She will Love you

She was twenty-nine or thirty.

One of those women who'd get angry with you if you bought her a gift with a chord attached to it.

Who treated a man like a fruit salad. "I like this, but I don't like that...like this but not that...this, not that."

The day we met, she inspected my shoes.

"Hm, wing tips," she said. "You're all business."

"Well, they're just one of the pairs of shoes I own," I said.

"Have any Chuck Taylors?"

"No, I don't. Do I get points deducted for that?"

"No, but you get points deducted for asking me if you get points deducted for that."

"Sorry."

She looked at my watch. "Hmmm..."

"Hmmm?"

"I like your watch."

"It was a present from my grandfather."

"That's a fascinating story. Why is wearing a watch so important to you?"

"I just like the way it looks."

"Good answer; time, after all, is completely irrelevant," she said sarcastically.

"' The laws of science do not distinguish between the past and the future.'"

She stared at me for several seconds. "Do you quote often from Stephen Hawking?"

"You're familiar with Hawking?"

"I'm studying theoretical physics."

"Wow, what are the odds of that? No, actually, it's like the only quote of his I've ever committed to memory...and I don't even know why that one stuck with me."

She put her right forefinger to her lips and shushed me.

A few minutes later, as I handed her a glass of cognac in my apartment, I toasted to bigger and better days.

"Define bigger and better days," she said.

I thought about it for a minute. But I didn't know exactly how to answer her question. So I didn't. I took a sip of cognac instead, altogether avoiding her eyes. But she was one of those gals who could see through guys like me, so she pressed me further.

"Define bigger and better days," she said.

I waited twenty or thirty seconds before speaking.

"Independence," I said, barely able to contain my jitteriness.

"From what?" she said.

I thought, why couldn't she accept the first thing that came out of my mouth? Why did she have to be one of those skeptical chicks? I'd about had my fill of skeptical chicks. Weren't there any wide-eyed, idealistic, hassle-free women left in the world? Did they all have to be such raging feminists?

"Independence from fear," I said, hoping this bullshit would fly.

She suddenly smiled. It was a sincere smile, too, that was utterly involuntary and didn't have an agenda. "You're a very spiritual man, aren't you?" she said.

"I have my days," I said.

"You can think on your feet, too. I like that in a man."

"Well, I'm pretty good at thinking lying down, too," I said.

"Are you?"

"But I'm at my best when I'm on my knees."

She laughed. I liked her laugh. It made me feel like I could climb Mt. Everest butt-naked.

"When I first met you," she said. "I thought you were gay."

I cleared my throat. "Oh really?

"You were listening to 'Dreamgirls' on your iPod."

"You could hear it?"

"Sort of threw me for a minute."

I shrugged. "What can I say? I was brought up on show tunes. My parents loved Broadway."

"But then I realized there's no way in hell this guy's gay."

I questioned her with my eyebrows.

"You have that look of oblivion I've only seen on straight men."

I nodded like I knew what she was talking about. But I didn't. I was having difficulty reading between her subtle, squiggly little lines.

But that was okay.

Because she was a discreet and exclusive New York City escort, she went down smooth and slow, like a bottle of 2002 D'Anbino Paso Robles Syrah.