Waiting to Exhale (8 page)

"Favorite place?"

"Hawaii."

"Fruit?"

"Plums."

"Movie?"

"I don't know. What is this, JeopardyV'

He laughed. "I'm just trying to make getting to know you more fun, that's all. If it bothers you, I can stop."

"No. Let me think. One of my favorite movies of all time was Body Heat, and I have to put Raging Bull in there and Raiders of the Lost Ark."

Michael smiled. I didn't notice until now that he had a rather sexy, self-assured smile. "So do you have a steady?" he asked.

How corny, I thought, but at least he wanted to know, and for that reason I thought it would be smart not to tell the truth. "Well, I've been seeing someone on a regular basis, if that's what you mean, but how serious it is, I'm not sure yet. Why?"

"I just wanted to know if I was walking in on something."

Had I opened a door and said, "Michael, come on in," without knowing it, or was I projecting that hungry look? He looked me dead in the eye, and I noticed that they were a soft brown, the whites were milky white, and they were kind of dreamy. Maybe he had some other redeeming qualities that weren't so visible to the naked eye. But enough already, Robin. The last thing you need is to get yourself all tangled up with a chubby little dweeb from the office. However, since he'd started this conversation on hobbies and what have you, I felt obligated to ask him. "So, Michael. Do you have any hobbies?"

"
As a matter of fact, I do. Drag racing, for one."

I almost choked on my diet Pepsi. Michael a drag racer?

"And deep-sea fishing and scuba diving."

"Where do you do all of these things?"

"Mexico. I also have a boat that I like to cruise around in when I can."

I swallowed hard. This was unreal. "Here in Phoenix?"

"No; I keep it up in the White Mountains."

"You're not making this up, are you, to impress me?"

"There's a whole lot of other things I'd be more inclined to lie about if I was just trying to impress you, Robin."

Then he started talking about the insurance business. He wanted to know how long I'd been in underwriting, but I didn't want to talk about insurance, so finally I just interrupted him and came right on out and asked him. "When's your birthday?"

"June second," he said, and sprinkled some salt on his french fries. "Why?"

"I was just curious." I found a slice of avocado in my salad, pierced my fork into it, and sighed. Another Gemini. By anybody else's standards, Michael would be considered a good catch-as catches go. He appears to be intelligent, tries hard to be witty, has a good job, and hell, he's available. So far he has been kind of charming and somewhat interesting and definitely a gentleman, which was a nice change of pace. I looked at him a few more minutes and didn't feel any disgust whatsoever. If I'm lucky, maybe his rising and moon signs are in Scorpio or Aquarius. Should I go ahead and give Michael a chance? I asked myself. Should I just forget all about astrology and try not to judge the man before I get to know him?

My questions were answered when I got to work the following morning and found a big bouquet of spring flowers on my desk. I hadn't decided if I actually liked Michael or not, and when I decided that I did like him a little bit I couldn't put my finger on why. I knew
I wasn't attracted to him physically, but maybe that's what I needed: the kind of man every woman wouldn't be drooling over. Somebody decent and ordinary. But shoot, he could still turn out to be another Pretender. However. There was one way to find out.

So here I am, waiting.

