You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  Hope smiled at her menu. That is certainly another new thing. Odell ordered for himself or for both of us. He never let me make any culinary decisions or suggestions because he thought he knew food better than I did because of his size. He didn’t. The only thing smart about Odell was his smartphone, and even that had its limitations.

  When a waiter appeared at the table with a notepad, Hope closed her menu.

  “You have it memorized?” Dylan asked.

  Hope nodded.

  “We’ll have one order of curry goat, two orders of oxtail soup, one order of jerk chicken, two orders of red beans and rice, two sides of cabbage, and two salads.” Am I forgetting anything? Oh. “And keep the ice water coming.”

  After the waiter left with their menus, Dylan laughed. “Hope, that sounds like a lot of food.”

  “It is a lot of food,” Hope said. “I’m hungry.”

  “Are you that . . . ravenous?” Dylan whispered.

  “Yes.” And not just for food.

  While they waited, Dylan took Hope’s hand and held it on top of the table, his thumb gently moving over her knuckles while his eyes roamed the cramped dining loft, prints of parrots and seashells on the walls.

  Here’s another new thing, Hope thought. Odell rarely even held my hand, even when we were alone. I had to clutch his elbow if I wanted any contact with him in public. Dylan obviously wants to be seen with me. He even kissed my cheek out there on Washington Avenue in front of all those people. Odell hardly ever smiled, especially at The Islands. He was too busy saying “They need to expand this place if they want more business” and “How long have we been waiting?” and “The jerk chicken is dry tonight” and “This dining loft is definitely not up to code.” Not Dylan. This man is content to be wherever he is, and I am content to be wherever he is.

  Dylan leaned in, whispering, “What instrument would the man in the far-right corner be?”

  Hope laughed. “I thought you were going to say something romantic to me.”

  “Later.” Dylan’s eyes traveled to the man in the corner. “What instrument?”

  What instrument has a big head, a rotund body, and two stubby arms? “Definitely a tuba. What about his date?”

  “She looks like . . . a cello,” he whispered.

  “A . . . cello.”

  “Her color and shape,” Dylan whispered. “She’s brown and kind of thin up top and rounded at the bottom.”

  Oh, I get it, Hope thought. But what is Dylan doing looking at her derriere? Hope stared openly at the woman. Okay, so her derriere is round and curvy. Mine used to look like that. At least it might mean Dylan is more interested in derrieres than breasts, both of which I have in short supply.

  When the food arrived, they dug in, sampling from each other’s plates and generally gorging themselves while their feet and knees played tag under the table.

  “You let a man eat from your plate on the first date,” Dylan said.

  I am so shameless. “What do you think so far?”

  He pointed his fork at the curry goat. “This is so good.” He chewed furiously. “Spicy, hot, and delicious.” He took a gulp of ice water. “However, I don’t feel my tongue. Wow! That’s some fiery stuff.”

  I don’t want to tell him it’s not the spiciest curry goat I’ve ever had or that some types of roti could put his tongue in a coma. “I didn’t know you could be so voracious,” Hope said.

  “Neither did I,” Dylan said, finishing his third glass of water and leaning back from the table. “I have to stop. I want to save some room for dessert.”

  “You have room for dessert?” Hope asked.

  He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled softly. “I was hoping that you would be my dessert.”

  Hope blushed. There’s not enough of me to be anything but an appetizer or an after-dinner toothpick. “I’m sure the banana dumplings will taste better.” If they have them ready. They run out of things without notice here. I have yet to eat their bread pudding, which I hear is the best on earth. “You’ll really like the dumplings.”

  “I’ll bet that you taste just as sweet,” Dylan said.

  I like a salty man who thinks I’m sweet.

  While they waited on the banana dumplings to arrive, Dylan asked, “What about the couple over there? What instruments would they be?”

  My opinions and ideas actually matter to this man. Odell rarely asked what I thought about anything. She glanced at the couple. Are they Dominican? Colombian? Brazilian? I can never tell. He has a smooth chest and silver chains, and she wears a shimmering silver dress, a slit all the way to her thong. I wish I had shapely legs like hers. “She’s a shiny silver steel drum, and he’s a golden trombone.” He does have many teeth. Hmm. “Or he’s a xylophone and she’s a flute.”

