Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
I was late. What else is new?
It took me some time to get my outfit together.
After trying on about ten different dresses, skirts, and pantsuits, I decided on a beautiful cream Ungaro linen halter jumpsuit and a pair of strappy gold high-heeled shoes.
Some gold Monet jewelry to complement, a small gold and white clutch bag, an I Dream of Jeannie –style ponytail, and I was out the door.
I really didn’t have money to spend on a cab from Brooklyn, so I jumped on the train and crossed my fingers, hoping that the NYC transit company would for once in its miserable existence not let me down. But, of course, it did.
We sat between stations for a good ten minutes while the lights blinked on and off and the motorman halfheartedly apologized for the delay.
Once in the city I strolled confidently past gawking men and turned down 37th Street, headed toward Madison Avenue and the Morgans Hotel, where Asia de Cuba was housed.
Once inside, I checked with the ma?tre d’. “Um, reservation for…for…”
Dammit, I’d forgotten the man’s last name. Had I ever even known it?
The ma?tre d’ smiled tightly at me and waited.
“Oh,” I said and dug into my purse for my wallet. I’d slipped his card behind my driver’s license. Pulling it out, I slowly pronounced his name so that I wouldn’t butcher it too badly.
“Abimbola Lenguele.”
The ma?tre d’ looked down at his book and then back at me and smiled. “Yes, Mr.Lenguele hasn’t arrived yet. So you can take a seat at the bar,” he said, sweeping his hand left and toward the bar area.
I loved this restaurant. The billowy white curtains, seductive lighting, and wood paneling gave it a smoky, sultry feel.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
“Champagne,” I said, already light-headed from the atmosphere.
Beautiful people came and went, and before I knew it I was sipping on my second glass of champagne and it was a quarter to ten.
Where the hell was he? Now I was getting mad. No one makes Chevy wait! Who the hell did he think he was? I looked at my watch again. I should just leave. But I’m starving and haven’t had anything but a bag of potato chips since noon.
And to make things worse, the bubbles from the champagne were starting a war with the gas in my stomach.
I discreetly rubbed my chest and was able to slip out two small, dainty burps without anyone noticing.
But then my stomach began to swell up like a balloon and I knew that the air building inside me wasn’t going to be passed through my mouth.
If I didn’t get up soon and hustle my fine ass off to the ladies’ room or outside, I was going to blow a hole the size of Texas out the seat of my jumpsuit.
I jumped up from the stool and quickly negotiated my options.
Outside, or the ladies’ room?
Which one was closer?
I could feel the air seeping out even as I stood there trying to look calm.
I looked toward the restroom and watched as four women sashayed through the swinging door. That option was out.
The bartender gave me the “Where do you think you’re going?” look.
I clenched my butt cheeks together, dug deep into my purse, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and threw it on the bar. “I’ll be right back,” I mouthed and made my way, as naturally as I could, toward the front door.
The ma?tre d’ eyed me suspiciously as I wobbled out and onto the sidewalk. A small crowd was milling in front of the restaurant, so I had to sidestep my way past them, and then…
Bllllllllllllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
It was the loudest release of air I had ever been witness to.
The legs of my jumpsuit fluttered as if caught in a great wind, and the small group looked around and above in search of the offensive noise.
Me, I had my right hand cupped to my ear and my mouth chattering happily away as if I were on my cell phone.
A few more small explosions, and I was done. Whew!
I looked at my watch again. It was ten o’clock, and my anger started a slow, heated climb up my neck. Some people just had no consideration for others!
Just as I made up my mind to start home, a long, sleek black limousine pulled up alongside the curb and Abimbola climbed out.
As unsightly looking in his face as he was, the cream and gold dashiki he was wearing somehow made him not so hard to look at. I felt that we must be linked in some cosmic way, because we had chosen the same colors. This was a very good sign.
He looked left, smiled graciously at the white people who stood outside smoking and gawking at him, and then waltzed into the restaurant.
I did not follow. Who the hell was he to make me wait on him all this time?
I turned on my heel and started down the street, raging inwardly. Once I reached the corner, my stomach grumbled and reminded me that Asia de Cuba had some damn good food. That release of air had opened up an empty pocket in my stomach that needed to be filled.
“Damn,” I muttered, spinning around and starting back to the restaurant.
—
“Chevanese,” Abimbola sang when I sashayed up beside him. He stood and took both of my hands in his. “How are you, my beautiful queen?” he said as he bent and kissed me first on one cheek and then the other.
His lips felt like mink. Mink—hmm.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“I can see that. More than fine…extraordinary,” he said, taking a step back to admire me. “You wear white well,” he said.
“So do you,” I returned, with a big sparkling smile.
The ma?tre d’ approached. “Mr.Lenguele, your table is waiting, if you’re ready,” he said.
