#8 came over for dinner last night, and our second post-coffee date. I stewed some artichoke hearts and their stems with lemon and thyme, made some papardelle with onions, bacon, peas and tomatoes, and for dessert a pear cake, that I burned (“in the syle of Tartine,” I told him convincingly), and caramel ice cream.
Fast forward to later when I asked him about his current dating life. He stunned me by saying that he was going out with a few guys but no one serious and that he’d really like to see more of me. No problem. He’s easy, like all those songs say, but with no long-term relationship experience I’m proceeding with caution. He’s either getting to that age when the prospect of being alone outweighs his commitment to variety meats, or he’s reached a level in therapy where he’s tired of sharing his inner self with just his therapist. Or both. Or neither. In either case, or both cases, or neither case, he’s ready for something different, or just some HOT COCO, baby!
So his voice is like velvet, really, like velvet and pastrami–soft, deep, sexy and mouth-watering, but with a working-class Boston twang hovering in the background. His one-syllable name ends in two b’s, but I address him with two syllables, making a slight aspiration after the b’s, as if blowing a kiss every time I say his name.
Arf arf! Toot too–yeah–beep beep!