Page 22 of This Is Who I Am

She grins. “I was going to say life, but sure, if the shoe fits…”

If anyone is like this cake, it’s Cass—and it’s probably the main reason why I’m here tonight.

I take a bite and it’s exactly as she described. Dark and rich, with just enough sweetness to soften the edges.

“Oh my god.” My mouth full of yummy goodness, I shake my head. I try to savor my bite, but I end up swallowing it greedily because it’s just too damn good. “You’re not the first chef I’ve dated,” I blurt out. “I think food might be my sex.”

I didn’t mean to be so flippant, but I think something in that chocolate has intoxicated me.

“Hold on a minute.” Cass does an impressive job of not losing her cool—it must be all those years working in high pressure environments. “First of all, when did this become a date?”

“It’s not.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I meant friend-date.”

“Are you still friends with the chef you used to date?” She’s looking at me with a very self-satisfied grin on her lips and I can’t tell whether it’s because of this divine dessert she served me or for another reason—or both.

“Heavens no.” The chef left me with Scar Number 8. “I sure hope we never fall out, because your food is too good to live without.” I glance at the delicious cake on my plate.

A short silence falls, the only noise the clattering of our forks against porcelain. It’s the kind of awkward silence I’m desperate to fill, but I’ve blurted out enough inanities these past couple of minutes. Instead, I patiently wait for Cass to say something.

“Because food is your sex?” It sounds utterly ridiculous after that silence.

“Obviously…” Maybe I can still save this, come out of this looking better than I deserve. “I can’t compare the two. I’ve heard people talk of foodgasms and such, but, well, for obvious reasons, I wouldn’t know whether that term is correct.”

“Oh, it is. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times.” Cass surprises me. She’s throwing me a conversational lifeline.

“Onlyseenit happen?”

She chuckles low in her throat. “In my extremely expert opinion, you can’t compare the two.” She pushes a strand of hair away from her forehead. Are those beads of sweat pearling on her brow? “I mean, I guess it depends. But sex is…” She pauses, then moves her hand about as though what she was about to say next needs to be waved off.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to hold back on my account.” She’s looking decidedly flustered now, which—again—delights me too much.

“Oh, no. That’s not what I was doing. You’re the one who started talking about this, but… my thought ran out of steam.” She scoffs gently. “Kind of like my own sex life, really.” She pulls her lips into a smile that completely contradicts what she just said.

I have to laugh because, so far, tonight has been nothing short of joyful—and I truly do believe that Cass might become my new best friend in this town.

CHAPTER13

CASS

Because I have no idea what’s happening here—is a gorgeous asexual woman actually flirting with me? And what does that even mean?—I gather the dessert plates and take them into the kitchen.

She’s asexual and I’ve admitted to not having any sex drive left, still, this evening doesn’t feel like some sort of Victorian, overly chaste dinner date between two possible friends. In fact, it feels like the exact opposite.

I rinse the plates and leave them in the sink. The irony is also that, when I’m with Estelle, my libido doesn’t feel so dead anymore. There are flickers of life. Because, yes, she’s hot—as I clumsily let her know—but even more so because she’s a mystery.

On the surface, she’s a Berkeley math professor with burnout, but then she comes into my house and reveals she’s asexual, only to then—and I might suffer from brain fog, but I’m not too far gone to discern this—rather brazenly flirt with me. That really is too much for my poor menopausal brain to handle.

“Can I help?” Silent like a cat—August has a way of sneaking up on me like this—she has approached the kitchen.

Look at her. She’s like an apparition in my doorway. As though some divinity has sent her from the heavens of hotness for the sole purpose of letting me know that physical attraction is still an option for me. That there are women out there whose hotness supersedes the havoc my hormones have wreaked in my body.

“Are you okay?” Her question cuts through my impertinent thoughts. “You have a funny look on your face.”

Or maybe this is yet another glorious symptom of menopause. A new one that affects the brain and makes the most out-there illusions seem perfectly plausible. Nothing surprises me anymore when it comes to this.

“Just, huh, a lesser moment,” I mumble.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I was feeling a little uncomfortable myself, to be honest.” She puts a hand on her chest. “All my own doing, just to be clear. And, erm, I guess I was acting out, you know, like nearly fifty-year-old women tend to do.” Her smile is so crookedly perfect, it dislodges something in me.

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