think of nothing better than to snuggle up with you, each of us reading a book while the fire keeps us toasty warm, and the cat purrs on the rug in front of our hearth,” he said. I laughed. First of all, I didn’t have a fireplace, so no raging fire, and I’d never had a pet. My mother hadn’t liked cats or dogs. She’d said they were messy and gave nothing back for all their expensive care. Now that my roommates were gone, I supposed I might be tempted to adopt a cat. I liked that purring part, but cats scratched people and furniture. How did you get the purring without the scratching? We discussed that issue for a bit, with Timothy admitting that he knew nothing about domesticated animals, having never had a pet either. I sighed and then thought about sharing my life with a soft, gentle cat. I could pet it and cuddle with it. That would be great, really. “And what is your favorite kind of cat?” Timothy asked, after I admitted that I might actually decide to get one. “Siamese, Persians, or pound cats?” I shrugged, then shook my head. We were eating our risotto by then, and although I’d vowed not to drink all my wine, the waiter kept topping it off, so I’d lost any sense of how much I’d had. I pushed my glass away and pulled my ice water closer. “I have no favorite. I guess I’ve never investigated the cat world. Maybe we could do so together?” That was stepping into muddy waters. My timid lion persona didn’t like that and tried to jerk me back. But I could tell that Timothy was pleased that I’d suggested it. “Tomorrow?” he said. “Yes. Let’s.” Okay, I’d jumped into the whole pet thing with the rapidity of a daring individual, but in my new hairstyle and makeup, not to mention my expensive dress and brand-new coat, which Timothy had handed to the restaurant greeter with the nonchalance of someone expecting such service, I felt audacious.
11.25 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Eyes follow you everywhere, my love.” Timothy whispered, drawing my hand to his side. “As long as their owners do not attempt to steal you away from me, I will ignore them.” I made a low-pitched noise of disagreement, pft! I guess you’d call it. Whatever it was, it made Timothy smile. “You’re adorable, Penelope. I don’t know how I lasted all these years without you. You make me laugh.” I’m not sure that was what I was aiming for, but at least it was something better than the emotion I’d gotten from the guys I’d met before who either yawned or fidgeted while searching their phones for something every time I opened my mouth. The waiter miraculously appeared, handed us the opened menu, took Timothy’s selection of wine, then moved away. I started reading. No prices. That was the first thing I noticed, and then I examined the offerings. Truffles, pork tenderloin with apricots and cranberries, cognac cream sauces. . . the goat cheese dishes were so prevalent I figured that they must have a goat out in the backyard. Thankfully, seeing my confusion, Timothy offered to choose for both of us. After checking with me about any allergies, he ordered us some kind of sea food risotto that he said contained a variety of sea life. That sounded interesting. But first the waiter delivered our house salad, an expression that always made my friends and me laugh. (We’d decided that house salad should actually be shavings of dried house paint, a joke no one else appreciated.) But this house salad had delicious treats mixed in with its very fresh greens and shavings of carrot and purple cabbage. In addition, there were glazed pecans, tiny cherry tomatoes, small balls of goat cheese, and a couple of beet slices which decorated the salad. And, they brought out warm buns, which were the most delicious buns I’d ever tasted. I guess I was oohing and aahing, although I hadn’t meant to do anything that gauche. But Timothy stopped that with a gentle remark about how a woman who savored food with an abundance of admiring sounds, was said to equally appreciate the arts of the bedroom. It took a moment for that to filter in, but when I understood, I kept my appreciation silent. Timothy, watching my face, just laughed softly, then picked up my hand and kissed it.
11.24 The Abyss of WonderLand
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.
11.23 The Abyss of WonderLand
Timothy I had chosen a restaurant that we could walk to, so that Penelope wouldn’t be intimidated by my vehicle and driver. Besides, it was a lovely evening. A pleasant walk would suit us for getting to know each other. Plus, I’d have an excuse to put my arm around her or at least to hold her hand. The restaurant had been recommended by several people I knew, and, according to Andrew wasn’t easy to get seating on a busy night, but I knew that Andrew would get us in. That was his specialty, one could say. Andrew had not only made the reservation but had demanded a pleasant corner for us that was out of public viewing and in a romantic stop. Andrew usually took care of such things for me, although he was not my servant. He and I had been together a long time, which made him almost more like a brother. But he still liked to make me feel that I needed him. I suppose I did. Who else could understand what we’d been through? Of course, I didn’t get off easy for such finesse. I had to endure a bit of ribbing about my “lady love.” Andrew insisted that I would find her boring during our dinner. He predicted that we would split up before the week was up. I kept a smile on my face throughout his lecture and warnings, but Andrew could tell that I wasn’t enjoying his haranguing. I suppose that I should mention that Andrew had once been burned very badly by love. His marriage didn’t last. And so, ever after that, he’d become bitter and distrustful. He also didn’t seem to believe that my family genes could inform me instantly Penelope was the one. I found his disbelief strange because he knew a lot of things about me, secrets that no one else knew. To doubt the gifts of my heritage seemed difficult for me to understand. But I quickly brushed his misgivings away and returned to the moment at hand. Penelope was mine for the night. My lovely Penelope, my future bride.
