Beautiful Illusions (2 page)

The Importance of Being Earnest.
I actually had just read that play after seeing the movie. But I wondered why I would be talking about that. Still, it was impressive for me to find somebody who even knows who Oscar Wilde is. I couldn't tell you how many times I have met a guy who thought that Tennessee Williams was a country singer.

He was looking embarrassed again. “Uh, I think I owe you an apology.”

I raised an eyebrow and cocked my head slightly. “For what?”

“If I would've known you were that, uh...”

“Smashed?” I said helpfully.

“Yeah. Well, I wouldn't have...”

“Taken me to a hotel room and torn my clothes off?” This was like a mad libs game.

“Yeah.”

Oh, the irony. I end up with a jaw-droppingly beautiful man who was literate and was apparently liberal – at least I hoped so – and I didn't even get to have a good memory of it. I hoped that I enjoyed it at the time. Didn't matter, if I didn't remember it, then it didn't really happen. In my mind, at least.

Then it struck me. Why wa
s he here? And how did he find me? The only thing I could think of was that I left something in the hotel room, and he was enough of a gentleman to return it to me. But I couldn't imagine what it was that I left there.

I rea
lized something else. This guy was intimidatingly beautiful, yet I felt completely comfortable with him. Mesmerized, captivated, excited – but also completely comfortable.

Like he said, I felt like I had
known him all my life.

He was still smiling at me impishly, his head slightly downward, his mouth half cocked.

“So, I was wondering...” he began, his hand running through his thick mane again. “I was wondering if you would be interested in having drinks with me sometime.” He wasn't looking me in the eye. Almost like he was shy. This guy, shy? He no doubt had women dripping all over him. Which almost made me want to turn him down. He had to be a womanizer. Anyhow, he was stratospheres out of my league. Light years. He was the Starship Enterprise, and I was earth.

Or so went my brain. My heart, however, was noticing how comfortable I felt in his presence. Heart overruling brain, I simply said “sure.”

He smiled. “Friday night at Harry's? We can meet for Happy Hour and go from there.”

“Want to return to the scene of the crime, eh?” I asked with a smile.

“Something like that.”

At that, we made a date to meet at Harry's at 5:30 on Friday.

After he left, Melinda came in and said “Oh, sweet Jesus, that guy is beautiful. Where did you find him?” She was mock-fanning herself as she talked.

I smiled. “You wouldn't want to know.”
Your boss is a ho
. “Now, shoo, get back to work.”

Friday couldn't get here fast enough.

Friday was finally here. I couldn't quite believe that this
beautiful guy wanted to see me again, and it occurred to me, much to my acute embarrassment, that I didn't remember his name. I didn't really know how to ask him about that. I was in rare form, sleeping with a guy I just met, and getting that schnockered in the first place. It had been at least since college since I had done something like that, and have no memory of it the next day.

Maybe he slipped me a roofie? God, I hope
d not. I wouldn't want to think a guy like that would be a rapist. Lord knows he wouldn't have to resort to that to bed a woman.

No, I was
quite sure I managed to get that wasted all on my own. That was what happened when I start tequila shots. The old shirt that said “One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor” summed up my reaction to that particular liquor. But somehow I managed to not only act coherent, but apparently act charming as well. Astounding.

That afternoon, I left the office early for a hair appointment and a Brazilian. Yowch! They should use Brazilians as a torture method for Al Qaeda. That would get them talking in no time.

Not that I was planning on sleeping with the guy again that night. My sober self was much more old-fashioned than that.

Meeting him out, I was wearing my only pair of nice shoes, the red glitter Mary Jane Jimmy Choos from the night I met him. Those were my lucky shoes. They sure were lucky the other night, anyhow. They were high heeled, but that was good, because I needed the height. I stood 5'2”, and this guy was at least 6'1”. I pulled on a slimming black dress with a halter neck, which was always the most flattering neckline for me. I felt a bit self-conscious of my 30 extra pounds, then tried to banish the thought. A bit of foundation to cover up my freckles, some mascara for my light eyelashes, some lip gloss, and I was ready to go.

I got to the bar, and looked around. Harry's is a classy upscale cigar bar where they served 30 different kinds of martinis, along with a limited menu mainly consisting of olives, hummus and different gourmet pizzas. It attracted an older crowd of sophisticates who were attracted to the expensive martinis and even more expensive cigars. The place was smallish, but it wasn’t a hole in the wall, as it was two levels and also had a patio. The interior walls were cherry wood, as was the enormous bar, which ran the length of the main room. The floor was covered in white tile. The artwork in this bar favored Toulouse Lautrec – brightly coloured, with dancing girls and advertisements that looked like they were from the turn of the century. The crowd ranged from mid-20s to mid-60s, but most of the people in here were in their early thirties, by the looks of it.

Beautiful man
was already there. I looked at him and lost my breath momentarily. Dressed down in a blue short-sleeved shirt that brought out the marine flecks in his otherwise green eyes, with grey casual pants and black shoes, he looked like a Ralph Lauren model come to life. The short sleeves displayed his lean and muscular arms, and he looked like he didn't have an ounce of fat on him.

He stood up when he saw me, a broad smile on his face.

Now I was shaking. Not sure why I was having this reaction now. In my office, I felt much more comfortable. Maybe because it was my home turf. But here, in the bar, I felt intimidated by him.

I would have to resist the urge to drink tonight. Alcohol was always my crutch in awkward social situations. Or any social situations. As I said before
, you wouldn't know it, but I was quite shy. Or insecure at least.

