This was originally one part with the third one, but it got quite long and there is a natural chapter split, so I just broke it into two. It's still quite long, but if you like this sort of thing, you'll probably like it. If you don't like this sort of thing, and want to read it anyway, I'm sure you'll like it too :)
This can be read as a stand alone entry. The context may be lost and a few details may not make sense though.
*****
Getting ready for a first date is a ritual in it's own right. Making the proper first impression is paramount. The tone is set in an instant, any missteps and you're playing catch-up. Time and care must go into the preparation toward that flashing moment. Leading from the front has it's advantages; the leader decides the pace and where and when the race may end. Nobody wants to play catch-up. This is no ordinary first date, that would be unimaginable with my chaperon consort, but the same rules apply. I need to express my desires and demands through conduct and unspoken words. If everything is right, then it's him I'm testing and he is just trying to pass. The best dress for this is a deep royal blue, I love the colour blue and the deeper the blue the more serious the tone. I want to look a bit cold for this occasion.
A bateau styled dress is befitting for this affair; it gives hints while maintaining the appearance of modesty. The cap sleeves are elegant without trying to look elegant. The waistline hugs nicely to my hips before flaring out a bit in a trapeze; extremely flattering on me. Mid-calf length makes it clear that this is a first date and only a date. The dress is classy, suited to a cocktail party, where socialites taste champagne from slim glasses, and certainly suitable for a first date.
"Stockings dear?" I ask while thinking of which pair to put on.
"What for?"
"I want to look good, ok?"
"Bare legs then; men like bare legs."
"Please, men don't know what they like to look at." Picking out black sheer stocking and holding them up. "Men also think they don't like make-up."
"Well I like your bare legs, they're sexy...can skip the panties too."
Responding with half a sigh and half a laugh, "I'm wearing underwear Colin. These will make my legs shiny under lights."
"More like your ankles."
"Too modest? I like it, looks classy, and besides we'll be sitting down. Anyways, I'm not wearing a mini-skirt and hooker boots. I love this dress."
"Oh, I like the hooker boots. You haven't worn those in a while."
"And I'm not dusting them off tonight." I hold my breasts together in front of the mirror. "Do I wear my ring?" I ask in a confused tone as to the protocol.
Dropping the teasing tone he responds seriously. "Yes, of course, you have wear your ring."
"Are you wearing yours?"
"Honey, relax ok? I'm wearing mine too."
"Think I should wear other rings too? Maybe make it less prominent."
"Michelle, wear what you want to wear, I don't think he's going to notice your rings."
"People notice these things, ok? I need nail polish too." I fumble through my top make-up drawer in the small bedroom washroom looking for the colour best suited to the dress. "I think I want to wear silver, I like silver on royal blue. I need to find something silver." I say while locating my blue nail polish.
"Basically everything you have is silver; this shouldn't be a taxing task."
"So? I like silver. I have grey eyes so it suits me. What about the watch you gave me?"
"For our anniversary?"
"Yeah, the slim silver one, I really like it."
"That would be perfect on you."
"Heels too?"
"I don't know how women wear those things."
I start opening various shoeboxes stacked in my closet. "They look nice, I like wearing heels."
"I know you like them, at least I hope you like them, you have enough of them. I just don't know why women wear them."
"They make your butt look better."
"They make mine look better? Maybe you should dig a pair out for me, send the sex appeal into overdrive." He stretches his leg out long while sprawling on the bed.
He's silly, but he makes me laugh. "Not on you silly, I meant me. Makes my butt look better." I stand on my toes in a half-turn to raise my butt to the mirror.
He's never watched me get ready for an actual date. He seems fascinated with a hint of frustration; frustration surely born from memories of every time I've made us late for something. This time I'm fusing even more than usual about every little detail. It's fun; he's calming my nerves with light-hearted banter. Speaking of nerves, thinking about them has brought them back, like right before a big dance recital. My husband watches my every motion intently from the bed, leaving little doubt that this is a performance and I don't want to disappoint him.
Driving to the restaurant my husband is talkative with nervous chatter. I can't respond in kind, nerves hit me in a completely different way; they make me reserved. Nevertheless, he continues to ramble to my single syllable responses. This is just a date to get a sense of who he is and whether or not I want to have another date. It may take a few dates, it could take more and it could fizzle out after a couple. In any event, I'm not committing to anything without courting.
The first steps are timid entering the posh downtown restaurant, I'm not sure why we chose this particular place, the décor is baroque meets hunting lodge. Antlers dangle from the marble pendant chandelier with charming electric candles at their points. Intricate craved wild seamless floral patterns, reminiscent of French nobility, adorn the flawlessly white ceiling in picture frame borders. Large mahogany panels, bookended with roman style pillars, glow dimly yellow from light reflected off the shiny wooden tables. Somehow subtle in its opulence, the room feels warm and refined. In my first sweeping glance of the wonderful setting, he captures my eyes. He stands out vibrantly, yet looks at home, comfortable sitting at the rounded booth. Not a fidget, our eyes meet, he holds my sight and forces my eyes to my feet in modesty.
