Chapter 2

The week dragged on, and I worked on the living and dining rooms virtually every evening—followed by a struggle with my ‘man in the mirror’.

Friday evening arrived, and I was once again standing in front of my bathroom mirror having an argument with my reflection, only this time I was fighting a losing battle. During a momentary lull in the ‘back-and-forth’, I picked up my glass of vodka and tonic, took a healthy sip, then set the glass carefully back on the counter.

“I’m not ready for this,” I said.

“Sure you are,” the image in the mirror said. “You’ve been curious ever since you started jacking off, and you’ve been ‘ready’ most of your adult life.”

“It’s not fair to Rosalie.”

“Rosalie who?”

“The Rosalie I’ve been having sex with for the past several months—you know damn well who.”

“Oh, that Rosalie—so what?”

“She’s probably in love with me.”

“Again, so what?”

“That’s callous.”

“No, it isn’t. Are you in love with her?”

“Now that you mention it, no.”

“Have you made any promises to her of any kind?”

“No, but I suspect she’s made a lot of assumptions.”

“That’s her problem.”

“She’s gonna be out of town for two more weeks.”

“What difference does that make? You don’t have to ask her permission.”

“I’d be sneaking around behind her back.”

“That’s a load of crap and you know it.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“So, what’s the problem—what better time to do this? You’ll notice that I refrained from pointing out that you just bought and moved into your first house—a tiny detail about you that she doesn’t know a thing about.”

“I was gonna tell her when she gets back.”

“Sure you were.”

I retrieved the glass, took another slug, replaced it, and said, “I’m scared.”

“Oh, puh-leeze. You? Scared? Number one in your graduating class at law school… law review and all the usual overachiever shit… scared? Just made partner in the third-largest law firm in town at the young age of twenty-nine… scared? As you are well aware, that’s another massive load of bovine excreta.”

“I could strike out tonight.”

“More bovine excreta. Look at yourself—six feet of muscle, blond hair, blue eyes, good-looking (some might even say gorgeous), and a smile that melts hearts.”

“Now who’s dumping the bovine excreta?”

“False modesty doesn’t become you; you’ve always turned heads—you know that.”

“This is different.”

“Damn straight it is, this is about how you want to live the rest of your life.”

“I don’t know.”

“Mitch, my boy, you can do this. Correction… you have to do this. You’re on the cusp of the rest of your life, and you need to either lock yourself in a deep dark closet, or set your doubts to rest by liberating them and yourself.”

I picked up the glass, upended it, and swallowed the last of the vodka. “Yeah, I guess I’d better do it.”

“Yeah, but don’t even think about driving—not after three vodka tonics.”

“Then how will I get there?”

“Geez.Do I have to tell you everything? Call a taxi. Walk to the corner and catch a bus. Hell, it’s only eight or nine blocks, and it’s a cool evening—you could walk the distance.”

“Yeah.”

I took one last look at myself in the mirror, wondering if others would see all of my warts—real and imaginary—as plainly as I could. Oh hell, the mirror was right—only one way to find out.

I headed toward the front door but decided to detour into another room, recalling that I’d noticed a couple of leftover bus passes when I’d organized my desk in its new location. I’d used the bus for almost a month some months earlier while my car was in the shop for some major body work after a drunken fool without insurance had run a red light and slammed into it. For some reason, my insurance hadn’t provided a rental car, and I was too cheap to rent one myself. I found the passes, pocketed them, and left the house.

My timing couldn’t have been better—I arrived at the nearest bus stop a few minutes in advance of the next bus. It didn’t matter which bus I took. All of the inbound busses passed within a couple of blocks of my ultimate goal, so I could safely board the first one I saw. I exited the bus at a stop in front of the Blue Cross Tower and walked two blocks to the bar.

I squared my shoulders, braced myself, and walked through the wide-open outer doors. The minute I pushed my way through the inner doors, loud music washed across me. Just like a straight pick-up bar, only louder, I thought. Not knowing whether there was table service or not, I walked up to the bar, purchased a Coke, and carried it over to the nearest empty table, where I settled down to watch and wait—for what, I wasn’t at all certain.