Box

31

Nothing bad happens at the junk yard. In fact, something great happens.

Zander’s standing there, waiting for me!

Looking…amazing!

Not in Trudy’s league, mind you, but damn cute.

Nice, tight body, decent face, great hair.

She climbs in the front seat.

“Nice watch,” she says.

“Thanks. It’s a Piaget Altiplano.”

“And it cost more than my house, didn’t it!”

She’s carrying an enormous handbag that appears to be filled with clothes.

“Are we spending the night somewhere?” I ask.

“You never know!” she says, giving me a wink. Then says, “Can I kiss you real quick?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Because I want to!”

“Seriously? That’s great! I just meant, what made you ask that?”

“You know how first dates are. As a guy, you probably spend half the time wondering, ‘Should I kiss her? If so, when? After a couple drinks? After dinner? At the end of the date? In the car? At her doorstep?’ It’s a pain. You might not even get around to kissing me at all because you’re not sure if the moment or the mood’s right.”

She’s right. I never know when to try to kiss someone on the first date. From the slaps alone it’s obvious I guess incorrectly most of the time.

Zander says, “I want to get that part over with, so we can concentrate on the fun.”

“Works for me,” I say.

We kiss right there on the gravel entrance to the local junk yard.

It’s an okay kiss. The kind I ’m used to.

The fake kind.

Again, Zander’s not in Trudy’s league. But how many women are?

And how much can I really expect from a first kiss before the first date?

I’m quite pleased to be kissed at all at this point, and the fact she wanted to start in with a kiss gives me high hopes for the date.

“Where’s your car?” I say, looking around.

“I caught a ride,” she says.

“Why?”

She looks down.

Says nothing.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m embarrassed.”

“Why?”

“You’re a rich doctor from New York City. You live in a penthouse. You have a doorman!”

“So?”

“There aren’t any penthouses in Paducah.”

“Of course not.”

“No doormen.”

“So?”

“The truth is, I was ashamed to let you see where I live.”

“Don’t be silly!”

“I’m sorry, Gideon. I just didn’t want you to judge me based on that.”

“I would never do that.”

“Well, maybe later, then.”

“I look forward to it.”

She removes two jugs of wine from her handbag.

“This isn’t what you’re used to, but it’ll loosen me up.”

“Sounds perfect!”

She says, “You’re probably wondering why I covered the wine with clothes.”

“I hadn’t thought about it, actually. But since you brought it up, tell me.”

“McCracken County’s dry.”

“What’s that mean?”

“No alcohol. Paducah’s a wet city in a dry county.”

“So alcohol is allowed?”

“In the city. But if we venture past the city limits we’ll need to keep it hid.”

“That’s crazy.”

“That’s Kentucky,” she says. “New York’s different, I bet.”

“Very. In lots of ways. But there’s something charming about being in small town Kentucky.”

“You are so full of shit!” she says, laughing.

I smile.

She says, “So, you still want to go to the riverbank, get to know each other better?”

“I’d love to.”

“Me too. Can we make a quick stop along the way?”

“Of course.”

I know what you’re thinking.

Something bad’s going to happen when we stop. That is what you’re thinking, right?

“I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.