Facades

Pearls of sweat trail down his face under the scorching heat of the day as the sun prepares to set. With his broad shoulders reflecting years of good posture, he sits outside in the chair across from me and says he is nervous. He is, I remind myself, an area officer meeting with the purported “enemy,” the infamous operator of I HeArTE JADE. I give him an opportunity to put his anxiety into words, all the while visually siphoning in as many details as my brain can process without hazarding cerebral spillage.

He’s dressed casual rugged, but there’s a scent of hauteur that betrays the working-man impression his clothes are meant to convey. His footwear likely cost more than a new set of tires.

He’s handsome; not really my type, but no doubt the bulk of the female population would find him incredibly appealing. Definitely a Badge Bunny’s dream. I already know good looks run in his family. In fact, I know a lot about him -- probably much more than he thinks I do; then again, probably much less than he thinks I do.

He tells me he’s unarmed, lifts his shirt to prove it. Too bad -- the presence of a firearm paired with the sight of his belly would’ve been ultra sexy. I tell him I’m not recording this, but I don’t bother baring body parts to verify it. This exchange, in all its oddity, I suppose is our individual way of establishing trust with each other.

I’m not certain why he wanted to meet me; I’m even less certain why I agreed to it. Long before we part ways, what I am certain of is this little hook-up of ours is a one-time thing.

Granted, he’s very nice. Only, when I combine his cordiality with his striking physique, illusory blue-collar attire, and decent intellectual level, and pit it against my pink and black hair, tattoos, loosely-fitted T with jeans and high heels, and deficient gray matter, the overall effect is that he’s hopped off his pedestal to interact with the gutter girl. Whether he’s looking down his nose at me or not or has some inscrutable ulterior motive isn’t the point though, what matters is how to make the most of him before he retreats to his version of higher ground.

The conversation is enjoyable. He, I believe, does most of the talking, which suits me ducky. The problem is the more he speaks, the more human he becomes. Like he’s not some cardboard cookie-cut cop to make fun of or pull a Use ‘n Toss on. He is still a policeman however, and has every ounce of that peculiar-to-Law-Enforcement fusion of ego and humility.

The bright rays from the sky are sneaking around the building and before we completely lose our shade -- my companion’s already been perspiring enough to create a salty wading pool at our toes -- I suggest we move our Talkabout elsewhere.

We spend some of our time together in my parked vehicle with the AC running. He is bothered by the aroma of oil coming from the engine through the vents but at least he is no longer troubled by the stares of strangers, both discomforts I don’t gather he has until he openly announces them. I feel bad for him, but I’m not a darn mechanic and how was I to know he’d be so embarrassed by my appearance?

In short order I sense his life is exactly how he likes it, perfect, with everyone and everything in it positioned just so. I suspect meeting me secretly is about as big of the kind of rebellious risk as he’d dare take; my opinion solidifies when he seeks acknowledgement that this get-together is truly a “courageous” move on his part.

Amusing, the idea that after I’ve viewed so many of these guys as my personal guinea pigs now it seems one of them is doing the same to me.

Over the extent of our socializing I sporadically try to test or fluster him. He takes it all in stride, offering blah to no reaction. It doesn’t even faze him when I coquettishly remark on his admirable derriere -- nope, not even a hint of blushing. Cool, he is. Plus fascinating. I’m sorry he doesn’t find me… interesting? entertaining? attractive? whatever it is he was looking for. Can’t keep a man’s attention for the long term without allure of some sort. No further attention means no further information. Which bites.

Our visit is ending. I’m generally pleased with the whole experience, although I believe he would’ve preferred to be in the company of, hell, anyone else. Oh, he says all the appropriate things, mind you, but I’m no twit. He serves up an “I’ll call you” and I force myself to repress a grin. Men really do this I’ll-call-you thing? My gosh, I thought that was fiction! And I didn’t even have sex with him before hearing it!

I ring him up later in the week, purposely choosing a day he’s already mentioned he’ll be free. He totally brushes me off. This time I don’t hide the huge smile that hits my face.