Old feelings crept up on him: panic, fear, … hope.
The previous day was lost in a fog.
Did I really talk to her on the plane?
His tongue did not seem capable of such things. Having a conversation was one thing, but asking her out on a date? What would he say when she picked up the phone?
He poured a drink, touched the rim of the glass to his lips, and drained it entirely.
Then he picked up the receiver and dialed the numbers. His hands moved unaware of themselves. It rang three times and someone picked up.
The phone was shaking in his hand.
It felt like a dream, as if he was watching himself do it. His stomach fluttered and warmed with the booze.
“Hello?”
It was Sophia. His throat became dry and his voice squeaky.
She spoke again.
“Um, hello?”
He had to speak.
“Uhh.” Words were large and sticky, unable to pass his constricted throat. He swallowed. “Hi, Sophia?”
“Yes?”
“Hi, it’s Ben.”
“Yes, of course.” Her voice was bright and cheerful. He knew she was smiling on the other end, her exquisite lips curled ever so slightly, forming small dimples in her cheeks. My god, he thought, she’s beautiful.
Words escaped his mouth faster than he could process them. Was he really doing this? His heart beat against his ribs, louder than his voice, and each word turned into a blur as soon as it passed his lips.
She laughed when he said, “Well, I was just wondering, you know, if you want to grab dinner sometime? While you’re in town?” His voice was so loud, too loud, squawking and piercing his ears. He felt lightheaded, and stupid. He must have been mistaken; a girl like Sophia would never go out on a date with him.
“Maybe while I’m in town?” She laughed. “When else would we grab dinner, when I'm back in Paris?” Her accent made every word crisp and clean, carefully contrived and constructed.
Ben laughed. Something about her voice and her laughter calmed his nerves.
He asked, “How’s tomorrow?”
“How’s tonight?” she answered.
So there it was. A date. They set up a time and place. Unfathomable. He was not ready for this, he never would be ready—but it was happening. Events were set in motion that could not be undone.
***
He waited for Sophia in front of a bar near her sister’s house. He paced, wondering if he had really called her at all. Maybe it was just a dream.
Women don’t like you, Ben. You had one once and now she’s gone, and you’re supposed to be alone for the rest of your—
Then he saw her far up the street, walking toward him. She wore a simple dress that showed her body exactly as it should. Not too much and not too little. Just a bit of cleavage, a little thigh, and the gentle curves of her hips.
When she got closer, he walked to meet her.
Should I shake her hand, give her a hug, a kiss on the cheek?
She reached out and hugged him, her palms like little doves on his back, and kissed his cheek with the corner of her mouth. His stomach turned on a spit, and a tingling sensation jolted from his brain and spread throughout his body.
“Sophia, you look great—I mean, beautiful. I love your dress.”
“Oh, you’re sweet.”
He opened the door to The Metro, holding it open for her. The lights were low and the music was not so loud that they could not talk. The décor was swank and hip, with couches and polished concrete floors. The staff all looked like models and athletes, wearing form-fitting black outfits that looked tailored to their bodies.
They took a seat at the bar.
Ben ordered a Manhattan for himself and a glass of Shiraz for Sophia.
She touched the glass to her lips, “It’s good.”
“Oh god,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking. Why did I order you wine? You live in Paris, the wine capitol of the world. That was so stupid!”
“No really, it’s good. Try it.”
Ben looked at the light, red lipstick mark on the rim of the paper-thin glass. He wanted to break it off in his mouth and chew it. He took a sip.
“See?”
“Yeah, it’s not bad.”
Halfway through their drinks, Ben started to relax. By the time they were nearly done, he felt great, confident even.
“Our dinner reservations are in twenty minutes, want to get going?”
Sophia smiled. “I’m going to use the ladies room, I’ll meet you outside.”
Ben asked the bartender for the check and handed him some cash. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you.” The bartender stroked his neatly groomed hair off his forehead. “You don’t want to finish your drinks?” He nodded toward the glasses. They were both nearly empty. Ben took a sip from the Manhattan. The bartender was closing the check at the register and looking at him in the mirror behind the bar, smirking.
Ben got up from the stool and waited for Sophia by the door.
What an asshole, Ben thought.
Ben worked with plenty of bartenders who would move in on a girl the moment her boyfriend went to the bathroom, or out for a smoke. Girls on a first date were particularly vulnerable with liquor in their system.
Sophia came out and they left.
They had dinner at Steaks & Capital, a fairly upscale restaurant. The lights were low and the table settings were polished and precise. The tablecloth hung over the table in a perfectly straight line without a single crease. Ironed most likely. The silverware and glasses twinkled like stars in the sky, and there were different utensils for each course, to the left, right, and above the plates.
Ben knew that a server polished each piece of silverware and glassware before placing them down on the table, probably holding each piece up to steam and scrubbing them so the slightest imperfection vanished. Everything was exactly in the right place, set perfectly—perhaps a bit obsessive compulsive and pretentious, he thought.
What a pain in the ass for the staff, he thought. Even so, it was nice.
