Dennis /Guy Whisperer Case 466
[easyazon_link asin=”B0040SXWBW” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”baswiebmo-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]The Adventures of a Love Investigator[/easyazon_link] I’m at a real estate convention near my home in Florida. Between lectures, I sit in the lobby of the Convention Center Hilton, chatting with business friends. Men have shared with me for five years and I now I’m sure I know too much.
Feeling very sensible, very normal, I am suddenly aware of being watched. Paranoid, I tell myself and continue my conversation. Being watched is a weird thing; eventually you have to return the stare if only to rest your curiosity.
The starer lounges on a nearby sofa, looking as if he’s just stepped out of a luxury car ad. He flashes a smile, takes out a business card and slides it across the lobby-sized coffee table that separates us. All eyes are on me for my reaction. The stranger sits there with the goo of awkwardness smeared over his face.
Taking pity on his numb-nuts attempt at cool, I decide to rescue him. The ball is in my court. I pick up his card and return my business card via the same coffee table path. He seems relieved. Not a word is exchanged.
It takes two days for the card-slider, Dennis, to call me. “I made a jerk of myself, didn’t I?” he asks. No other line would have worked.
“Major jerk,” I laugh.
“I just didn’t know how to get your attention. You were listening to that other guy.”
Boys never really leave the playground, do they?
We discover we share a few real estate contacts. Dennis suggests a business lunch. We agree to meet at an upscale, out-of-the-way restaurant.
He slides in minutes after I arrive, dressed to take advantage of his dark copper hair and green eyes. He’s a vision in fall tones. We share a table by the window overlooking the garden. It’s all too perfect from the crisp white wine to the creamy Alfredo sauce which sat invitingly on the plate before me.
We seem to have a lot in common, Dennis and me. He digs my off-kilter sense of humor and my taste for the outdoors. I’m no Twinkie, so I get suspicious when a guy shares all my interests. And I’m funny, but not that funny. I suspect I’m dealing with an Emotional Chameleon.
How fast is too fast?
“Dinner tomorrow?” He asks. I hesitate. How fast is too fast? I study his bedroom eyes, his well maintained teeth. He’s been available two nights in a row. Curiouser and curiouser.
I have not yet mentioned my guy interviewing to Dennis.
The second evening, Dennis ups the ante. We’re at a five-star restaurant seated in a darkened corner. The lobster is not the only thing getting buttered. I pretend to eat it all but I eat only the succulent seafood. I spit the compliments into my mental napkin.
“You’re much too intelligent for me.” His eyes reflect the candlelight. “I’m not used to smart women.”
“Uh huh.” I dip another morsel into the yellow sauce.
“I’m thrilled that you share my interests. I mean I love to kayak. I love to backpack. This is amazing,” he gushes.
His hands show no sign of outdoor games. I poke the lie. “Where do you usually kayak?”
Chinese take-out at your place?
“All over. Do you like Chinese?”
“How about we have Chinese take-out at your place, tomorrow?
When he sees the expression on my face, he eases back to our interests. “We can share our kayaking adventures over egg rolls. How about it?”
Two dates in one week, plus lunch, can mean only one thing, despite his claims of being unattached, there is a woman in Dennis’ life. I guess his woman to be out of town. Dennis has to cover as much ground as he can before she returns.
The following evening, Dennis stands on my doorstep, carrying two bags of Chinese take-out and a bottle of wine. As I unpack the food, Dennis takes off his necktie and slides out of his shoes.
I settle into my big leather chair facing the sofa and begin to share the tale of my guy interviews. Now that he’s trapped himself in my lair, I offer him the opportunity of a lifetime . . . to be interviewed by me.
An expression of gastric distress cramps Dennis’ face. “You want to interview me?”
“I’d like to – just for the fun of it.”
The food goes untouched. I excuse myself to collect my tape recorder and notes. When I return Dennis has slipped his shoes back on.
“Let’s start with your last relationship.” I say in my interviewer’s voice. “What broke it up?”
“Well . . .” he hesitates. “She doesn’t know it’s over, she keeps coming back. She won’t leave me alone.”
I consider getting one of those knee-thumping mallets doctors use. I could just reach over and pop a guy like Dennis on the head – right now.
“You live together, don’t you?”
His face falls, melting into a pile of unappealing wrinkles.
“You think you’re so smart,” he says. He leaves without saying good night.
I eat an egg roll and wrap up the rest for another day. There’s always another day. 🙂
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