Page 20 of The Last Good Man

His words are meant to be a compliment, yet there’s no substance to them. A string of words, perfect for the occasion yet having no real meaning.

They fall flat despite their admirable perfection and flawless delivery.

He finally looks at me, and I give him a smile that is as fake as his compliment.

No one can honestly say I'm that unique, especially someone who knows nothing about me, but that’s my cue that we need to play this game a little longer to find out whether we’re a good fitor not.

Still wearing a remnant of a smile, I shift my eyes to the window and cast a blank stare at the mysterious world outside.

After years of living in New York, I still believe there isn’t a more fascinating world than the one hiding behind the dark curtain of rain.

Our trip is short and void of words.

There’s not enough time to start a conversation, anyway, and I remain sunk in thought, pretending I don’t know what this really is.

Two fancy people terribly alone.

Maybe Thomas Everett isn’t like that.

Men are built differently and don’t make a big deal out of their emotions except for some, like my father, who’s struck a balance between his pragmatism and his feelings for us, enough to make our lives beautiful.

But, in this case, I know exactly what I’m getting, and luckily, the next few hours fly by.

We exchange banalities throughout the evening before leaving the Metropolitan Opera and heading to his place.

One of the benefits of dating him is that he doesn’t live too far from my apartment.

I could walk home if things didn’t work out and I didn’t have time to wait for a cab.

We enter his place a few minutes after ten.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, gesturing around while closing the door behind me.

Handing my gloves and clutch to him, I look around.

This is our fourth date and our first attempt at intimacy.

It’s not like we’ve talked about it, but anyone can see it. Even the tattooed stranger had picked up on it.

I walk around while hegoes straightto the open kitchen and retrieves two glasses from a sculpted cabinet.

The ease with which he moves around is remarkable.

That’s the thing with these seasoned men.

They’ve done this so many times with so many women that it shows.

I’ve been doing this for some time, and while my pulse doesn’t shoot up in excitement, and I have no butterflies in my stomach, the expectation that I’d be at least swept of anticipation is still there.

Unfortunately, I’ve grown bored with the whole process lately.

Maybe that’s why my sessions with Dr. Stenson have become increasingly appealing and, frankly,more entertaining.

“Malbec?” he says, his voice wafting from behind me while I stroll to the two large windows.

His place isbiggerthan mineand hashigher ceilings, and an equally beautiful view.

This rain never seems to stop––I muse, looking out the window while the garnet wine tumbles into the glasses with a lush, appealing gurgle.

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