Hammer-philia

The following is a strictly fictional account, meant to be read in the grocery-store line.

They meet on the street at the arranged restaurant. He approaches her and they are talking on their cellphones, both to each other. They smooch briefly on the lips, and then he holds the door open for her as they enter the small restaurant. She has on jeans and sandals, while he is wearing a full-blown suit, with a sweater underneath.... Kind of late-'90s avant-garde-Euro.

They sit down and he orders up a hot sake for them to share. (She is eager to welcome the relief that alcohol will provide her awkward state.)

He breathes out and looks in her eyes, as if he's about to say something. Smoothly, he crosses his long legs, and places his folded hands atop his knee. "So, have you had a chance to reflect on our evening together last week?"

She freezes. Suddenly she feels very much like the teenager he takes her for. She doesn't know whether to chuckle, gasp, gag, or answer the correct response politely. So she does a combination of all of them.

"What does that mean?" he inquires.

"Um, it means, um, yes. Yes, I had fun with you.... and you???"

"I had a nice time. I thought about you a lot this week." She is relieved that the feeling is mutual. For a moment, she had feared that he was pre-emptively breaking up with her.

The rest of the dinner continued as it should. Some discussion of work, for both of them: He is a labour attorney, and she a burgeoning Ph.D who had recently presented on the ALgerian War and attended a discussion about Islamic movements in France. He sighs that he really doesn't know what to think any more about Islamicism. Par for the course, she knows he is unapologetically Zionistic.

They enjoy some sushi and tempura, they joke about former roommates, and then he asks, "Would you like me to join you tonight?"

She paused, momentarily imagining the state of her apartment: stacks of papers and books, clothing piled atop blankets and pillows on her futon bed, bills and ripped envelopes aflutter, a dirty bathroom rug.....

"Well, I have a roommate, and it's not very private...." she responds.

"SHall we spend the night together at my place?" He asks. Unaccustomed to such a direct question asked without affectation, she hesitates. Uh-oh, she sent the wrong message. "We don't need to, I mean, we can always do this another time..."

FInally, she finds her words: "We took all week to meet, so shouldn't we take advantage of this time together?" She's proud of her clever directness.

She took care of the bill, and he collected his "doggy bag," ushering her into a cab outside the restaurant. He has a certain suaveness to his mellow energy. At dinner she mentioned to him that she was unsure of his "energy"-- she couldn't tell if he was an anxious high-strung or mellow person. There was output, but she couldn't get a read. "Funny you should ask..." he replied. "I am usually quite anxious and high-strung, but I began taking an anti-anxiety drug last week." ("A-ha!" she thinks)

The taxi came to a halt outside the awning of his apartment. They rode up the elevator, and she once again gave thanks to the fact that they had ordered another round of sake at the end of dinner. Her heart would have burst out of her chest if she hadn't have appeased it a bit with the warm rice wine. He warned about the dogs, but they didn't bark. "See? They're used to me," she commented.

She takes a seat at the kitchen table under the guise of testing out the chairs. He takes care of brushing the stain from his pants and then gently grabs her hand, leading her into his bedroom. He had put on some music and slowly his seduction begins. It's altogether a natural type of seduction--no obvious maneuvers, no dreamy-eyed kisses--in short, no bullshit. She appreciates his directness in lovemaking, thankful that she had become somewhat accustomed to his directness in speaking. They spend several hours together, embracing as if they knew each other.....

At one point he breathily asks, "We should do this very often, would you like to...?"

"....yes...." she sighs.

"you were supposed to say 'yes, please...'" he whispers.

"yes, please," she replies.