Crap I am out of time. I pull the zipper up on my "woman in red" Karen Millen dress, slip on my satin, peep-toe heels and race down the stairs to my true love. The garage door lifts and Central Texas sun peeks around the corner over my black 328i with its sexy lines, camel interior and exquisite stereo.
Inside I remove my shoes to drive barefooted. It really is safer this way as three-inch heels have a way of getting caught under the gas and brake pedals. Shifting into reverse I back out slowly, mindful the neighbors kids could be playing (lurking) about. Seeing the coast is clear I merge into traffic and make my way toward the freeway.
Kings of Leon blast through the speakers as "Sex on Fire" concludes and Sirius XM The Pulse segues into Mumford & Sons' "Roll Away Your Stone." Snapshots of last night zip through my brain as I accelerate to 75 down Loop 1. Candles flicker while R and I stand on our knees in the center of my bed devouring each other with kiss after kiss.
I grab my phone and dial R before I can over-think my next move.
"Are you alone tonight? Or are you with your son?"
"Hi... he's at his mom's tonight. In fact, I only have him twice this week and then he's on vacation with his mom for a week starting on Friday."
"Hmm. Feel like company?"
"Aren't you going to the Austin Dinner Club tonight?"
"Yeah, but I don't care. Nothing is going to happen there I'm pretty sure."
"I'd love to see you."
"Well it might be late, like 9 o'clock or something. Are you going to be up that late?" I tease. "How about if I call you to make sure."
"Okay," R replies. "But I'm pretty sure I'll be up."
"Hope so," I say and hang up the phone, returning it to the center console below the gear shift.
I am stuck behind a dip-shit in a Mitsubishi in the left lane. Who the hell are these people that actually drive below the speed limit in the passing lane? And how can they NOT notice the 8-10 cars behind them? It is one of life's greatest mysteries and I'd ram my bumper up their rear-end if it wouldn't result in a ticket and $5000 worth of repairs. "Move the F out of the way," I mutter.
Something catches my attention in the rearview mirror. A quick glance reveals xenon headlights as a gold BMW driver races toward my back bumper. Seriously dude? I roll my eyes as Gold Finger gets a little familiar with my back side and crank up Carly Rae Jepsen whose "Call Me Maybe" pours from the speakers. Dip-shit holds steady just as an advance in the center lane provides the clearing I need to gain the upper hand. I move to the right, but Mitsubishi dip-shit goes for a power play and blocks my pass by accelerating. Nice! MF'r.
Gold Finger stays the course in the left lane and I have not only missed my chance to pass Mitsubishi Red but now I'm behind the Beemer. Damn! My ego waxes to full strength and I dart back to the left to regain dominance. Gold Finger spots an opening and jumps two lanes to the right to pass Mitsubishi DS. No he did not do that! No I did not just follow him to a T! Mitsubishi DS fades into the distance while Gold Finger and I weave in and out of traffic, dancing a tango of sorts.
We race past Windsor, then Enfield. We whip past Lake Austin Blvd for the 5th Street/Cesar Chavez exits. Finally a shot to pass and win the race. A random thought: wait, I wonder if this guy is headed to the dinner club? Nah, couldn't be. I push the pedal down and speed up to 90 and zip to the front. Loop 1 curves as I take the 5th Street exit at 80 miles an hour all adrenaline and not an ounce of sense as I make the curve like a pro. I slow for a yellow light, Gold Finger still hot on my trail. Hmm, this will be a little awkward if he's going to the same restaurant.
I turn right and right again. In a cozy little parking spot I reach for my shoes while opening my door. Two spots over Gold Finger exits his car. "Nice driving," he says with a smile.
"Not too bad yourself," I offer.
"Going to the Austin Dinner Club?" he asks. Oops.
"Yes I am," I reply. He's cute in a nerdy kind of way. Tall with dark hair and glasses. Maybe there's hope for tonight after all.
"Are you going to lock your doors?" he asks. What? Of course I'm going to lock my doors, like, as soon as I get situated. Is he walking with a limp? Inside we take our seats and meet our host from ADC and another guy who is way too young.
"Here's your menu," he suggests. Do I look like I've never been to a restaurant before? Ugh, and so it begins, the immediate picking apart of a potential suitor in a post-divorce world. My filter (baggage) kicks into overdrive as I take a giant gulp of Tanqueray and tonic.
I smile politely as us girls are trained to do. "Thank you," I answer. And the next two hours cannot pass fast enough. I want to leave and run to R, run to what I know with all of its imperfection.
Dinner finally concludes and the ADC host comes over before I can bolt. She inquires delicately into R and what happened. He's a customer of hers and I don't exactly have permission to disclose all of his idiosyncrasies. I do share that it's been a summer of ups and downs, but that we were together last night... in fact, "I'm on my way to his place tonight."
"I don't think it's over yet for you guys. Go," she encourages. And with that it's a turn on my heels and a dart toward my car.
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