On The Verge

“Hey,” I say, kneeling at the table.

“You look beautiful.” Wow! Am I going to blush?

“Well, thanks, you’re not so bad yourself.” He reaches across the table and touches my chin. I hadn’t expected the physical contact so soon, but I lean into it.

“I ordered for us, the first round, at least. Then, we’ll see what you want.”

“Great.” He pours me some sake. I drink it, it’s very warming. I pour some more. He smiles.

“I have a very high tolerance,” I say.

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, I was never very popular at frat parties.” He has a disconcerting habit of just staring at me smiling. I gulp some more sake. “What?”

“You are just breathtaking.”

“You’re embarrassing me, really. So tell me about your job.”

He starts to talk about the people his company represents and although he doesn’t tell a lot of stories that involve him, it’s interesting enough to entertain me. He gets a lot of CD promos and has two thousand CDs.

“I have a thirty-disk changer. It puts me to sleep.”

“Oh, is it just you in your apartment?”

“No, I have a roommate. A friend’s ex-girlfriend. What a bitch.” I have this aversion to hearing a man call a woman a “bitch.” It’s overused and I think very distasteful. Zeke seemed like a sensitive enough guy in my alcohol-affected impression, so I am about to give him my views on this in a nonthreatening manner, but the sushi arrives. It’s lovely and multicolored. I love sushi. Zeke pours us more sake and presses his hands together, pleased with his selection. There really isn’t anything sexier than a man who knows how to order.

“You start.” I get to it.

“So, Zeke, where are you from?” He chuckles a little.

“Well, I’ve basically lived all over California, Maryland… I live way over on West 12th.” That’s sort of hip, but, I bet he’s lying about where he’s from, I bet he’s from Long Island. As long as he doesn’t turn it around. “Where do you live? Where are you from? Tell me everything, Eve.”

“Oh, I’m crashing with a friend who lives on the Upper East Side. I know, awful. We’re looking for another apartment.” Time to deflect, I will not admit to living in Jersey. “Good thing you got two of everything. I love yellowtail.”

We eat for a while and I always feel less awkward when I’m stuffing my face. I am so into eating that I don’t realize he is staring at me again. I set my chopsticks down and wipe my mouth.

“Don’t stop. It’s nothing. I just like to watch you eat. It’s very erotic.”

“Maybe you should just concentrate on your dinner.”

“That would be like masturbation.” I practically spit my sake onto the remaining sushi. I cough. I might be choking, the waitress brings water and Zeke reaches over to thump me on the back. I regain my composure and take a deep breath. Is he for real?

“I didn’t mean to offend you. Really. I’m sorry. I can’t help who I am. I’m a very sexual person and I’m enjoying this very much. I want you to relax.”

“Oh, I’m relaxed.” The sake pitcher is empty. I nod for more, “Completely.”

When Zeke isn’t cataloging my every chew, he does a lot of talking about himself. Well, he does a lot of hinting about himself, he hints at things. A possible summer home, an expensive college education, a book he might want to write, friends who work in independent film. It sounds too good to be true. And also, (try not to wince) he has a tendency to refer to himself in the third person. Example: “Zeke thinks that every woman should be up on a pedestal.” Believe me I’m sparing you the really bad dialogue.

For whatever reason, I agree to go to Veniero’s with Zeke. By this point the sake is making me really loopy. We get shots of grappa “to help us digest.” I stop him before he can force me to lick the cannoli cream off his fingers.

“You know the thing is, Eve, a woman’s pleasure is more important to me than my own. Her pleasure,” he says, interlacing his fingers, “is worth more than her pain.”

“Well, Zeke, that’s a very admirable ideology.”

“Do you really think so, Eve?” I can tell he’s really pleased with himself. “It’s been a long time since I’ve indulged in satisfying my senses so completely. I’m having such a great time. I feel like growling. I feel so basic, like an animal.” He runs his fingers through my hair and growls. Yes! He actually growls! The old Italian men at the table next to us look over. Maybe they’ll rescue me. Does this actually work? Am I having a drunken hallucination? Is he really saying this?

“Let’s talk more about you, Eve. What are the things you like? I want to know you.”

“Oh, boy, Zeke. You know, I’m pretty complex, it might take a while.”

“I’ve got all night. We’ve got all night.” I need to get out of here. I want my own bed. I wish I had a car voucher.

“Maybe we can save that for next time, I’m burnt, all the excitement and, you know, I have a big day at work tomorrow. Deadlines and such. The crazy world of magazine publishing.” I can’t believe I got a bikini wax for this.

“Oh, Eve, sure, well, let me hail you a cab.” Luckily, there is a cab right there and I’m hoping to expedite this awful goodbye.

“What an extraordinary night. We’ll have to do this again.” I offer him my hand, but then he is passionately kissing me against the cab and it’s not a bad kiss.

Now, maybe it was the sake or the way he’s rotating his pelvis into mine in the middle of East Eleventh Street, but I’m not exactly proud of what happens next.

“Well?” asks Tabitha first thing in the morning over the phone. I am so hungover. The freshly squeezed six-dollar orange juice and toast isn’t doing a thing for my head.

“Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing the Gap is open at nine.”

“Oh, how scandalous and low down! Was it great? How big?”

“No, awful, well, not awful in the satisfying of mutual desires way, but awful in the how desperate I am and what lengths I will go to merely get laid.”

“So tell me everything—actually skip the sushi and start with the sex.” Sometimes Tabitha’s alliterations are on par with my own. I make a mental note.

“Well, made out the entire cab ride back to his place. The driver’s name was Numbi, very discreet, I would have liked to speak to him, but—”

“Eve. Please.”

“So we got back to his place—”

“Where?”

“Meat-packing district/West Village, pretty cool apartment. Roommate who he lovingly calls a ‘bitch’ away on business.”

“Convenient. Are there two bedrooms?”

“Yes. That was the first thing I checked.”

“Thatta girl. So then he took off your clothes?”

“No, then I had to pee. All the sake. Anyway, I do my thing.”