“I am at the mercy of the beautiful lady, Marco,” Abimbola said, bowing his head at me.
I think I’m melting. That’s so unlike me!
“Sure, I’m ready to eat,” I said.
“After you, my queen.”
I grinned so hard, my cheek muscles screamed.
I don’t think a man had ever called me a queen before. I liked it.
—
Anything else?” Abimbola said as he touched the linen napkin to the corners of his mouth.
I shook my head no and leaned back contentedly in my chair. I couldn’t eat another bite and didn’t think I could drink another drop, but I don’t believe in the wasting of good champagne, so I tipped the crystal flute to my lips and drained its contents.
I’d already been to the ladies’ room twice. The champagne was just running through me for some reason.
Now, sitting there, belly full, I reflected on the past two hours. As always, our conversation was wonderful. Abimbola was truly an interesting man, funny, lighthearted, and full of compliments—which I love.
When I set my flute back down, he was staring intently at me.
My head was swimming, and I felt warm all over.
I smiled at him and reached into the empty chair for my purse.
“Excuse me,” I said as I scooted my chair back and stood up.
Abimbola rose as well. The room swam around me and I quickly sat back down.
Abimbola frowned, came around to my side of the table, and rested his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.
I touched my head. “I think I’ve had a little too much champagne.” I giggled.
“Can I help you to the ladies’ room?”
I looked up into his eyes. “No, no, thank you. I can make it alone.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I said and gave my head a good shake before standing up again. The room was still swimming, but not as much this time, and I managed to cross the dining area and make it into the ladies’ room without bumping into anything or anyone.
Once inside the stall, I struggled with the clasp of the halter. My fingers didn’t want to cooperate, so finally I just pulled it over my head.
I was doing the pee-pee dance, hopping from one foot to the other and willing my urine to stay contained until I got my thong pulled down.
After a thirty-second struggle, my will lost out and my bladder burst. I quickly dropped down onto the cold toilet seat, immediately aware and disgusted that I had just exposed my behind to a billion microscopic germs.
Revolted that my bare ass was on a public toilet seat and on top of that I’d pissed through some very expensive silk and lace thongs, I proceeded to remove my shoes.
I stood and worked my limbs the best way I could in the small stall in order to slip my jumpsuit off without the white material mopping the floor.
Afterward, I stepped out of my soaking wet thong and tossed it into the sanitary napkin bin on the floor by the toilet.
I needed to wash up. I couldn’t go back out there smelling like piss!
I eased the stall door open and peeked out into the restroom. Currently it was empty, but I knew that someone could walk in at any second. And if I’m correct, being nude in a public restroom is considered a “lewd and lascivious” act punishable by law.
I had to risk it.
I dashed out, naked as the day I was born.
Rushing to the sink, I quickly snatched up a handful of paper towels, turned on the hot water faucet, and shoved the towels beneath it, all the while keeping my eye on the door.
I then pushed the wet towels underneath the soap dispenser and gave it two good whacks with my hand, forcing the creamy liquid soap out and onto the towels.
Luck is on my side, I thought as I was about to grab up some more paper towels, but just as quickly as I’d thought it my luck changed and the door suddenly swung open.
I froze like a deer in headlights. The women who were coming in looked, blinked, and then threw their hands over their eyes in terror before screeching in surprise.
“S-sorry,” I managed, dashing back into the stall. “I had an accident,” I yelped from behind the door as I quickly tended to myself.
All I heard were whispers laced with revulsion.
Clean, or as clean as I could get, I stepped back into my jumpsuit, slipped my feet back into my sandals, straightened my back, pushed the door back on its hinges, and walked as proudly as I could into the lions’ den.
The women, three of them, were huddled together at the sink, where I joined them and said, “Wonderful food here, don’t you think?”
They shrank away from me, careful not to make eye contact in the wall-length mirror, as I reapplied my lipstick, flipped my hair, and then washed and dried my hands. I gave myself one last look and then strutted out.
—
Abimbola was impatiently checking his watch when I returned. “Hello,” I said as I reached for my chair. He hurriedly jumped up, ran around to my side of the table, and eased the chair out for me. I thanked him.
Once back in his seat, he shot me an awkward look before uttering, “Are you okay?”
I waved my hand at him. “I know I was gone for a while—you know how these ladies’ rooms are: they never have enough stalls, so there’s always a line.”
Abimbola gave me an unsure smile.
There was a fresh glass of champagne waiting for me. My mouth watered, but I looked at him and said, “Oh, really, I couldn’t.”
“Oh, please do. I know how much you like it.” He lifted his own glass of cognac up to me in salute.
“To many, many more evenings like this.”
“Yes, many, many more,” I said and turned the flute up to my lips.