Page 9

She reports the latest with her husband. They’ve been married ten years. But their lives ceased to be exciting when my niece, Luz, was born. My sister’s constant marriage crises are her preferred topic of conversation, but it exhausts me.
“We never go out. We never hold hands. He never invites me to dinner. And now, suddenly, he sends me two bouquets of flowers? Don’t you think it’s because he feels guilty about something?”
My mind wants to scream, “Yes, your husband is getting it elsewhere!”
Instead, I quickly say, “Of course not. Maybe he simply saw the flowers, and they reminded him of you. What’s the big deal?”
After a half hour of chatting with her, I finally manage to hang up without talking about my strange date with Mr.Zimmerman. I’d like to tell her, but I know she would just say, “Are you crazy? Your boss?” Or, “What if he’s a serial killer?” So it’s better if I keep quiet. I don’t want to think she might be right.
At twenty to nine, hysterical, I survey my closet.
I don’t know what to wear.
I want to look good, like he asked, but the truth is that my clothes are basic and functional. Suits for work and jeans for hanging out with friends. In the end, I opt for a green dress with a pretty neckline, which fits my curves nicely. I put on a pair of suggestive heels I bought on a whim.
I check my watch again. I’m on edge. It’s ten to nine.
Without a moment to lose, I plug in the hair dryer, lower my head, and dry my tresses using the highest setting. To my surprise, I like the results. Since I never wear much makeup, I simply throw on some eyeliner and mascara and paint my lips.
The landline rings. I check the clock. Nine o’clock sharp. Nervous, I pick up, and before I can say anything, I hear a voice. “Ms.Flores, I’m waiting. Come down.”
After stuttering through a timid, “I’m coming,” I hang up. Two minutes later, as I exit the building’s lobby, I see him leaning on an impressive granite-colored BMW. But in his dark suit, he’s more impressive than the car. When he sees me, Zimmerman gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Looking good, indeed,” he says.
I have two options: I can smile and say thank you, or just be quiet. I opt for being quiet. I’m so disconcerted that if I were to say something, who knows what might come out of my mouth.
He opens the car’s back door, and I’m surprised to find he has a driver.
“Tomás, I have a reservation at Moroccio,” Zimmerman says as he gets in.
Once he’s given his instructions, he presses a button, and an opaque glass partition comes between the driver and us. He stares at me, and I don’t know what to say. My hands are sweaty, and I feel as if my heart is going to beat out of my chest.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you so quiet?”
I look up at him and shrug, not knowing how to respond. “I’ve never been on a date like this, Mr.Zimmerman,” I manage to say. “Usually, when I go out to dinner with a man, I ...”
His penetrating blue eyes cut right through me; he doesn’t let me finish my sentence. “You date a lot of men?”
I’m surprised by the question. What, this guy thinks he’s the only man in the world? I take a deep breath and manage not to hit him.
“As many as I like,” I say. I lift my chin a little haughtily and hear myself saying, “What I don’t understand is what I’m doing here, heading to dinner with you.”
He doesn’t respond. He just looks at me.
“Are you going to say anything, or are you going to spend the rest of the evening just staring at me?”
“I like looking at you, Ms.Flores.”
I curse under my breath. What have I gotten myself into? But since I can’t seem to shut up, I ask, “And where do you get off with that question about how many men I go out with?”
“Simple curiosity.”
“Curiosity?” I respond, scratching my neck. “And does a man like you lead a monastic life?”