  Dylan wiped his forehead with his napkin. “Put those four instruments together and you’ll have a unique sound.”

  “What instrument do you think I am?” Hope asked.

  Dylan reached out and took her hand. “You, my dear, are a djembe drum,” he said. “You are tall and slender, you have very nice rhythm, and yet I know you could make a big noise if you wanted to.”

  Hope pouted. “But the djembe has a large, round derriere. I don’t.”

  “I like your djembe,” he said, smiling. “It’s cute. I wonder how I would play you.”

  He wants to play my djembe. I want him to play with my djembe very much. Just one of his hands could make my djembe jump.

  “I wouldn’t beat you, though,” he said softly. “I might . . . spank you, though.”

  Hope blushed, and sweat formed on her nose. I have been very naughty.

  “And then I’d caress you,” he whispered. “Softly. Tap-tap, tap-tap. I would probably rub your djembe until I heard your soft, sexy sound.”

  It wouldn’t be a soft sound. I’d make a loud, sexy sound. At least I hope I would. No one has hit my djembe in so long.

  “What instrument do you think I’d be?” Dylan asked.

  What instruments aren’t phallic in some way? I already said trombone for someone else. Trombones have slides that go in and out, up and down . . .

  “Hope?”

  “Hmm? Oh.” Just dreaming of things sliding in and out. “You are a . . . guitar.” Why’d I say guitar? What’s sexy about a guitar? They have G-strings, don’t they? But Dylan’s neck isn’t that long.

  “Am I that high-strung?” Dylan asked.

  “Well, you certainly like strumming my heartstrings,” Hope said.

  “I do,” Dylan said. “What if I go out of tune?”

  “Then I’ll tune you up,” Hope said, “and then I will pluck you.”

  Dylan’s eyes popped while he laughed.

  What did I say? Oh, wow. I just said I wanted to pluck him. Well, I do. I’m feeling plucky. I love all this sexy talk! Odell never said anything like this! He only “talked shop” and hardly ever gave me a compliment. Dylan and I are actually talking about things that matter to me.

  “So we’re a guitar and a djembe drum,” Hope said. “That would be an interesting combination, what with all that plucking and tapping going on.”

  “And at the same time,” Dylan added. “Tap-tap . . . pluck.”

  Hope nodded and shakily drank her water. We might not sound that good, but we would definitely be loud.

  The banana dumplings arrived in a covered aluminum pie pan.

  “Let’s take these to go,” Dylan said.

  “Why?” Hope asked.

  “I’m feeling out of tune.” Dylan picked up the pie pan. “I need a tune-up.”

  And I need to do some plucking. We are going to have a jam session at my apartment. It’s payback time for my neighbors.

  When they finished their short walk to her apartment entrance, however, neither Hope nor Dylan rushed to open the door.

  “Before we go in, Hope,” Dylan said, “I want to know what you’re thinking.”

  You mean besides the plucking, the tapping, and the tuning?

  “L
ast night I heard myself saying right here in front of this blue butterfly that we should take it slow,” he said, “and here I am tonight wanting to go much faster. I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

  Dylan has much better brakes than I do. I would have started tuning him up right here. “Well, I feel full.” She smiled. “I may not have to eat at all tomorrow or even Sunday.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said. “What else are you thinking about?”

  “I feel comfortable with you, Dylan. I’m thinking about how peaceful this is, how calm I am.” Most of me. My lips, however, are buzzing.

  “You aren’t normally calm?” Dylan asked.

  “I’m normally so calm I’m comatose.” She pulled him close. “I had a wonderful time tonight with a wonderful man, and I don’t want this wonderful night to end out here with the wonderful man walking away again. That’s what’s running through my head.”

  “You have such wonderful thoughts,” he said. “Ask me in.”

  “Dylan, will you join me for banana dumplings and . . .” I have nothing in the apartment to drink! “Will you join me for some dumplings and some tap water?”

