Language for Romance

 June 29, 9:00 p.m.
   “Write a romance short story,” she says.
   “You’ve got the language for it,” she says.
   Does she know how blankety-blank hard it is to write romance when that’s about the last thing you’re thinking about? No. Of course not. Just because she’s my editor that doesn’t mean she understands starting a story a dozen times on paper and ten thousand times in your head doesn’t mean you can write dad-blamed romance!
   And it’d help if the new neighbor would turn down his stereo so I could hear something besides the thumping of a bass guitar. I might be able to think about romance instead of murder.
   Enough bitching. It ain’t accomplishing nothing. I might as well go do something about the bass. Maybe a nice, polite “Will you please turn the volume down?” will do the trick. Naw. The stereo probably belongs to a tattooed stringy-haired doofus who thinks he’s cool and that everyone loves his taste in music.

9:30 p.m.
   Oh. My. God. Adonis lives next door. I know, that’s probably not his name, but he could be a stand-in for that particular Greek god. Oh. My. God. And he’s polite and a neat dresser and . . . Oh. My. God.
   Oh! My! God! Could I have made a worse  first impression? It’s Saturday night, there’s absolutely no romance in my life, so I’m sitting at home, fuming at my editor, wearing cut-offs and a tank top that’s ill-fitting and at least fifteen years old – including the stains down the front that I think are cat poop. So, dressed so impeccably, with my hair unwashed because I was too hot and lazy to do that today – not that I had any reason to – I go banging (Well, I had to bang to make sure he’d hear over the loud bass guitar.) on the new neighbor’s door and discover he’s the best-looking piece of beefcake I’ve ever seen in person. Yeah, talk about good first impressions . . . I can really carry them off.
   Oh, well. At least he was polite to the scroungy crazy cat lady next door, and he did turn the volume down to an acceptable level. And actually smiled at me – magnificent smile – and didn’t slam the door in my face nor tell me to go to hell. He apologized! In a very pleasant way. With a slight British accent that I wouldn’t’ve noticed if I hadn’t studied linguistics years in the past. Okay. So it was just three years ago. I’ve gotta make this sound vaguely romantic, don’t I? After all I have the “language” for romance, you know.

July 12
   Today was the fifth time – yes, I’m counting – Adonis and I have shared an elevator ride to the third floor. Not that I don’t need the exercise I get from taking the stairs but when a Greek god holds the elevator door open and asks “Are you going up?” I can’t refuse. Now, can I? I know – lame. Even lamer that I haven’t introduced myself.
   I was returning from the vet with Coco and Dodo. Yes, the names fit the cats. It was much easier taking the elevator with a carrier containing two fifteen-pound cats than trudging up three flights of steps. At least he didn’t say he was allergic to cats nor despised cats nor any anti-cat sentiment which made his Greek godness even more alluring.
   I think he’s a musician as I’ve seen him walking down the street carrying a guitar case. Yes, I spy on him. What else am I to do while trying to write romance? Watch Shreck for inspiration?

August 1
   I finally learned Adonis’s name! A piece of his mail was in my box – I did restrain my curiosity enough to keep from ripping the envelope open and reading the letter inside while standing in the lobby. It could be from a hot girlfriend. I really hoped it was from his mother or his favorite maiden aunt.
   I somewhat calmly rode the elevator to the third floor and rapped in what I considered a business-like way on Roger Steelman’s door, right down the hall from my door, and delivered the mis-delivered piece of mail. He smiled at me again – wonder what I’d need to do to get him to sit by my computer and smile at me all day – bet I could really write romance then! He thanked me for bringing the letter and then – miracles of miracles – asked me my name and if I’d like to come in for a cup of coffee.
   The strain of keeping my curiosity in check was getting to me, so I told Adonis – um, Roger – that I’m Kristen Harris and that I needed to check on Coco and Dodo. Then couldn’t believe that I was dumb enough to say my cats’ names out loud to Adonis – I know, I know – ROGER – who probably doesn’t even care!
   He smiled and said, “Some other time.” I agreed and managed to turn away and walk to my door without tripping over my feet. I got inside and shut my door, then heard Roger’s door click shut. Oh my god! He was watching me!

August 10
   Someone’s knocking at the door. Just as I decided I should trim my bangs – an onerous job while wearing glasses. Just what I need – another interruption as I’m trying to do something tedious that I’ve been putting off too long. If it’s another pamphlet-bearing doe-eyed missionary type I’m going to complain to the super. There is a sign that plainly says “No Soliciting” right by the front door!
   I yank the door open to find Adonis – I know – Roger – ready to knock again. “Did I disturb you?” he asks. How the blankety-blank am I supposed to answer that – tell the truth? “No, of course not,” I lie. “Would you like to come in?” Which I hope he doesn’t as my apartment’s in its usual disarray – like I could care less – and I’m not in the mood for company even if it is Adonis. Man, I hate getting interrupted.
   “I’m just on my way out and was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me tomorrow.”
   Would I like to have lunch with you? Do bears poop in the woods? Oh, yeah!
   “That would be nice,” I reply. Now, editor, where the blankety-blank is my “language” for romance? “What time?”
   “How about I come by around ten-thirty and we go to the new Italian restaurant by the park? A buddy tells me there’s a great view of the park.”
   “That sounds good. I’ll be ready,” I tell him.
   He says, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and strolls down the hall to the elevator.
   New Italian restaurant? Oh, geeze! Now I’ve gotta see how fancy the place is, hope not at all so I can get by with newish jeans and a simple T. A quick Internet check shows a middle of the road establishment so jeans it will be.
   I manage to trim my bangs without mangling them but my hands are wanting to shake the entire time. I take several breaks to calm down and concentrate on my bangs instead of this sudden invitation. By ten o’clock I’ve worn myself out worrying if I can manage a date with Adonis – Roger – it’s ROGER – and have thoroughly irritated Coco and Dodo with my muttering and wandering through the apartment.

