A Toast to Starry Nights (22 page)

“Just a token song from each album? Have
something against the artistry of Mr. Smith?”

“Quite the opposite. But let's face it ,
there's other bands that tickle the ear just as well as the Cure. I know,
blasphemy. But Depeche Mode, the Cranberries and Bauhaus have quality tunes.
I'm not asking you to explore transcendental meditation with John Lennon's
sitar-playing Zombie, but you cannot deny that there are other good artists out
there, merely hoping for a moment of ear-time.”

“You had me at Bauhaus.” He leaned
towards the dashboard to change the song. “Oh, no shit.” Scratching screeching
filled the cab and he grinned. “You went there. You actually went there.”

“Damn skippy I went there. Like I could
leave off such a monumental tune for my life's soundtrack.” Love Cats was the
song Dmitri considered 'ours' back in the day. He introduced me to the fanciful
tune one July afternoon as we sat in the backseat of his little hatchback,
listening to music on a boombox which served as his car stereo. Memories of
huddling close to Dmitri while we smiled ear to ear whilst indulging in bizarre
music. Ah, a very warm and fuzzy feeling.

He quieted for a moment and looked out
the window. “It's been fourteen years since I've been up here. Can't believe
how much I miss the smell of this city.”

“Poor man, deprived of your heart's
hometown by being stuck down where all that big bad sand lurks. Pity.”

Dmitri laughed. “I know, it's terrible.
But San Diego smells nothing like this town. Even the feel of the air is
different-- better. If it had beaches. That'd be the only thing that could
improve Sac.”

“Discovery Park gives one beaches... and
not one, but two rivers. Even a Mediterranean environment. That's inland
impressive.”

“Indeed.”

Dmitri and I indulged in random
conversation until we neared Chico.

We came up 99, and whizzed by all the
franchise-locusts. There would be no wining and dining at restaurants he'd
probably already been to, even eight hundred miles away.

East Avenue exit launched us into a busy
four lane street. I drove down several blocks and hanged a right. Down three
block and voila. A single story building with arches, pagoda-like flares and
Chinese characters in black painted on muted green. A walkway wrapped itself
around the restaurant like a scarf, partially hiding any walking patrons behind
flowering quince and tall iris. Parking was around the back, and after a short
walk around the veranda, we found ourselves in a covered walkway passing by
etched glass windows showing geisha and samurai amid falling cherry blossoms.
Two arched doors painted in that fabulous Asian red lacquer met us. Upon
walking through the doors we found the hostess station. On the left, booths and
tables. Even further in resided the sushi bar. To the right of us, two tatami
rooms.

“Two this evening?” A middle aged Asian
woman wore black slacks, white button up top and a black vest devoid of any
decoration.

“Yes. Reservation for Woods.” She
addressed Dmitri but I answered.

She tapped on the computer monitor and
smiled. “Ah, this way please.” With a snap of her wrist, she plucked two each
of the Green Menu and Red Menu.

Dmitri and I were instructed to remove
our shoes and leave them on the bamboo step leading to the rice-papered sliding
door. With a gracious nod of her head, she opened the door and shepherded us
inside. A rectangular table sat in the center, no higher than a coffee table
with six flat pillows arranged around. Dmitri sat at the head of the table,
furthest from the door, and I sat on the pillow to his right. We both sat
cross-legged, toes touching beneath the white cotton cloth-draped table. On the
left wall, a blue, green and gray kimono hung with a bamboo rod slung through
its sleeves.

The waitress handed us the menus and
left.

“What's up with the menus?” Dmitri helg
one in each hand.

“Green is Japanese, Red is Chinese.
Tonight, I highly suggest the Green.”

“Green it is, then.” I removed the
Chinese menu from his grasp and laid it alongside my own.

“Here. Chose your poison.” I placed the
sake menu in his hands. “Would you be offended if I order for us? That is, if
you aren't looking for anything specific to eat...”

Dmitri looked at me with a shrewd look
in his eye. “I don't mind. If it sucks, I get to blame you. If it doesn't then
you'll get my kudos for good taste on your part. That's how I operate.” He
smiled.