The waiter was immaculately dressed and freshly shaved, except for a well-groomed mustache. He carried himself with a demeanor that Ben found infuriating. He made eye contact with Ben alone, not even acknowledging Sophia. Jealous, like the bartender at The Metro, that a regular guy like Ben was on a date with such a beautiful woman. And most likely, the server was exasperated with all of the demanding customers he had to put up with on a regular basis. Ben wanted to tell the guy, “Relax, I’m in the business. I feel your pain.”
When the waiter saw the menus folded on the table, he hustled over.
“We’ll start with the crab cakes.” Ben ordered.
The man nodded, scribbling on a dup-pad with a short pencil. Ben waited until he finished.
“She would like the Miso Salmon, and I’ll have the fillet. Medium rare please.”
“Of course, sir.” He picked up the menus. “And how are we doing on drinks?”
Their glasses were full.
“Fine, we’re fine.”
“And the lady?” He was looking down at Sophia, perhaps at her breasts, Ben couldn’t tell.
“She’s fine.”
“Very well.” He turned and left.
“You know,” Sophia said, “when I first saw you at the airport, do you know why I talked to you?”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“It’s because when you sat down next to me, we made eye contact, just for a moment, but then you looked the other way. It was not because you were intimidated, or nervous. You were indifferent. You didn’t stare at me.”
“So you talked to me because I was indifferent toward you?”
She laughed, “Kind of. Men are fools; they try so hard to get my attention. They make conversation when it’s not needed. They have to prove that they’re big shots, that they’re big and strong and important. They think that talking about themselves—inflating their egos—is a turn-on for wome
n, when all they have to do is not talk about themselves as much, and listen.
“Men, especially in bars, make me uncomfortable. They stare at my body, like they’re molesting my soul. I feel eyes on me everywhere I go. You work at a bar; you must see it all the time: the guys who talk to every woman, trying to take anyone home. It’s so desperate.
“Of course, the girls are usually no better. They may not be willing to go home with just any man, but they are more than happy to take every free drink that comes their way. In fact, some of my girlfriends go out drinking all night and don’t spend a dime. They expect it. I’m not that type of girl.”
“That’s admirable, really, it is.”
“Not only did I talk to you because you were indifferent to me, but I saw a deepness in your eyes during the brief period we made eye contact. You’re intriguing. Not to mention handsome.” She smiled.
Ben felt his cheeks turn red. “I think you’re intriguing yourself, but I don’t know about any deepness in my eyes.”
“There is. I can tell.”
They took a sip of their drinks.
“So,” Sophia said, “what were you really doing in Paris? I know you went to the Louvre—but you said you were there on business?”
“Well … It’s kind of difficult to explain …”
I can’t explain. I signed those papers.
Just then, the waiter appeared carrying the appetizer on a small bone-white rectangular plate, thin and fragile. Ben let out a sigh of relief. The waiter placed it down with such grace that the plate seemed to float to the table. Two small crab cakes the size of half dollars sat off center atop paper-thin slices of cucumber in a circular arrangement. Ben could smell the smokiness and heat from the chipotle in the red cream sauce that was drizzled in lines crossways on the plate. His mouth watered.
The crab cakes were just as good as or better than any found in all of Maryland, and the sliced cucumber was slightly pickled and tasted of ginger and sesame. They finished the plate faster than what might be appropriate for a fine dining establishment, along with their drinks, and ordered a second round before the entree arrived.
“Have you been here before?” Sophia asked.
“No, I haven't. I’ve passed by a million times, and everyone at the bar raves about it. I don’t know why I’ve never come.”
“Probably because you didn’t have me to bring with you.” She smiled. An openly flirtatious smile, her eyelids fluttering, and they both laughed.
“I think you’re right.” He knew she was right. Not only had he never had Sophia to bring with him, he never had anyone.
Not a moment after they finished the appetizer, the waiter arrived carrying two circular plates on the tips of his fingers.
“The miso salmon, and the fillet.” He placed them down with the same fluid grace and disappeared on spring-like steps.
The portions were small, but beautiful. Sophia’s salmon filet was more of a thin strip than a filet, lightly browned, and served opposite a soy lentil concoction mixed with spinach and kale. Ben’s fillet was the size of a fist, crisp about the edges and glistening with the seared juices. A few pieces of steamed baby carrots were on the side, shining with the butter and honey mixture they were sautéed in, and tied about the middle in a bow that could have been the string off a piece of celery.
A mixture of porcini and shitake mushrooms was spooned beside the steak, in a thick red wine and shallot sauce that smelled earthy—like sage and thyme, and deeply of garlic. They sat smelling the rising vapors before picking up their forks and knives. Sophia cut a small piece of the salmon, and held it up, blowing away the steam. Ben could not help staring at her; even the way she ate was sexy.
After a moment of respective silence she said, “Oh my god.”
“Good?”
“You have to try this.”
It did not take long for them to eat, and when they finished, they leaned back and talked about the meal. Ben was waiting for Sophia to bring up his work again. He hoped she would understand that he could not talk about it. However, she did not say anything. Maybe she already understood, and he would not have to explain himself. Maybe.