  Dylan laughed loudly. “I would love to join you for some tap water. I am so parched.”

  Hope opened the entrance door, and they climbed one flight of stairs and walked down the shadowy hallway to Hope’s door.

  “I must warn you,” Hope said, holding her keys. “Whack is an unusual cat.”

  “How unusual?” Dylan asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Hope unlocked and opened her door.

  Dylan stepped inside.

  Hope closed the door behind them.

  Whack jumped off Hope’s bed and trotted over to Dylan, rubbing against his leg.

  Whack purred.

  What? Hope screamed in her mind. I take care of you for three years, and you purr at the first man who comes through the door?

  Whack continued to purr.

  Vixen!

  Hmm.

  I’m purring over this man, too.

  That makes me a vixen, too.

  Chapter 14

  Dylan bent down and let Whack sniff his hand. “Hello, Whack. I’m Dylan. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  I can’t believe this! “Give me your jacket,” Hope said.

  Dylan rose and removed his jacket. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  Hope took his jacket to the kitchen and hung it on the back of a chair. The nerve of that stupide cat! I feed her and give her a safe place to stay, I clean and keep her nasty litter box smelling fresh, and she never purrs for me, not even once! The second Dylan walks in, she purrs like a prostituée! Ooh!

  “I will prepare the tap water, sir,” Hope said. “Is there any special way you want your tap water prepared?”

  “On the rocks,” Dylan said.

  He’s still standing by the door. Where do I want him to sit? On a kitchen chair that might tip over? On my bed where I might hurt him? Or on the futon that might not hold him? “Please make yourself comfortable on the futon.”

  “As you wish,” Dylan said, moving to the futon carefully as Whack circled his legs. As soon as he sat and set the pie pan on the coffee table, the futon creaked loudly and Whack leaped into his lap.

  Such an ungrateful gigolette! Get off his lap! That’s where I want to be sitting.

  Hope opened the freezer section of her refrigerator and saw two empty ice cube trays. Figures. My life has been as empty as two ice cube trays. “We are all out of ice, monsieur. Would you prefer your tap water neat?”

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” Dylan asked.

  “Oui,” Hope said.

  “That’s fine,” Dylan said.

  I’m about to serve room temperature tap water to the first man to visit my apartment in eight years. I am a horrible hostess. She snatched her only two glasses from a cupboard. At least the glasses are clean. She ran water for a full minute before filling them, but the water temperature never changed.

  She approached the futon and handed a glass to Dylan. “Brooklyn’s finest, tapped at the peak of perfection.”

  Dylan took a sip. “Ah, this was a good month.” He set his glass on the coffee table. “Your cat won’t stop purring. She sounds like a chain saw.”

  She used to be mute! “Yes. Doesn’t she?” Hope sat next to Dylan, the futon complaining, Whack purring louder. Oh, shut up. “Sorry about the futon.”

  “I like it,” Dylan said, looking directly across the room at Hope’s bed. “You have such a . . . small place. Don’t you get claustrophobic sometimes?”

  Hope sipped her water. “Sometimes. I don’t need much. Is your place bigger?”

  “I have a two-bedroom with four total rooms,” Dylan said, picking up and putting Whack on the floor.

  His apartment is easily twice as big as this place, but why does a single man need two bedrooms?

  “I use the smaller bedroom for the international headquarters of Odd Ducks Limited Greeting Cards,” Dylan said. “I wish my apartment was this clean.”

  The word is “empty,” not “clean.” “How long have you lived there?”

  “Twelve years now,” Dylan said, “and I have accumulated a great deal of clutter.” He turned to Hope. “You don’t believe in clutter, do you?”

  “I like to live simply,” Hope said. Translation: I’m too cheap to buy things. “I could never have a roommate.” What a stupid thing to say! Why not announce you never want to get married! She stared at Whack. It’s your fault I can’t say the right thing tonight. All your purring is confusing my thoughts. “I mean, I’m very particular about how things are organized. Have you ever had a roommate?”

