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Davy asked me if I wanted to meet him for a drink. His tongue ran over his lips. He seemed thirsty. I said yes. I didn't get asked out a lot on dates; I mostly just got picked up in bars and had sex with men who I never saw again. So this was what happened when you met someone sober. Interesting.
"Do you want my number?" I said.
He shrugged. "I'll trust you'll meet me there."
"Well here it is anyway." I really wanted to give someone my phone number. I ripped a page out of my notebook.
"My phone's shut down right now," he said. "I ran a little short this month. But thanks."
"I understand," I said, and I did. Running short.
I met him two nights later at the tiki bar down the street. He was wearing a vintage suit and his hair was combed neatly to the side. There was an empty glass in front of him. He greeted me loudly. He was showing off, I thought. That made me feel special.
We both drank up. We talked some more about his bookstore. It was all he wanted to talk about actually. He knew the bartender (which impressed me) and waved her over.
"Tell Jami here how great my bookstore was. People loved that store."
"You know what I want?" he said. "To take a shower. I haven't showered in days."
"It was a great store," she said kindly.
"No one ever fucking bought anything, but it was a great store," he said.
He finished his drink in one gulp. The bartender stared at him. "One more Davy?"
He put his hand on my knee. "What's your place like? I want to see it."
"It's really small," I said.
"I want to see it," he said. "I mean — I want to go there with you." He leaned in and kissed me, a peck on the lips. He stank, I thought of liquor and aftershave. I didn't like him, but I didn't not like him and I liked fooling around a lot and I thought maybe he liked me.
I drove up the hill to my place on Nineteenth Street. Davy was manic, howling at the moon. "This is going to be great," he said. "Is your place really nice?" I ignored him. "I'm sure it's nice. Just like you." He rubbed his hand on the back of my neck and I looked at him. Then he squeezed my breast and I shrugged him off. "I'm driving," I mumbled.
Up the stairs, the dingy stairs: he bounded, I struggled. I didn't want him anymore. Suddenly I was regretting every decision I had made that night. In fact, every decision I had ever made. I was bright. I had gone to a good university. I had blown off the job-interview day on campus my senior year, and I remember sitting on the quad, watching my classmates, all dressed in new business suits, walking to meet people who would hire them. Was I supposed to sign up for interviews? The world moved too fast for me.
Inside my apartment he looked at my bookshelf, then at my walk-in closet, with lovely French doors, the one shining feature. Then he turned and smiled and pushed me up against the wall.
"You know what I want?" he said. "To take a shower. I haven't showered in days." He stopped himself. "I mean, since yesterday."
He really did smell, I thought. Not just the liquor.
"That's okay," I said. "I don't need to shower."
My refusal didn't faze him.
"Got any beer?" he said.
"Yeah. You sit there." I pointed to the bed. I didn't want him on my bed necessarily, but I wanted him to stop touching me. In the kitchen I grabbed a handful of mushrooms and gobbled them down. Then I opened two bottles of Red Hook.
I handed him a beer, and he patted the bed. I sat far away from him.
"Playing hard to get, huh?" he said.
"I don't know if I want to," I said. I was afraid he would say, "Well then why did you invite me here?" as several men had in my past, me often acquiescing in the end.
"That's okay," he said. "We can talk about books more if you want." He was smiling.