11.22 The Abyss of WonderLand
“I hear, Penelope. I will do my best not to trample on your independence and the strength you have built up to protect yourself against a world that trifles with your emotions.” He reached forward and drew me back against his body. My limbs felt too numb to resist him. I merely moved where he put me, up against his warm and very firm chest. “I will tread cautiously if you will tell me your needs. Promise me that you will let me know if there is anything I can buy you or do for you. It will be my pleasure to perform such deeds for you. It will be I who is reaping the benefit of pleasing you, don’t you see?”` I tried to pull back, but his hold was steady — not overpowering. I had no fear that he would carry it beyond what it was, but still I had to state my case. “No, Timothy. It’s too much. I can’t offer you anything in exchange.” He laughed gently, a laugh that permeated my body and made me want to draw even closer, even though I don’t think an index card could have slid in between our bodies at that moment. “Your presence at my side is all I ask. Let me be your friend, your . . . whatever you are willing to allow me to be.” He released me slightly. Then, once more, he took my hand and lowered his head. With his eyes on mine, he touched his lips to my palm. My defensive postures were over. I could barely stand. No one should have that kind of power. Where was the stubbornness I’d once been told I possessed? “Come, we shall dine together now. No more than that, not until all your fears are completely allayed.”
11.21 The Abyss of WonderLand
Most people don’t concentrate fully on the person they’re standing with. They accept that presence, occupy the space beside them, perhaps, but there’s a sort of wall between them, an identity for each of them that isn’t shared. Even with the space I’d set between us, there was no distance. We were in danger of merging, of becoming one soul. I know that makes no sense, but there was something in the way Timothy looked at me that told me that he was filling himself with my presence, breathing in or imbibing, so to speak. I stepped forward without meaning to and placed my hand on his chest. I don’t know why. I wasn’t brazen. I was the cowardly lion of the Wiz. But, touching him felt right. It felt like the stroke of my hand on his suit jacket allowed more of that transference, that strange soul merging. The French have a word we Americans have accepted as part of our language. We now label the feeling déjà vu, or literally, already seen. It’s a strange familiarity with something, as if we’ve been in that exact situation before or felt we knew a person even though we hadn’t. It’s probably only our brains playing tricks on us. But at that moment, déjà vu was the sensation I was feeling. It was if I’d always known Timothy, as if we’d done this all before and had this same conversation over and over. My hand lay still on his chest. I started to remove it, but he stopped me. “I like having you touch me,” he said. “I like our connection, this familiarity. You feel it, too. I can tell.” “Yes,” I admitted rather shyly. “But, I don’t want to. I need to slow this down. You make me dizzy. And you gave me too many presents. Please, don’t . . .” “Dizzy? That describes my feelings for you, too. I am dizzy with the strength of my love for you.” I jerked my hand away, disappointed that he was back at it again, confusing me with his gushing outpourings of love. I rejected those words, was suspicious of them, and felt a sudden distrust of Timothy whenever he said things like that. “I feel your fear. I am sorry. But try to understand: Money has little value to one who has failed to find the true essence of life. But now I have done so. I have found you. You are that essence. “I want to give you much more than I have done today, but I will heed your words. I seemed to have troubled your soul. I can feel that unease. I do not want that.” He sighed like a puppy who’d been whipped. My heart almost broke looking into his sad eyes. “I . . .”
11.20 The Abyss of WonderLand
“Thank you, Simone, for bringing her the coat I requested,” Timothy said, glancing at the end of the couch, where the coat lay draped over the couch back, looking quite at home. “And I would guess that your skills with hair and make-up were provided?” Simone nodded. “That was my pleasure. Penelope is a joy to work with.” The woman walked toward the door, then paused. “Good night, Penelope. Enjoy your evening. I will see you next week, perhaps?” Why would she see me next week? I opened my mouth to ask, but she’d already slid through the door, closing it behind her. I turned to look at Timothy. I’d thought him incredibly handsome at Judy and Ed’s house the night before, but this evening he was a chiseled work of art, a David come to life. I started to say something admiring, but he swung me into a kiss before I could speak. When I came up for air, I realized that I hadn’t yet thanked him for all the deliveries. “Thank you for . . . I pointed to the roses. But about all these presents,” I started. “Ah, good. I see you got the roses. Do you like them? No allergies, I hope.” “No. I mean, no allergies. And yes, I love them. They are remarkably fragrant and lovely, but . . .” “And the chocolates? I said I’d give you chocolates. It is appropriate for proper wooing.” “Yes. Thank you. They’re in the refrigerator. Would you like some?” He smiled. “We are on our way to dinner. I do not care to indulge at the moment. What about the fruit basket? Was it pleasing, as well?” “Stop. Timothy, thank you for everything, but I don’t need presents. You have given me too much. We’ve only just met. This is our first date. It’s not appropriate for me to . . .” “Nonsense. I intend to shower you with many gifts. You are special, and I wish to lavish everything your heart desires upon those bare and delightful shoulders.” I had moved away from him after his kiss, but he’d been inching his way back towards me as he spoke. I hadn’t been aware really, thinking so hard about how to be tactful, but with his approximation, I once more felt the strength of him, his great height, and the way he was looking down into me as if he wanted to memorize everything about me. And then there was the way my body responded to him, urging me back into his arms. Quite alarming, really. Fighting the compulsion, I took another step back. “Timothy, I like you, but I don’t know you. Please, slow down. No more talk like that.”