The waiter appeared a moment later. “Are we finished?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Would you like anything wrapped?”
Ben looked at Sophia’s plate. It was nearly empty, just a small piece left. Sophia shook her head.
“No, thank you,” Ben said.
“Very well.” The waiter took the plates and walked away.
Ben felt his body tense, and Sophia put a hand on his forearm.
“These places,” Sophia said, “they’re so pretentious. They think that just because they serve good food, it gives them the right to treat people like idiots. It’s the same in Paris; the restaurant people consider themselves artists, and artists can be very sensitive. Don’t let him bother you; I’m having fun. Why don’t we get the check and go for a walk, maybe find something for dessert?”
“You’re right. That sounds good.”
***
Ben walked Sophia home—insisting—so she would not wind up in a bad part of town. She reached out as they walked and held his hand in hers. Her hand radiated warmth, like a kitten.
“This is it,” Sophia said, stopping before a brownstone. “My sister’s house.”
She turned to face him; the weight of her gaze made him look away.
“This is the part of the date when you kiss me.”
“Sophia, I …”
“Ben, look at me.”
Ben looked up, her gaze crushing the thoughts going through his mind. His attention was enraptured, causing that moment to become locked in time.
“I don’t know who she was … but I’m sorry, and I understand—”
Ben leaned in and kissed her. His lip hit her tooth, and for a moment he was mortified, but she kissed him back. A good kiss—not too long, but hardly a peck on the cheek. Long enough for it to mean something. They split apart. That moment would be forever stuck in time, for all of eternity—yet it was over in a flash.
“Thank you for tonight, Benjamin. I had a great time.”
He felt tears coming, but fought them back.
“I’m leaving Baltimore tomorrow to visit a friend in New York before I go home. Will I see you again?”
“I’m traveling to Rome in a month or two, but I don’t know the date. Maybe you can meet me there?”
“You’re going to Rome? Lucky bartender.” She smirked. Perhaps his silence on the topic was becoming evident. She continued, “It’s a long drive to Rome. I would have to take off from work. I don’t know if I can; I used my vacation days for this trip.” She looked at him inquisitively. “Why are you flying to Rome?”
“It’s a long story. Fly then, don’t drive. I’ll take care of the ticket. I’ll even book it for you.”
“You’re full of long stories.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I think there’s more to you than meets the eye.”
“How about I tell you more about myself when we’re both in the Vatican.”
“The Vatican? I thought you said Rome? I didn’t take you for a religious man.”
Ben smiled. They kissed again, and slowly pulled away.
“Call me,” she said. “Let me know when you’re going to Italy. I’ll try to take off from work. I’ll take care of the ticket; you don’t have to pay for it.”
“No, I insist. If you have to take off from work, let me at least pay for the ticket. Seriously, it would be my pleasure.”
“We’ll see. Goodnight, Benjamin Walker.”
“Goodnight, Sophia Lorenz.”
She walked to the doorway, stopping to turn and smile, and then vanished. The door closed behind her.
Ben stood on the sidewalk, watching the light emanate from the curtained windows of the old townhouse. He wanted desperately to be inside with her, in the warmth of the house, seeing her beauty in the light. He did not want her to go. Was the night really over? It felt like it h
ad just begun. He stood there in the silence, enjoying the faint sound of the wind. The street was dark and quiet in the late hour, save for the streetlights overhead, buzzing like flies in a jar. He turned and walked down the deserted sidewalk.
***
As Ben walked home, he thought about something else that happened earlier, that same day. It was sometime in the afternoon when Ben was mustering up the courage to call Sophia. He was sitting on the couch looking over the numbers scribbled on the back page of his book and contemplating having a drink to calm his nerves. His cell phone was in the palm of his hand, the number pad beckoning him to dial the ten-digits that would connect him with Sophia. Suddenly, the phone lit up, vibrating in his hand. The screen said ‘Doc Wolf.’ Ben picked up.
“Hello, Doctor.”
“Ben, my boy. How are you?”
“Good. You’re sounding rather chipper.”
“Ah, well, yes. There is a lot to be chipper about.”
Dr. Wulfric began to explain to Ben about their new assignment in the Vatican, and then Ben said, “Oh crap. That’s a ton of work.”
“Don’t be glum. Our work in Paris is turning out to be extraordinary; we won’t need to spend nearly as much time on each piece of art as we did at the Louvre. I think it’s safe to say we can cut our focusing time in half.”
“Well, that’s something. Still—the Vatican? The Sistine Chapel?” Ben had only ever seen pictures of the church, never having gone there himself, but he knew the scale of the art in the building to be extraordinary. “What’s with all the art?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just wondering—why do we keep studying art? Not that I’m complaining about going to Paris, or Rome.”
“It’s Mr. Kalispell’s decision regarding where we conduct our experiments.”
“It just seems odd that Mr. Kalispell is sending us all over the world. Couldn’t we study something else, like a tree outside? Again, I’m not complaining. I’m just wondering.”
The Experiment of Dreams Page 10