August 11
   I’m dressed and ready to go by nine thirty – couldn’t settle to write on that romance short story. Stand up. sit down, wander from kitchen to bedroom to bathroom to living room to kitchen, repeat in various configurations. Finally it’s ten-twenty and I start deep-breathing exercises to calm myself. It’s not like I’ve never had a date before. Okay, the last one was two years ago, but this is Adonis and I’m the ugly step-sister and I don’t see how this is going to work long enough for us to get through lunch.
   A knock on the door at ten-twenty-nine – by my kitchen clock – yes, I’ve been watching it constantly – that can only be Adonis – ROGER. Man, I’ve got to watch that. Sure don’t want to call him by the wrong name during lunch!
   I open the door and there is ROGER, also dressed in jeans – thank goodness – and he asks, “Are you ready to go?” Of course, I’m ready and I don’t think I should tell him exactly what for at this point in the day.
   “I sure am, especially as it’s such a nice day outside,” I reply. It really is a nice day – a little cooler, there’s been a breeze lightly swaying tree branches and I’ve seen several butterflies and songbirds around the building’s flower beds. Of course it’s a nice blankety-blank day! I have a lunch date with Adonis – ROGER! – and I’ve not overdressed nor underdressed and my shirt doesn’t have cat poop stains on it – at least I don’t think so – and . . . dammit, it is a nice day, even if I do sound corny.
   We walk the few blocks to the restaurant, moving with the flow of the few pedestrians who aren’t working indoors on such a nice day (Ha!) and arrive just as a waiter is setting out the daily special sign. Calamari is the first item listed – great! I can manage to eat that – hopefully – without making a mess. I may order just the calamari and steamed vegetables – lower my chances all-around of making a mess.
   The waiter leads us in and seats us at a table by a window that gives us a nice – I’ve gotta get a different word – view of the trees and flowering shrubs in the park. He hands us menus and asks what we’d like to drink. We both say “Coke” at the same time. The waiter goes to fill our drink orders and we peruse the menus without speaking.
   I lay my menu on the table and ROGER asks, “See anything you like?” I reply that I really like calamari and will get that and steamed vegetables as I like that combination. He smiles – gorgeous! – and says he’ll probably get spaghetti and meatballs. When the waiter returns with breadsticks and our drinks, we place our orders.
   While we wait for the food to appear, I look out the window at the park. I can tell ROGER is watching me but I have no idea what to say. Finally, he asks, “What do you do for a living?” Oh, boy. That is always a question I don’t like to answer as it seems to invite more inane questions than you could imagine.
   “I’m a writer,” I reply, and wait for the inevitable “Where do you get ideas?” that invariably causes my hackles to get up. “Most of my books are cozies – um, lightweight mysteries.”
   “Really? I would’ve thought you did some sort of research,” he says. Research??? Where did that come from?
   “Well, I do have to research police procedures and weapons and poisons and such. You know, to make sure the facts are right.” Boy, some writer I sound like. Talk about lame!
   “What do you do?” I ask, hoping to make him the topic of the conversation.
   “I teach music theory at the college.” That explains the not leaving daily for work and seeing him with a guitar case in hand. “Actually, I’m on sabbatical this upcoming semester, working on a score for an opera.” An opera? With all that thumping bass guitar? Must be another Valkyrie opera.
   “An opera. That must be a lot of work.” Gee, can I get any lamer with my conversation?
   “Sometimes,” he replies, and goes into, from the best I can tell, a very simple explanation of an operatic score. Some of it I can understand but most of it I don’t, and he laughs when I tell him that. “Most people who aren’t musicians feel the same way. I’m sure people who aren’t writers are the same way about writing.”
   I grin and tell him about the “ideas” question, and that ideas can pop up anywhere, any time. He says music can do just about the same, and we have a wonderful discussion of our artistic endeavors, before, during and after our meal. When I say that the restaurant is becoming crowded, ROGER looks at his watch and says, “No wonder. It’s nearing five and I guess these are the people wanting to miss the supper crowd."
   Five o’clock!!!!! We’ve sat here six hours and it felt like it was only thirty minutes! Maybe I can hold Adonis’s – ROGER’s – attention better than I thought.
   We pay our bill – well, Roger does – and walk back home. On the third floor, he walks me to my door, takes my hand and says, “I had a wonderful day,” then kisses the back of my hand, walks to his door, unlocks it, says, “Have a nice evening,” enters his apartment and closes the door.
   I am speechless. I had a wonderful day also but didn’t let him know it. Now what should I do?? Knock on his door and say so? Naw, too brazen. Besides, what is there to say after an Adonis kisses the back of your hand?
   I enter my apartment and gently shut and latch the door, knowing my dreams of Adonis – Roger, dammit – are really going to be eventful tonight.