“You like sushi.... we're going to work
with that tonight. Ever have Omakase?”

“Can't say that I have. Is that like the
soft roe of an octopus or something?”

“It mean's chef's choice. We put
ourselves at the mercy of the master to create a dinner for us.”

“Sounds good to me. Oooh, wasabi.” He
likes life on the spicy side.

“Wasabi with you, baby?” I drawled the
word enough to sound vaguely like 'Wassup'.

“You are audacious tonight, aren't you?
Don't think I've seen this side of you before.” Dmitri smiled at me and scooted
a little closer. I returned the favor. Only the leg of the table prevented us
from sitting completely thigh-to-thigh.

“Just a little. Well, no. A lot. I can
admit it. I've been looking forward to hanging with you again. Last time wasn't
nearly long enough.” I mean, seriously.

“Agreed. It wasn't.” My blush renewed
itself as the door slid open to reveal the hostess holding a tray with water
glasses. After depositing them in front of Dmitri and I, she asked, “Have you
decided what would you like?”

I smiled. “Omakase for the both of us. A
pot of tea and Umeshu, please.”

“Kirin beer for me, please.”

After the waitress left, Dmitri asked
me, “So, am I designated driver tonight?”

“We'll have to see. I promise if I get
too tipsy to surrender my keys to you... provided you're more sober than I am.”
It wasn't my intention to get drunk. I just wanted that little voice of
self-preservation to shut up for the night so I could cruise on instinct.

“You'll find, my dear, that I've whiled
away my time in La Jolla crafting beers and mastering my reaction to alcohol. A
tedious tangent of that gig is that I have to test my end results.” Dmitri
sighed. “It's a hard job but someone has to do it.”

“Sounds horrible. Ever get a bitter
beer?”

“You mean an unintentional bitter? Oh
yeah, my first batch got screwed. Sour too. Was like drinking almost-fizzy
vinegar. I don't recommend it.”

“Thanks for the advice. What was it
supposed to be?”

“A stout like Guinness. I epic failed.”
Dmitri shook his head sorrowfully. “I didn't get a good beer until I tried
making a hefeweizen. I nailed it the first time and haven't quit making my own
brews.”

“That's awesome. What tickles me pink is
that brewing ale was a woman's job in medieval Europe. Dmitri the Brewster...
has a nice ring to it.”

“Is that why Punky Brewster was so
feisty? A drunk, let's say, Irish girl? Some sort of beer-making prowess run
through her fingertips?”

“Got something against the Irish? I
planted a fist on my hip, cocked my head to the side and faked indignant.

“Nothing whatsoever. Just an example.
Besides everyone knows the Irish were an advanced civilization until they
discovered alcohol.” Dmitri wore a perma-smirk and an expression of bemusement.
I took it as a good sign.

“Touche'.” It was difficult to not
smile. Just being in his presence made me giddy, even more so since his thigh
touched mine almost from hip to knee. Dmitri's cologne floated in the air to
play havoc with my sense of smell. Musky, spicy with a hint of smokiness.

Ohhh. Me like.

Dmitri put his hand on his knee so that
his pinky finger touched mine. He kept wiggling it gently, that I wasn't sure
if his hand was shaking from nervousness or whether he was trying to be sly.

“Whatcha doin'?” I asked in a sing-song
voice.

“Admiring your dress. Feels.... slinky.”
Bright blue eyes never left my gaze.

“You could appreciate the texture more
if you actually touched it. Palms have nerve endings, too.” Oh, he was right. I
am audacious tonight.

He stroked his hand from my knee to
mid-thigh and then back down again. “Nice. Silk?” The heat formed under his
palm evaporated as Dmitri removed his hand from my leg to place it on his own.

“Yep. I even designed and sewed it. You
can keep up with the rubbing of my leg. I like it.” Then I winked. “I noticed
you are wearing the tie I painted for you. It really brings out the blue of
your eyes. Good choice on your part. You earned some bonus points.”

He started laughing. “You have many
facets, I see.”

If you've only begun noticing that,
dear, dear Dmitri, then I feel sorry for your Powers of Observation.”