He met me halfway, and gave me a big hug. His body was warm and incredibly hard. He must
have lived at the gym. I could hear his heart pounding as my head lay against his chest.

We sat down, and he
ordered for us – a Dewar’s and water for him, a Grey Goose dirty martini for me.

So much for my vow not to drink tonight.

Well, maybe I will only have a few.

The drinks came shortly, and I knew that I had to get the name issue out of the way.

“So,” I began.

“Sorry, before you say anything,
I just wanted to tell you that you look beautiful.”

I momentarily forgot my words.
I pondered anew the possibility that I was on
Punk'd,
then just managed to say “thank you.”

“Now, you were saying,” he said, looking at me with a soft expression.

I took a deep breath. “This is the most embarrassing thing I have ever had to admit. But I, well, you know, I had a lot to drink the other night and-”

“Ryan. My name is Ryan.” He was still smiling, and his eyes told me that he thought it was humorous that I forgot his name.

I could feel my face flushing. “How did you know what I was going to ask?”

He shrugged. “I figured that if you didn't remember me at all when I came into your office, it stands to reason that you didn't remember my name, either.”

“About that. I hope you don't think that I make a habit of going home with men from a bar.”

“Damn. I was hoping I could get you hammered again and get you to pick up a girl here at the bar and do a three-way,” he said with a smile.

I laughed at that. “Sorry to burst your bubble,” I said.

“Well, I understand you're embarrassed. But don't be. It was uh, fun.”

Fun. I wished I could’ve remembered.

“Anyhow, I could say the same. I hope you don't
think that I'm some kind of manwhore.”

“No, no, I don't think that at all.” I paused, tucking my hair behind my ear, and taking a sip of my drink. It was salty and slightly sour. As I picked one of the olives from the little red toothpick to put in my mouth, I saw Ryan watching me interestedly. “I, uh, also wanted to apologize for just, you know, leaving in the morning.”

“Yeah, I was disappointed. I wanted to take you for breakfast.”

“I was totally embarrassed for being there. It was kinda shitty of me to do that, though.”

“Well, I was really glad that you gave me one of your business cards at the bar. Otherwise, I was going to have to do some serious research to find you.” He took a sip of his Scotch rocks. “And I would've tried to find you, make no mistake about that.”

Wow. I must've been really charming the other night. Or really “fun.”

He was smiling. “So, I know we're doing this backwards, but we need to get to know each other.”

I couldn't remember what all I told him, so I didn't know if he knew the basics about me. This was so awkward, not knowing if what I might tell him would be something he had already heard.

“So, what do you know about me?” I asked him.

“That you are an attorney who aspires to do something else. Maybe be a writer or an animal rights activist. Or the leader of a new Occupy movement with teeth. You want to eradicate all big money from politics, and liberate every
factory farm animal on the face of the earth. That you have gorgeous red hair.” Ryan crunched on some ice thoughtfully, then shook his now-empty glass and looked around for the waitress. She was there in a flash to take our next order. Then he continued. “And you think that
The Importance of Being Earnest
was the funniest story you've ever read.”

“Wow. I really was spouting off, wasn't I?” I knew that I tended not to have a filter when I was drinking, but still couldn't believe
that I told this guy my life story in one sitting. And, of course, I was a hypocrite, because, while I am a deep animal lover, I ate chicken and fish.

“No, not spouting off. You just came off as....passionate. You think about the world, even though you know that you can do little about it. That's refreshing. You’re like a realistic idealist.” He picked up a bar napkin, then laid it down and started doodling on it. The guy was quite an artist. Not looking up, he proceeded. “And the fact that you said that an Oscar Wilde play is one of your favorites really drew me to you. Because he is one of my favorite playwrights too.”

I blinked my eyes, not quite grasping what was going on. It all seemed surreal. As surreal as the drawing on the napkin was turning out. After it was done, he handed it to me with a smile. “For you,” he said.

The drawing was a like a miniature Dali painting, with little melting hearts into finger tips and a single eye hovering above. It was charming, and I couldn't believe he put it together so quickly.

“Impressive,” I began. “So, let me guess. You're a graphic artist?”

He shook his head. “Bank president.”

“Ah. Should've known.”

“Why is that?”

“You looked like a bank president the other day. All suited up.”

He stirred his drink, squeezing his lime into it. His eyes didn't meet mine.

I instinctively knew something was wrong, so I asked him.

“Nothing's wrong. I just like you, that's all.”

“I like you too,” I said. But why did he seem to not want to talk to me about himself?

Then he asked, out of the blue “Do you like to mountain bike?

“I've never been, to be honest.”

“Would you like to try?
I know some great trails here in town.”

“Well, I, uh, don’t really have a bike for that. I mean, I have a road bike, and I used to like to do that, but I haven’t lately. As you can probably tell.”

He ignored that last comment. “I have a bike you can borrow, if you like. But only if you want to go.” He had the puppy-dog expression again.

I took a deep breath, not really kn
owing what I was getting into. “Ok, sure. When would you like to go?”

“Uh, what are you doing tomorrow morning?”

“No special plans, actually.”

“Pick you up at 8?”

“Sure.”

I was starting to feel the dirty martinis working on me. I looked at this martini, my second, and made a mental note to stop. I wasn't g
oing to get liquored up again - the guy might think that I have a drinking problem. Plus, I didn't want to sleep with him that night. It had been my experience that a relationship that started with sex ends up being a relationship that was all about sex, and I wanted to really get to know him before hitting the sack with him again. As I said, I was an old-fashioned girl at heart.