September 17
   Roger brought breakfast this morning, dropped off freshly-made pancakes and crisp bacon on a paper plate, along with a hearty “Good morning” and returned to his apartment. We’ve had six “dates” although I don’t know if sitting on the front steps for a while one afternoon counts as a “date.” Yeah it does – he had found some Teaberry gum which I’d talked about liking and brought me a pack!
   But are they “dates”? No hand-holding unless you count a kiss on the back of my hand at each return. No kisses, not even a peck on the cheek. No more inviting one another into our individual apartments. No puppy-dog lingering gazes. No arms around shoulders or waists. Oh, no! He’s gay and I’m his token “straight” female buddy. I knew he was too good to be true! How could I have missed that! Now what? Do I make some excuse to skip our “date” this weekend? Or just go through with it and pretend I’m not suspicious? I’ll go on the “date” – after all he is taking me to an opera in the park and I’d like to see one just to see what all goes on. And to a nice steak house afterwards. A free meal is always good. 

September 21
   The opera, while well-performed – according to Roger – just wasn’t my cup of tea and hopefully I can find some way to convey that – politely of course – before the evening is over. We’re seated in a booth in a nice steak house, waiting for our prime rib to arrive. We discuss the opera – rather Roger does – and I do manage to let him know that I’d prefer a Clint Black concert to an opera. He laughs – oh my, what that laugh does to me – and says we’ll skip operas.
   The prime rib arrives and is as delicious as the menu promised. We finish the meal, decline dessert, and Roger hails a taxi when we leave the restaurant. The ride home is uneventful, but when we arrive at my door, Roger says, “I’ve been putting this off, and I think tonight is the night,” pulls me into his arms and kisses me. Oh. My. God. Does he ever kiss me! Oh! My! God! There are no words to describe his kiss. Invigorating! Exciting! Sensual! Loving! Desirable! Entrancing! Delicious! Stimulating! Thrilling! Extraordinary! Intoxicating! Exhilarating! Did I say delicious?
   After what seems like an eternity and a split second, he pulls away, runs his fingertips down my arms, and says, “Good night,” then goes to his apartment, leaving me breathless in the hall. Oh! My! God!!!!!!!!!
   I manage to open my door, get inside, shut and lock the door, and get to the sofa and sit down before I fall down. That was a kiss! Man, what a kiss! That was a kiss to keep a girl warm through any arctic winter! Talk about the source of eventful dreams tonight!!!!

September 23
   I feigned sleep yesterday, finally answered the door around five o’clock and told Adonis – dammit, Roger – that I had been sleeping most of the day because I wanted to be lazy. He seemed to buy that lame excuse and asked me to go with him to an art gallery opening tonight.
   So, I’m at an art gallery, sipping – well, pretending to – champagne while stick-thin black-clad females dissect every other female’s attire, hairstyle and make-up. I could care less. I’m worrying about the artist – a model-worthy lass who has attached herself to Roger’s arm and shows no indication of ever letting go. Sheesh! How can I be jealous? We’ve had eight “dates” and one searing kiss and no declarations of love or even like from either of us. Maybe he can retrieve his arm before midnight so I can get home and get some sleep before my early morning phone call from my editor who’ll be grilling me about the progress on my romance story. Ugh!
   Oh, no! Here they come. How am I supposed to play nice with this female? I have never done social event malarkey well – not even passable – and I’m going to have to be polite while this person is clinging to my date! That is it – he’s a “date” – nothing else, so I can just be polite as if I only met him today. Yeah, right! After that kiss???
   “Kristen, I’d like for you to meet my sister Rose,” Roger tells me. “She’s been pestering me to introduce her so I gave in to her pleading.” Sister? No resemblance what I can see other than two totally gorgeous people standing together.
   “It’s nice to meet you, Rose,” I reply. “Roger hadn’t said he had a sister.” Actually, we hadn’t discussed family ties at all. “How did you know about me?”
   Rose laughs. “Roger was being terribly quiet about what he was doing this summer so I nagged relentlessly until he told me he’d met the girl of his dreams but was afraid to let her know how interested he was. I told him he was more backward than I ever imagined he was, and to try to be friends first. Looks like it worked because here you are!”
   “Um, I . . . I guess it did.” How do you say anything after a statement like that? I must’ve missed something over the summer. I had never suspected that I might be the “girl of his dreams” even after that kiss – oh, that kiss!
   “Roger’s a great guy.” Could I get any lamer? So much for my “language” for romance.
   Rose laughed again. “You don’t have to be as backward as Roger is. I’m planning a June wedding for you two!”