The Kiss of Dopamine

There's something about not being picked. It triggers something, messing with the dopamine receptors.

"Well, what'll we have, Antoinette? " he said, tilting his head in a critical lean to the left.

I'd done a good job. Better than in the picture on the App profile. He was pleased. Some people just don't photograph as nice as they look in real life. And contra wise, some are romanced by the viewfinder of the camera, but lose their luster when seen actually moving in space, the third- or fourth- dimension revealing asymmetry that is otherwise quite natural, though sometimes unbecoming.

And others endure the knife. Or botox a certain look. Art for art sake, I've always felt was justified. I brushed a strand of cinnamon auburn from my cheek with chic red acrylic French tipped finger. 

"Please order whatever you like..." I said, "On me."

A little grin pulled at his cheek, revealing a dimple in the center, like a child's, and I could see he thought the evening was going favorably well, for himself. If he thought anything wasn't quite right, he'd swept it like lint from the Five Star table napkin. Nonexistent.

We chatted pleasantly about nothing.

A convo chameleon, I'd read the transcripts enough times to have the wording verbatim on immediate rolodex. He'd talked about swimming, fishing, sailing, and his latest yacht. Yada, yada, yada, and oh yes the kind of girl he'd love to have on it...

"Your eyes are grey," he interjected over the aperitif in lead crystal. Ching ching.

"Colour changers," I said lowering and raising my false lashes for full effect. 

By the sixth course, we were touching toes beneath the tablecloth. We split a sorbet, raspberry-lemon.

I had a very vivid recollection of her apartment. For fun I described it to him. All the odds and ends, those I was convinced he'd like best... "and just outside the bedroom double glass sliding doors there's a balcony, iron rails, overlooking San Franscisco Bay, and a palm screened hot tub in Turquoise tile."

"Wow. Sounds amazing. You've got a great place," he beamed love rays from his chest, an eleven-course meal in itself.

"Would you care for a dance?" I betted on an immediate yes. It was that kind of venue. I knew he'd trained, Latin and Classical.

Soon enough he had me in his arms, and I assessed our fittings. Her dress, impeccable. I didn't have to tuck or hem, though I did select my fullest undergarments and we both appreciated the lift and curvature. His hand lighting on my hip, breast to breast, our breaths just a little bit compressed, capturing the mood of the music.

I let him lead us wherever he liked. Three songs, four... till the band rested.

Back at the table, digging into the savory finger bites, Spring rolls and Lobster Rangoon's, I thought about her leftovers in the ice chest. Saved, to be dealt with later. Together.

"Let's skip the nuts, and head out?" I suggested, pulling out my keys and stroking just the hairs over his hand, stoking what I already knew was electrifying beneath the surface.

"Your place?" he said, surprised and delight, and I gave a little churlish giggle, behind a flirtatious hand with platinum bangles. He was charmed, and gallantly took me under the arm once I'd retrieved her credit card into my sequin clutch.

It was a quick ride, tipsy from the warmth of the revelry and intoxicating novelty, and anticipation of the stretch of evening still before us. I suggested a dip in the swell of the hot tub, and he was entirely game. Even when he saw as I undressed, that I wasn't exactly what he had pictured. Nevertheless, I fit within the breadth of his profile range of preference, as "open to persuasion," and so he reshuffled mentally, roused all the same.

We slipped into the bubbles of the jets. He closed his eyes and I leaned against his thigh. Now seemed like optimal timing:

"What shall we do with her?" I whispered softly.

"With...?" he murmured lazily, confused but not yet disturbed.

"With her. The woman. You know... the One you picked. From the App."