it.
“Don’t mention it,” I shrug and push past her
out of the living room and into the foyer to the front door.
“You coming?” I don’t even care to look back,
as I sling the door open and pound my shit kickers down the steps
of my own version of Stepford.
I pull the keys from my black dress pants.
Yes, you heard me correctly. I said black dress pants. Yuck.
Clicking the key fob, I unlock the brand new
green Lexus LFA sports car. That has to be worth a couple hundred
grand. And I settle myself behind the sleek black wheel, my butt
comfortably resting in the black leather seats. A moment later,
Gonzales with high glossed lips, super straight hair and a dress no
lady should wear to a fancy restaurant slides into the passenger
seat. Tucking her hand between her legs to keep it from riding up
and tossing her silver clutch onto the floorboard on her side.
Backing out of the driveway, I hit it in high
gear and speedily make our way to ‘Dimitri’s’ a five star French
restaurant that every time I vocalize the name I feel the need to
point my nose to the ceiling and say it like a pompous jackass. Of
the donkey variety.
The smoothness of the Lexus glides us like
soft butter on bread up to the valet right out front of the old
brick building that houses the elegant eatery. Shutting down the
engine, I push open my door as the valet — a boy in his early
twenties — opens Gonzales’s for her. As I stand and make my way to
the curb, I make sure my blue—yes I said it—my blue dress shirt is
tucked in properly. And it’s navy blue. That is the only reason I
agreed to wearing it. And the mention of sporting a tie had me
scoffing an under my breath sarcastic laugh.
Please—I may be a man of few words. But I am
far from a pushover. The words Fuck and You entered into my
thoughts and nearly burst from my lips when Gonzales hustled me to
wear a tie. Needless to say James -1, Gonzales- 0.
Waiting on the curb, I toss the blonde boy
the keys and meet up with Gonzales by the front doors of
snooty-falooty Dimitri’s. Sidling up next to me, her bracelet clad
arm brushes up against mine as she attempts to tuck it through the
bend in my elbow. To escort her into the building.
Ha—sorry, I have other plans, and that’s not
happening lady. I pull away, leaving her to deal and hear a ‘humf’
blow out as she tosses her irritated arms over her chest. I’m not
her play toy she can play dress up with, and cozy up next to. I’m
her co-worker and outranking official. She’d do good to remember
that. Before my normal cool demeanor turns into something of a cold
ruthlessness that I can taste in the back of my mouth. It’s itching
to come out and play. And that man I’ve been before isn’t nice, he
isn’t sweet — and ruthless would be putting the way he is
mildly.
“Mademoiselle and Monsieur Carter, dis way,
s’il vous plait,” the flamboyantly, real and overly friendly French
maître d’ says, menus in hand, escorting us to our table for two,
that’s smack dab in the middle of the joint. Just as I requested
for this assignment.
Courteously, he pulls out Gonzales’s or
Mademoiselle Carter's, for all intents and purposes, chair. I
intentionally take the opportunity to slip past him and find my
own. His eyes frown at me as his mouth is pulled up into his
superficial smile.
I know I was rude, not to have done the chair
thing myself, for my wife . I can’t say my manners haven’t
went out the window, making me feel really guilty. But she’s pushy
and I don’t care for her and not even a diminutive amount has a
thing to do with my Emily. It has everything to do with Gonzales.
She may be pretty and have a rather exquisite eyes. Those are all
unimportant parts of a person. At her core, she’s calculating,
forceful, demanding and if I had long enough hair, I would have
pulled it all out by now.
The maître d’ hands us our four choice menu,
littered with pretentious food that even though I do have the
funds, would
“Don’t mention it,” I shrug and push past her
out of the living room and into the foyer to the front door.
“You coming?” I don’t even care to look back,
as I sling the door open and pound my shit kickers down the steps
of my own version of Stepford.
I pull the keys from my black dress pants.
Yes, you heard me correctly. I said black dress pants. Yuck.
Clicking the key fob, I unlock the brand new
green Lexus LFA sports car. That has to be worth a couple hundred
grand. And I settle myself behind the sleek black wheel, my butt
comfortably resting in the black leather seats. A moment later,
Gonzales with high glossed lips, super straight hair and a dress no
lady should wear to a fancy restaurant slides into the passenger
seat. Tucking her hand between her legs to keep it from riding up
and tossing her silver clutch onto the floorboard on her side.
Backing out of the driveway, I hit it in high
gear and speedily make our way to ‘Dimitri’s’ a five star French
restaurant that every time I vocalize the name I feel the need to
point my nose to the ceiling and say it like a pompous jackass. Of
the donkey variety.
The smoothness of the Lexus glides us like
soft butter on bread up to the valet right out front of the old
brick building that houses the elegant eatery. Shutting down the
engine, I push open my door as the valet — a boy in his early
twenties — opens Gonzales’s for her. As I stand and make my way to
the curb, I make sure my blue—yes I said it—my blue dress shirt is
tucked in properly. And it’s navy blue. That is the only reason I
agreed to wearing it. And the mention of sporting a tie had me
scoffing an under my breath sarcastic laugh.
Please—I may be a man of few words. But I am
far from a pushover. The words Fuck and You entered into my
thoughts and nearly burst from my lips when Gonzales hustled me to
wear a tie. Needless to say James -1, Gonzales- 0.
Waiting on the curb, I toss the blonde boy
the keys and meet up with Gonzales by the front doors of
snooty-falooty Dimitri’s. Sidling up next to me, her bracelet clad
arm brushes up against mine as she attempts to tuck it through the
bend in my elbow. To escort her into the building.
Ha—sorry, I have other plans, and that’s not
happening lady. I pull away, leaving her to deal and hear a ‘humf’
blow out as she tosses her irritated arms over her chest. I’m not
her play toy she can play dress up with, and cozy up next to. I’m
her co-worker and outranking official. She’d do good to remember
that. Before my normal cool demeanor turns into something of a cold
ruthlessness that I can taste in the back of my mouth. It’s itching
to come out and play. And that man I’ve been before isn’t nice, he
isn’t sweet — and ruthless would be putting the way he is
mildly.
“Mademoiselle and Monsieur Carter, dis way,
s’il vous plait,” the flamboyantly, real and overly friendly French
maître d’ says, menus in hand, escorting us to our table for two,
that’s smack dab in the middle of the joint. Just as I requested
for this assignment.
Courteously, he pulls out Gonzales’s or
Mademoiselle Carter's, for all intents and purposes, chair. I
intentionally take the opportunity to slip past him and find my
own. His eyes frown at me as his mouth is pulled up into his
superficial smile.
I know I was rude, not to have done the chair
thing myself, for my wife . I can’t say my manners haven’t
went out the window, making me feel really guilty. But she’s pushy
and I don’t care for her and not even a diminutive amount has a
thing to do with my Emily. It has everything to do with Gonzales.
She may be pretty and have a rather exquisite eyes. Those are all
unimportant parts of a person. At her core, she’s calculating,
forceful, demanding and if I had long enough hair, I would have
pulled it all out by now.
The maître d’ hands us our four choice menu,
littered with pretentious food that even though I do have the
funds, would
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