“I noticed long ago that you aren't as
simple a person as you seem. You're a walking contradiction.”

What's that supposed to mean? “Well,
thanks.”

I think.

The door slid open. The waitress carried
a tray over to unload it in front of us. A small white and blue porcelain tea pot
and matching handle-less cups, a carafe of Umeshu and two stemmed cordial
glasses, a bottle of Kirin and a pilsner glass found a home. Two bowls of miso
soup completed round one.

After the door slid shut again, Dmitri
picked up the tangent. “I don't mean it in a bad way... just that sometimes
you're passive and then you go all feisty. Modest then all tigress... it's
intriguing, I'll admit.” He picked up the porcelain spoon and stirred his miso
soup.

If I've learned anything where men are
concerned, its that keeping them on their toes works wonders. In
hunter-gatherer societies, the hunting usually fell upon menfolk. Give them
something to chase and that primal inner hunter takes over. I'd happily give
him a chase to enjoy if it meant he ended up ensnared tonight.

“One thing you should never forget,
Dmitri... I am me and no one else.”

“That goes without saying.”

Dmitri's fingers migrated back to the
borderland between our touching thighs, only to cross over to the Land of
Kaylis to navigate a few inches above my knee.

“It's okay, Dmitri. I won't tell and you
won't get in trouble. I promise. Go ahead and stroke my leg.” Then I whispered,
“You'll like it, I promise.”

“You are adorably insidious tonight,
Kaylis. I'm not counting this as a first date, by the way. This is somewhere
around the eighth or ninth, albeit, spread-out date.”

Works for me.

His hand crossed the border to stroke my
dress some more as we ate our steaming miso soup. On a down stroke of my thigh,
I brazenly channeled covert ops and raised my hem a few inches so his hand
stroked up a stocking-covered thigh. Dmitri inhaled sharply when his hand slid
onto bared skin above the top of my thigh-high.

“Oh... I do like that. You're going to
kill me with kindness tonight, aren't you?”

I smirked and smiled. “That's kind of
the plan. Unless you'd rather I not. I'll respect any boundaries you set.” I
meant it too. Would be total suckage... but given the chance, I'd rather not
make a gaffe that would ruin the evening.

“I did mention that this is not our first
date, right? I think we're well past boundaries for now.”

After another spoonful of miso-infused
nori, bonito flake broth afloat with tiny cubes of tofu, I responded. “True.
But for the record, I don't want to make an ass of myself tonight. I can envision
it happening.”

His fingers rubbed the inside of my
thigh gently to slowly slide down to my knee and linger. “I don't think that
could happen.”

Ha. We'll see about that.

Challenge accepted, buckaroo.

Dmitri never was as hands on with me as
he was tonight. Something changed in him and I liked it. Electricity flowed
from he to I, completing a circuit of sensuality. You know that cliché about
sexual tension so thick one could cut it with a knife? In this case, a chainsaw
and protective eyewear would be more appropriate.

I put my hand on his trouser leg and
slid it slowly upwards. “Feels nice, doesn't it?” He indicated that he liked my
daring, non-passive side. Why should a guy be the one to call all the shots and
make the first moves? “Ooh, Dmitri... it's mutual leg rubbing. We're oh so
naughty!” Dmitri's face lit up with my mock British accent. My fingers trailed
back to his knee before I removed them to pour us both umeshu.

He rolled his head to look at me with a
smartass expression on his face. “Yes, groping legs during the first course is
new territory for me, too.” Dmitri finished his soup all the while with his
hand on my knee. I did the same. Every now and again, he'd gently squeeze or
let his fingers wander. There was a definite change in breathing pattern by the
time course two came our way.

Everything but Dmitri seemed to vanish
in a cloud of desire. The sashimi flowers offered could have tasted of
andouille gumbo or used cat litter and I wouldn't have noticed. The feel of
muscles shifting beneath cloth as he got more in tune with me and my subtle
butt wiggles were a provocative reminder of mutual unfinished business. We
didn't speak while we ate. Body language was the only means of communication he
and I favored.