I'm wearing bright orange tonight because I had my color chart done and Sunanda told me to wear warm colors if I want to emit warmth. I do. I definitely do. But maybe this color is too strong for Michael. Maybe he'll think I'm a hot number right off the bat and read me the wrong way. I ran into the bedroom and changed into a soft yellow sweater, then slipped a lace handkerchief into my skirt pocket. I was staring at myself in the mirror, trying to give myself approval, when Gloria and Bernadine popped into my mind. While I fastened all but the top three pearl buttons, I heard them cackling. They think I have poor taste in men (they despised Russell), and they also think I'm a nymphomaniac, which is why they jokingly refer to me as "the whore." But they're just envious. Bernadine has a husband she doesn't want to fuck, and Gloria doesn't know anybody who wants to fuck her. We fight like sisters, but I don't know what I'd do without them. When my mother was in the hospital, Bernadine and Gloria were right there. And when we found out that Daddy had Alzheimer's, my mother asked me when I could pay her back the three thousand dollars because they'd be needing that money real soon. Of course I didn't know when I'd have it, so Bernadine just wrote me a check and told me to forget about it. And when me and Russell broke up, it was Bernadine and Gloria who dragged me out of this apartment and treated me to a Beauty Day at Canyon Ranch ami called me every three hours to make sure I was holding up okay. They're the ones who always send me flowers on my birthday, and we draw names at Christmas. They're both older than I am, which is why they're always offering me advice I don't need. And by their account, you'd swear I've slept with half the men in Phoenix, Scottsdale, and Tempe. But that's not true. I've slept with my share, mind you, but hell, this valley is pretty small.

I can't deny that before I met Russell and right after I broke up with him I was a little generous in the loose-sex department. And I admit that I sometimes find myself at parties and other social functions where I can count how many of the men in the room I've slept with. Unfortunately, in some rare instances, more than one is aware of the other. It's a small world.

I really have no business getting involved with somebody from my office, now do I? Especially since Michael already told me he thinks my being an underwriter is great, based on how fast I've moved up in the company. But he just doesn't know. I'm living from paycheck to paycheck and am scared to answer my phone sometimes because I know it might be the student-loan people. Since my daddy's been sick, the money he and my mother had put away for their retirement is dwindling fast, and I'm not in any position right now to help them out. And they need help. Plus, I'm tired of working ten- and twelve-hour days. I'll be the first to admit it: I would be content being a housewife if I could find the kind of man who wouldn't treat me like one. I want to know what it feels like to be pampered, to not have to worry about how high the phone bill is or if the rent is going up. I would like to have at least two kids before menopause sets in. I don't want to have to drag them to the Before School Program at seven-thirty in the morning and have to break my neck in rush hour to pick them up before six, like Bernadine and some of my other girlfriends do. Their kids spend more time away from home than they do at home. I'd also like to have some time to work on my quilting again and do laps and read books and take my kids to ballet or karate and piano lessons after school and still be home in time to grin in my husband's face. I'd like to go to the gym and work out when everybody else is at work. Shoot, I'd like to do some charity work. Take weekend trips. And I'd love to be able to go to the grocery store any weekday afternoon I choose instead of on Saturday mornings. And I want to live in a house, because now that I owe the IRS every year, I don't know when I'll ever have enough money for a down payment.

I just heard the doorbell.

Before I answered it, I checked to make sure the flowers I bought myself with the card signed by a man I made up were prominently displayed. I want Michael to think he's got some competition. I also took off Reba McEntire and put on Freddie Jackson. I'd already sprayed some Glade Spring Fresh throughout the whole apartment and sprinkled a few drops of Halston on all four of my pillows-just in case. I blotted my orange lips on a tissue so that when he kisses me it won't be smeared all over his. I opened the door. "Hi," he said.

Michael looked taller, and he didn't look quite so dorky, either. Why was that? I wondered. "Hi," I said.

"I'm sorry I'm late. I was stuck in traffic and couldn't call," he said, and walked right past me. What about my kiss?

His hair was different. It was slicked back and had little ripples of waves in it. Not bad, Michael. "I was getting worried that something had happened to you."

"Well, that was sweet," he said, and walked over and sat down on the couch. "Something sure smells good."

I'd almost forgotten about dinner and had to think for a minute what I'd bought. Stuffed shells from the Price Club, smothered in Classico basil and tomato sauce, along with Italian bread sticks. I had two bottles of wine and had opened one. I made the spinach salad myself.

"Your place is very nice," he said.

"Thank you, Michael."

"Beautiful flowers," he said, touching a gladiola petal. Then he looked at me with a smile on his face and said, "So, Robin, did you buy these for yourself, or do I have some fierce competition out there?" He winked at me. "You don't have to answer that," he said.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"Starving."