The softly tuned classical background music has moved to the forefront of my mind. The violin strings vibrate, taking my breath with their dwindling pitch. Hooking my arm at the elbow my husband escorts me to the table; I need to trust him to lead the way, I can't bear to look. I can feel his stare. I know he hasn't broken the line where our eyes had met; in that brief moment I could tell that he's not the type to look away. My husband is as nervous as I am. His quivering arm holds me tighter to his rib cage than comfort would expect.
"Anan, hey, good you're here. You been here before? Took us forever to park (not really true) and the traffic. Any trouble getting here?...oh, this is my wife."
Extending his hand from a seated position, his fingers press softly into the palm of my outstretched hand before wrapping around my four fingers. Gracefully guided into the semi-circular booth, I take my place off center to his left, almost directly across from him. Once seated, he motions with his hand inviting my husband to take his place by my side at the edge of the off-white sofa-like seating. His gestures are so slight and measured, almost as if he wastes not a single movement. His demeanor matches his voice; he wastes not a single word. He speaks softly yet demands, and receives, attention through his tone. His faintly cruel dark eyes coldly inquire and give nothing away.
"I am Anan." He states with a slow deadly calm.
Before I can respond, my husband interjects, "Oh yeah, Michelle my wife, I told you about her. I figured I told you her name, but I don't remember. Anyways, this is her." I try to express with my body language that he doesn't need to explain.
He waits for my husband to finish before continuing in the same even tone, "Yes, yes, of course." Anan has a way of inserting uncomfortable pauses into a conversation. It's his method of controlling them and making sure that what he says is heard. He never cuts you off and provokes rambling making sure you have nothing left to say before he begins. He listens closely, but he doesn't argue.
"It is a pleasant evening." His head tilts slightly in my direction. I notice that he doesn't use contractions when he speaks, it's possible it's that English isn't his first language, but the reason seems more by design than circumstance. It's a direct manner of speaking. The style he chooses to initiate conversation is of a similar design. He doesn't inquire, he states his opinion and prompts you to agree with him. He may start with something small and agreeable to everyone, like the pleasant nature of a breezy spring evening, but can lead you down a path. He is a smooth talker.
Anan is also a smooth dresser who appreciates the nuances in style. Dressed simple in a beige suit, with lapels to match his slender lean build, everything fits perfectly. He's casual in formal attire. His face is cut with severe sharp lines, his cheekbones, clearly defined look almost detached. His hairline is flat, with jet-black hair that surrounds his temples in a uniform short length. Out of all features, his roman nose is most prominent. It seems to occupy half his face extending outwards. It's a feature that could otherwise seem unsightly if not worn with a certain cachet. While not stunning, or even overly attractive, on first look, he carries himself with an undeniable mysterious dignity making him quite handsome.
With his lingering eyes still pointed in my direction he says, "I prefer a red wine with some body, I will order Zinfandel."
As I open my mouth to agree my husband interjects, "Yeah, that sounds good, we're good with that."
After a characteristic pause, Anan moves only his head in my husband's direction and delivers a warm smile and a rising intonation which betrays his intention. "Allow the lady speak my friend." His soft smile brings wrinkles to his otherwise smooth face.
"Oh no, Anan, he didn't mean anything, really any wine that's red is good with me. Really." I make pleasant with my excuse.
"Company with a lady where men do all the talking is no company at all." The pleasant manner in which he delivers the biting criticism to my husband makes him agreeable. It also makes my husband apologetic for his tendency to cut me off and choose my words in company. He only does it because he knows I'm shy and have trouble in unfamiliar groups, it has bothered me in the past, but he doesn't mean anything by it; if anything he's just trying to help. Anan picked up on it immediately and instinctively knew it was of some annoyance to me. It's a very carefully orchestrated manoeuvre and one that takes quite a bit of skill to pull off. The idea is to get me into an agreeable mood with him at the expense of my husband. It has a tremendous risk of backfiring, but he accomplishes it while keeping us both in good humour. The trick is to make us both apologetic for his behavior and thereby it doesn't feel like ganging up. He doesn't make a habit of doing this, just a one-time thing to establish his footing. Either by plan or by instinct, he knows that I wouldn't put up with any more of it.
We pass the exceptionally pleasant evening in conversation. We do not utter a single word about the purpose of this unconventional date. In that way, it's much like a normal date. Not many people sit across from each other on a first date and talk about fucking each other. Instead, you test each other, play little games and constantly evaluate all leading to the point of whether or not you want to fuck each other. There's a civility about it, knowing that the outcome could end up either cruel or sweet. I enjoy this sort of dance; it demands grace and refinement.
We finish the dinner sipping liqueurs from crystal glasses with a sense of levity. Anan controls everything around him. He made sure he had the table he wanted, one where he could sit facing our arrival. He got here early so he could direct us where to sit. The waiter defers naturally to him when taking orders. He moves our conversation along at the pace of his pleasure. All without ever raising his voice or asking permission.
