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I didn’t want to think about that tonight, however. Tonight was for reconnecting with Mike. I would see if there was really something there, or if I had just become obsessed with a fantasy. I pulled into the parking lot at exactly eight o’clock. Grabbing my purse and shutting off the engine, I climbed out. Mike was there, waiting outside for me. I walked toward him on high heels, in my expensive tennis skirt, feeling like a million bucks.
He was dressed casually in jeans and a button-down shirt, open at the collar. He kissed me without pretext, not as hungry as before, but friendly and gentle. I reciprocated, allowing it to go as far as it needed to go. The brush of another couple entering the bar brought us out of our trance. Mike held the door open, and I slipped through it. Suddenly, this small-town night spot seemed more romantic than the French Riviera. Mike scouted one open table in the back and led me to it. There was a live country band playing on a small stage in the corner, and people were packed in, drinking and dancing.
“Do you want to dance?” I asked him.
“Maybe later,” he said. “Have you eaten?”
I shook my head.
“Let’s have dinner first,” he decided with a wink. “I’m afraid my dancing won’t impress you.”
I laughed. He didn’t have to worry about impressing me, I realized. I was already impressed. We sat for a moment in silence, and then we both began speaking at once.
“I want to—” he said.
“I think I should—” I began.
We both broke off, laughing.
“You first,” he said.
“No,” I argued.
“I know you said you were looking for a one-night stand,” he spilled his heart out, “but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Me too,” I breathed.
“This doesn’t have to be anything more than a second date,” he said hurriedly.
“Right,” I agreed. We could take it easy and not make a big deal out of it.
“We don’t have to rush,” he added.
My heart skipped a beat. I had been wondering how I felt about another mad dash to his house, whether that was what I wanted or not. The truth was, I just wanted to talk to him, to get to know him better. And if what he said was true, we could always meet up for sex later. I felt both relaxed and energized when the waitress came to take our order.
“What’ll you have?” the woman asked, pen in hand.
I ordered a chicken wrap, something that would tide me over for the night but not make me feel full. Mike ordered fish and chips, claiming that it was the beer making him crave fried foods.
“We’ll have two oyster shooters too,” he said before the waitress left. “Have you ever had one?”
I shook my head.
“They’re hot and slimy,” he laughed.
I hesitated. “I’m not sure if I want to eat one, then.”
“Just trust me, it’s delicious.”
The waitress returned to refill our drinks and set two shot glasses down in the center of the table. Each one was full of a red sauce, with a hint of white oyster soaking in the bottom. Mike picked them both up and offered one to me.
“You have to down it in one shot,” he said.
“Okay.” I prepared myself.
Mike counted us down, and when he got to three, I tilted my head back and let the concoction slide down my throat. He had been right. The sauce was hot, and the oyster was slimy, slithering down to my stomach as the red pepper burned my tongue. I coughed, dropping the shot glass to the table as if it had been full of tequila.
“Wow, that was interesting.” I said.