11.19 The Abyss of WonderLand
I laughed. “Godiva chocolates — do you want some, or all. I really shouldn’t be eating such things.” I giggled, hoping she wouldn’t scold me about my weight, like everyone else did. “No, thank you, dear. That would insult Timothy.” “He also sent me a basket of fruit. At least I can eat that without needing to exercise twenty minutes per piece. Would you like some fruit?” She looked at me strangely. “Penelope, it is obvious that Timothy likes you just the way you are. I wouldn’t worry about dieting overly. Although exercise is always good for everyone, but no, thank you, dear.” She rose up in a feline movement of grace, then walked over to remove the towel from my head. “Let’s start on the hair, and then I’ll do your makeup.” So I was to be made up like a robotic doll, perfect for the man coming to pick me up? Something about that rubbed me wrong, but I didn’t want to hurt Simone’s feelings. After all, she’d given up a weekend evening to come bring me a warm coat, and now she was offering to beautify me once again. How could I complain? I sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, and she began the process of making me presentable. She had just finished her last tease and touch of lipstick when the doorbell rang. “Ah, Timothy has arrived,” Simone announced. “Time for me to leave.” She leaned forward and gave me the kind of kiss that didn’t touch but made the smooching sound on both cheeks. “Thank you,” I said. The door began to creak open in slow motion. I’d thought I had locked it after Simone arrived. That was an automatic habit. Not that the area I lived in was rough or unsafe, but almost everywhere was dangerous nowadays. “May I come in?” Timothy asked, when he saw me watching. His eyes flashed with appreciation at the sight of me in my new dress. “You are exquisite,” he said, with a pronounced bow. It hit me then, how unDarcy Timothy was. He was polite, at least to me. And his European manner of bowing to me and kissing my hand reeked of old-world wooing. But, although I’d thought he was full of himself, conceited, and rude, he had proven to be far from that in our conversations. Perhaps, I should say that he was more than Darcy yet still seemed to harbor some of the mannerisms of Jane Austin’s time. I guess the latter was kind of nice.
11.18 The Abyss of WonderLand
“I don’t think I should be accepting all these gifts from a man I just met. It’s . . .it’s. . . well, unseemly.” I know that was a word straight out of the Jane Austin books I favored, and it probably didn’t rate an airing in today’s world, but it seemed most appropriate for the moment. Showering a woman with so many gifts for a FIRST date. . . that just wasn’t apropos. (I wondered if that word was also dated, although I was sure I’d seen it on legal documents.) Neither word seemed to disturb Simone. “When a man takes an interest, lavish it. Lap it up like cream.” “Why? Because it’s short-lived?” Simone laughed. “I do so like you, Penelope. You are a rare jewel.” She made herself comfy on my second-hand powdered blue couch. I felt reassured that the couch was impeccably clean. I’d shampooed it after Cara and Sammy moved away. “Are you needing to dash into the shower?” Simone asked. I glanced at the clock, a cutesy one that Cara had given me. It had a clock face made up of a silly cat with eyes that moved round and round while its tail swayed back and forth. Not my style, but presents from friends are always treasured. “Did you pick out which dress you’ll be wearing?” Simone called out as I headed for my room. “Yes. The black one with the strip of mesh across the top.” “I approve. You have good taste, my dear.” My shower was quick, and when I stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped up in a fat towel, I saw that Simone had set out everything I’d need: underthings in black, shoes, purse, and a matching gold chain and bracelet. It took me only a few minutes to dress, thanks to her help zipping up the back. I turned to put on my shoes, then stepped out in the living room to find her snuggled up on my couch glancing at one of the books Cara had left behind. Cara had never been my roommate, but she’d flitted in and out, sometimes spending more time at our apartment than at the flat she’d shared with her artist friends, who I think were all males. When Cara left, her art books remained. They took over the whole coffee table, except for the gorgeous red roses presently occupying the center spot. “Timothy has incredible taste, doesn’t he?” Simone said, placing the book she’d been looking at in the exact spot as before. “Anything else he gifted you with, besides the clothes and the roses?”