Reporting Direct From Crazy Love

I know this needs an edit, but I’m running…

I met Mr._Tango. And oh, yes, he moves with the grace of a dancer. That’s the first thing I noticed about him as I sat in an eclectic eatery across from the Bay. I waited for him in my usual comfort spot—back of the room, where I can watch the comings and goings and claim a place for myself.

I’d been waiting half an hour, feeling quite at home. This is where I bring many prospective suitors for the initial meet-and-greet. One waiter has worked here for as long as I remember, and he never lets on that he knows exactly what I’m doing. He does give me little knowing winks when he stands behind an unsuspecting date.

“I’m waiting for someone, Jeff,” I let him know as soon as he seated me.

“Of course you are, Adrienne. Who’s the poor unsuspecting victim tonight?” he smiled and poured my usual decaf, with a flair that only the experienced waiters display.

“Mr._Tango is his name. I have hopes for this one.”

“And you always do. I’ll say that for you, A.”

“I’ll do anything for my readers, Jeff. Well, almost…”

“Any requests tonight, Adrienne?”

“Hmmm, have you got any latin beat music on your playlists?”

“I’ll check. I think I might.”

He left me to sit and enjoy the ambiance of the candlelit establishment. I love this restaurant with its view of the water. There are fireplaces, candles, mismatched chandeliers, and mannequins posing at various locations. There is history here, and not only for meeting of internet dates. My son, at age 15, washed dishes in the back. After his first shift, I told him that he was on his way up.

When I saw Mr._Tango cross the street and head for the entrance, I was struck by his elegant gait. He was tall, over six feet, and lean with long arms. He wore a dark grey suit and the same bolero hat that he wore in his dating photo. Dashing. Flamboyant, even. A bright red scarf around his neck completed the ensemble.

His name is Jon and he sat across from me. We ordered an appetizer and I observed. He seemed ill at ease, his eyes darting around avoiding mine. Being the senior dater, I kept him talking. I know how much most men love to talk about themselves, so I offered a few leading questions like, ‘What kind of work do you do?’ and ‘How many children do you have?’ These are good openers. He sipped red wine and answered me, but I could tell he was still not comfortable. After we ate, and he nearly finished a second glass, I could see his posture relax in the chair and his eyes begin to linger on mine. Alcohol obviously smooths down the rough edges for Jon.

“That’s the tango,” he said to me, referring to a piece of music playing in the background.

Jon had his back to the kitchen, but I had a clear view and saw Jeff suddenly burst through the swinging doors wearing a chef’s hat perched on his head and holding a broom like a dance partner. He dipped it low and I had to look away. I made a mental note not to book dates here on quiet week nights.

The music must have triggered memories of his past relationship. The discussion turned to crazy love.

“I think I told about the woman I lived with for five years. She was unbalanced… I know that now. She’d literally scream at me, Adrienne, if she felt jealous or insecure… which was often. We danced the Argentine Tango together and there were these dances that we attended. Another woman took our picture and wanted my email address just to send it. When Jeanette found out, she went crazy. She started throwing all my clothes out the window and then told me to leave. I said, ‘Leave? Why? Where am I going to go?’ and then she picked up the phone and dialed 911. She told the police that I was abusing her and that I refused to leave. She did this many times. And that’s only the minor stuff.” He shook his head sadly.

“And you stayed with her through all of this?”

“Yes! I did. We had the most amazing make-up sex. You would not believe…” he muttered and his eyes went off somewhere that I didn’t want to imagine.

“Is that the glue that kept you together, Jon?” I put my hand over my cup to let my discreet waiter know I had enough. He stood behind Jon, making a choking motion with his hands over his throat.

“We had the most incredibly passionate, sensuous sex life that any man could ever dream of. She was amazing, insatiable.”

“Uh huh,” I sipped the last drop from my cup.

“You know, everyone understands and has empathy for a woman who is abused by her partner, but no one even believes a guy when he comes forward with stories of abuse by his woman. This behavior, this craziness went on for most of the five years that I lived with her. I couldn’t leave, Adrienne. It was like I was addicted to her, the way she’d make me suffer, and I’d wait like a dog until she called me back. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t stop.”

“So she left you then?”

“Yes. That was one year ago.”

“I know another man this happened to. He was my ex-roommate. When he first moved in he was a mess. They’d split up for the final time and a broken man he was. He knows that he did all kinds of things he’s not proud of now, but he couldn’t help himself. He would check her profile and see what photos she was posting, and just who entered her circle of friends. He wrote nasty letters, threatening letters, and when he discovered she had a new guy, he tried to jeopardize the relationship… and succeeded. It was the same kind of thing: a woman who had him wrapped around her crazy little finger. He figured she was bipolar. When he went into therapy, the counselor said to him that every man has a woman like this in his past—a woman who has the power to turn a man into a wimpering sap.”

“And the sex?”

“He reported the same electrifying chemistry, yes. I believe his words were, ‘Even her breath turned me on.’ ”

Silence.

“So, Adrienne, do you live far from here?” he asked with this coy little smile.

“No, no I don’t.”

“You have to be home at a certain time?”

“No, I haven’t any curfew,” I answered, knowing he was trying to initiate some kind of intimate tryst with me.

He reached down and before I could stop him, stroked my bare leg briefly.

“You have nice legs,” he complimented.

“Do you want to go for a walk on the pier?” I asked finally, wanting dispel the uncomfortable feeling I was getting.

He agreed and we left the restaurant, leaving waiter Jeff at the doorway, smiling, with his arms crossed in front.

We barely got thirty feet down the wooden pier, when I told Mr_Tango that I was too chilled to continue. We turned back and I put my arm through his. I was shivering. The waves crashed against the rocks on the shore and made me yearn for my hot jet tub. This evening was not what I had hoped.

We reached my car and I thanked him for driving such a long distance to meet with me.

“You’re welcome, Adrienne. How high are your heels?” he asked.

I lifted my foot to show a one inch heel.

“You’re thinking of us dancing together?” I asked.

“Yes,” and with that he suddenly took me in my arms like a man does when he’s preparing to dance with a woman. He demonstrated a few elementary steps of the tango.

“You dance this close?” I asked feeling his body leading mine this way and that.

“Yes, and if a woman is perceptive… allows and trusts a man… he will easily lead her into a series of moves. Nothing is planned when dancing the tango, Adrienne. It’s improvised every step of the way.”

He let me go, suddenly, and gave me this little salute. I watched him saunter off into the night.

Crazy Love.

This is Adrienne reporting from the trenches.

 

Reporting Direct From Crazy Love © 2011 Adrienne S Moody. Read the latest Adrienne exploit on Now.readthisplease.

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One Response to “Reporting Direct From Crazy Love”
  1. JKefoury says:

    Don’t like the sound of him. Although that he dances well is interesting, but still.

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