  Dylan nodded, shifting slightly. “Yeah. Once. About five years ago.”

  Where did my smiling man go? Why are his eyes so sad? But more importantly, what happened to his roommate?

  “Hope, before we go any further,” Dylan said, shifting and leaning against the black metal armrest, “there are some things I need to tell you.”

  Hope nodded. “I have a few things I need to tell you, too.” I might be talking until the first Tuesday in November. Hope took another sip and set down her glass. Do I want to spill it all? Will he want me to spill it all? Can I spill it all?

  “The best way to begin is to begin,” Dylan said. “It’s probably obvious to you that I’m a bit out of practice when it comes to dating.”

  He’s a bit out of practice? If that’s true, I’ve never practiced at all. “You could have fooled me. You have been the perfect gentleman. You’re playing me like a djembe.”

  Dylan smiled. “You’re fun to play with. That didn’t come out right.”

  Yes, it did, and I am fun. I had just forgotten how fun I am.

  “What I meant to say is that you’re easy to play.” Dylan grimaced. “That’s not what I meant either.”

  Well, once you warm me up, I’m easy to play.

  “What I’m trying desperately to say, Hope,” Dylan said, “is that you’re forgiving of my social clumsiness and ineptitude.”

  Hope reached across the futon and held his right hand. “Your hands seem to know exactly what they’re doing.”

  “My hands must have a better memory than I do.” He sighed. “Hope, I’ve been out of commission for a long time. I have not been out with anyone in five years.”

  Hope blinked. Five years.

  “I know,” he said. “That’s a long time to be out of action.”

  Hope squinted. “It’s not quite as long as eight years, though. I haven’t been out with anyone in eight years.”

  Dylan seemed to stop breathing.

  I’ve killed him. Please breathe.

  “Eight years,” Dylan said softly.

  Hope nodded. Okay. He’s not dead. I’m sure he thinks I’m pathetic.

  Dylan blinked rapidly, his hand becoming stiff to Hope’s touch. “Why? Were you sick or in a coma?”

  “No.” Actually yes, though I’ve recently c
ome out of a coma thanks to you.

  “So you weren’t in the hospital,” he said.

  “No.” I probably should have been.

  Dylan’s hand flinched, but Hope held on to it. “Were you in jail?”

  “No.” Well, sort of. I made my own cell, and I am sick, I should be in the hospital, and at the rate I’m going, I could be in a sugar coma from the addictive banana dumplings sitting on the coffee table in front of me. “I’ve been in kind of a voluntary solitary confinement. Right here in l’appartement de claustrophobie.”

  Dylan closed his eyes, opening them slowly. “I never would have guessed that about you. You’re so wonderful. Why did you put yourself in solitary confinement?”

  Hope sighed. Life is so strange. He was about to tell me some deep, dark secrets about himself, and here I am spilling some of my pathetic little life to him. “I had a bad breakup.” She let go of Dylan’s hand and wiped her hands on her jeans. I haven’t had sweaty palms in such a long time. “I thought he was the love of my life. I was dead wrong, but that was eight years ago and I’m over it now.” That wasn’t so bad. I feel some relief. “Why have you been alone for so long?”

  Dylan’s eyes seemed to focus on nothing in particular, not that there was anything in particular in Hope’s apartment to focus on.

  Am I losing him already? Hope nudged his thigh with her knee. “You were about to tell me something.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I was. It doesn’t seem that important now.”

  “Tell me,” Hope said.

  He looked at the ceiling. “Eight years,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” Hope said.

  “I can’t imagine that,” he said. “I thought five years was bad, but eight is . . .” He sighed. “Hope, I wish I had met you sooner.”

  “Me, too.” Now it’s time to talk about you. “So, what happened to you five years ago?”

  Dylan sighed. “It’s really not that important, Hope. Do you want to eat some dumplings now?”

  “I don’t have room,” Hope said. “I do want you to tell me what happened to you.”

  His hand went limp. “I broke one heart too many.”

  I can see him doing that, hopefully never with me. “So you’ve left a trail of broken hearts.”