I betcha, I thought, but I just said, "Good, then let's eat!"

We ate. And went through a bottle of wine before I even thought to pull out the Price Club cheesecake. Freddie Jackson was sounding evfcn better, now that Michael and I were both feeling pretty mellow. "Dessert?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said, but before I could get up from the table to get the cheesecake, he said, "I'd like to taste you." His bushy eyebrows moved up and down.

"Me?" I said, unable to think of anything better.

Michael got up from the table and took my hand, then led me to the couch.

"You're a great cook," he said, and I just said thank you, because
I felt like taking the credit. Before I knew it, he was kissing me. For such a short man, he had an awfully long tongue, and a wild one at that. I pulled away, then pressed my lips on the side of his and tried not to let the saliva running out the corners of my mouth distract me. I repositioned myself and went to put my tongue in his ear, but it was full of this hard hair that made me change my mind. I rested my chin on his shoulder and pressed my breasts against his chest. For a minute there, I thought I was hugging another woman. I felt these two soft spongelike things on his chest. So I backed away, unbuttoned his shirt, and put my hand inside, only to feel this fatty substance that should've been muscles on his chest. Michael was about a 38B. I was repulsed, but I couldn't say anything, because he was kissing me again and pulling me down on top of him. When I looked at him, his eyes, of course, were closed, and I closed mine for different reasons: I was trying to pretend that he was Russell. But Michael was too soft. What had I gotten myself into?

"You feel better than I thought you would," he said.

I didn't say anything, because I couldn't think of anything to say. I would have loved to say, "Let go of me and go home and don't come back, you tub of lard," but you just can't say that kind of thing without hurting somebody's feelings.

The next thing I knew, Michael was lifting me up and carrying me into the bedroom, just as I was entertaining the thought of how to stop him altogether, but once I saw the sweat beads popping off his temples and heard him panting like an asthmatic and what have you, I felt sort of sorry for him. So when my foot crashed into the bathroom door, I just said, "Wrong room," and pointed to my bedroom. The room was dark, but after we got inside, he bumped into the bed and sort of dropped me on it. I whispered, "Just a minute," and out of sheer habit, went to the bathroom and put in my Today sponge. When I came back, I lit my fat scented candle, and Michael was almost completely undressed, except for his boxer shorts. Since he didn't look like he wanted to do it, I unbuttoned my own sweater and took off my bra. When I saw his eyes grow as big as saucers, I worried about my breasts. With his shorts still on, Michael slid under the covers before I got a chance to see what he had to offer.

"I knew you were going to be beautiful all over," he said, after I got under the covers. "And you smell so good." He put his little fat hand over one of my breasts and squeezed. My nipples immediately deflated.

"Do you have protection, or should I get it?" I asked.

"Right here," he said, pulling it from the side of the bed. He took his shorts off and threw them on the floor. Then he put his hands under the covers, and his shoulders started jerking, which meant he was having a rough time getting it on.

"Do you need some help?" I asked.

"No no no," he said. "There." He rolled over on top of me, and since I could no longer breathe, let alone move, I couldn't show him how to get me in the mood. He started that slurpy kissing again, and I felt something slide inside me. At first I thought it was his finger, but no, his hands were on the headboard. Then he sort of pushed, and I was waiting for him to push again, so he could get it all the way in, but when he started moving, that's when I realized it was. I was getting pissed off about now, but I tried to keep up with his little short movements, and just when I was getting used to his rhythm he started moving faster and faster and he squeezed me tight against his breasts and yelled, "God this is good!" and then all of his weight dropped on me. Was he for real? I just kind of lay there, thinking: Shit, I could've had a V-8. I mean, did he really think he just did something here? A few minutes went by, and he lifted himself up, looked me in the eye, and said, "I knew you were somebody special. How do you feel?"