Second Date
With a bottle of Chianti in my left hand, I enter the four digits of Theodore’s buzz code with my right. It is 7:28pm on a Tuesday evening in September. It is also our second date.
Once inside, I call for the elevator and ascend twelve stories. Taking a deep meditative breath, I wipe the sweat from my brow and check my teeth in the mirror.
Smiling, I think about the last time my dear friend Valentina visited from London. “Rugged,” she said, in her British-Italian accent, “I have only one complaint about the Fox Den. There is no mirror in the elevator. How is a lady supposed to know she is still gorgeous?”
Standing in front of his door, I am just about to knock when it opens before me.
“Good evening,” Theodore welcomes me inside.
“Good evening indeed,” I say, taking off my mask. I present the bottle of wine and give him a kiss.
“Come on in!”
Slipping off my loafers, I proceed directly to the bathroom to wash my hands. Reaching for the towel to dry off, I make a note of what an adult bathroom looks like. Spotless, the counter is clear except for the liquid soap dispenser. On the wall, hangs two pieces of tasteful artwork. The air smells like drinking champagne on a bed of roses. I am up going to have to up my game, I think.
Back in the hallway, I remove my satchel Hunter from my shoulder and rest my faux-leather jacket on top of him. Dressed casually, I sport a black polo with a matching belt, and dark navy-blue denim jeans.
Taking one step into his living room, I nearly die. Each wall is covered in books, beautiful books, stacked floor to ceiling. Wiping a single tear from my eye, I look up to see Theodore in the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he pulls out a chilled bottle of French rosé and offers me a glass.
Sweet Meryl, I brace myself against the door frame. If I get chopped into a million pieces tonight and taken out of this apartment in a garbage bag, this is how my story ends.
“Like two gays perched on a roof, we dish on every topic of conversation for the better part of two hours.”
“I do!” I acquiesce, accepting his delectable offer.
As the wine greets my lips, I notice the view outside his window for the first time. High in the sky, his impeccable West End one-bedroom faces North. With my wine glass in hand, I step on to his balcony. Before my eyes, I can see everything. The mountains, Stanley Park, the water, apartment towers, downtown Vancouver. Is this really happening? I pinch myself.
Drifting into the blue sky, I flash back to being a closeted teenager in Winnipeg. At fifteen, my freckled face was dotted with acne and my crooked teeth were shackled in braces. With beige Docker pants and a shirt and tie from Moore’s, I walked the halls of St. Jude’s, a private all boys Catholic high school, with my head down. At that point in time, I can’t honestly tell if you if I had dreams. If I did, however, this would be one of them.
“It’s a beautiful evening, why don’t we sit outside,” suggests Theodore. He is right. It is one of those golden September nights that I long for every year. The warmth of summer still hangs on to the air, tempered by a cool fall breeze, the seasons announcing their departure and arrival. The setting sun casts an orange glow over the entire picture frame.
Like two gays perched on a roof, we dish on every topic of conversation for the better part of two hours. TV shows. Books. Politics. Restaurants. Writing. Family. Friends. When he tries to describe his job to me, all I can hear is intelligence. Eventually the wine runs dry, and he asks me if I would like another drink. For the first time in my adult life, I politely decline. There is no reason for me to escape this moment.
“There is still one place I have left to see,” I place my hand on Theodore’s knee.
Without another word, he gives me a tour of his bedroom.
