Seattle Press on Line - The Way to the Heart

The Way to the Heart

By Lon McKinney

Aug 01, 2002 -- Part 2 of 2

Read part 1 of this story

She seemed taken aback. Perhaps it wasn't protocol to ask for coffee dates on elevators, and maybe her conversations in the bank had been primarily those of a business nature. He tried to be genuinely polite in his first question to her. And she'd always been courteous to him on their occasional elevator trips up from the garage. What with working in investments, maybe she could help him out with his own financial future. He was a spender, not a saver.

"Yes, that would be nice," she replied. They decided to meet on their afternoon coffee break at the Bean Machine on the Mezzanine. Brad watched her as the elevator doors slid slowly together in front of her flushed smiling face. He turned and walked across the lobby to the branch to take up his teller's position.

The morning routine went quickly. Brad ate his sack lunch out on the balcony with a fabulous view of the harbor. The warmth of the afternoon sun felt good on his face. As was his usual custom he buried his nose in a good book. He shared the last of his ginger snaps with pigeons and several insistent sparrows that were regulars. Back to his station for more important transactions. When he had more important things on his mind, the teller job could quickly become a mindless exercise in boredom.

Finally three o'clock came round. Brad put the faux brass C L O S E D sign up and sprinted for the escalator and his rendezvous. He hoped his life would take a U-turn and meeting Sylvia at the Bean, as the bank people called it, would be a new beginning. Either that or she was a Cassandra looking for a catastrophe. He was willing to take the chance.

The coffee break date had given him the usual first date jitters--like an awkward adolescent disguised as a grownup. They had barely had time to introduce themselves, briefly touch on their time at the bank and their interests, when the break came to an end. He had suggested a movie in the evening. She had reciprocated with dinner at her apartment the next night. It all seemed too good to be true.

* * *

As he swallowed the last bites of what had not even come close to passing as crepes, he prayed for a good strong cup of coffee. The bitter brown brew could make all the bad tastes disappear.

"I know it's getting late," Sylvia said, interrupting his caffeine reverie, "but you have left room for a little dessert and coffee, haven't you?"

"Of course," he said. Oh, god, he thought. I was almost home free. He was contemplating a one-time bulimic barf in the parking lot and then stopping at McDonalds for a BigMacAnything. He was one course closer to the end of the nightmare.

"And what treat have you cooked up to end this unique meal?" He tried not to laugh out loud like a jackass.

"It's a surprise, okay?"

"I love those kinds of surprises," he said, suppressing laughter in the face of further disaster once again.

She went around the corner into the tiny kitchen and he surveyed more of her apartment. On the coffee table were some magazines: Money, Crochet Digest, and Food and Wine. That third one must have been unread, he thought. He did notice, however, tucked under the pile, the small corners of what looked like The New York Review of Books and, was that other one? Playgirl? An avid reader, like himself, who also had an adventuresome mind in the bedroom? Could this be a tastier light at the end of a bad meal? The common ground of something better than this last supper had promised? And I can cook, or teach her how to cook, and she can give me pointers on passionate lovemaking, after which we can discuss the fine points of the literary world.

Sylvia return with a small slice of cheesecake for each of them, with a dollop of chocolate mousse on the side. She also carried what appeared to be very strong coffee in demitasse cups on the dessert tray.

He forked a small piece of the cake into his mouth with utmost apprehension, swirling it around carefully on his tongue. It was wonderful! He let the sweetness permeate his withered taste buds. He took a short sip of the coffee. He was shocked. It was excellent. Just the way he liked it.

"The coffee is great," he said, "how did you fix it?"

"I have a two-cup French press and the coffee is a freshly ground dark roast from the supermarket." She smiled as he ate and drank. He looked so content that he must have given the impression the meal was a resounding success.

"And the dessert?"

"Oh, I just forgot about dessert, so I stopped at the bakery around the corner at the last minute. I hope you don't mind store-bought at the end of a home-cooked meal?"

"No, it's quite good," he said. He could have dropped to his knees on the carpet before her--genuflecting to this goddess of bad cuisine--for ending the meal in such a wonderful way. But he kept his cool, and his seat, and finished his food.

He glanced discreetly at his watch. It was way past 11 and his bedtime was 10. Plus, this was a Thursday night and they both had to work.

"Sylvia, the meal was one-of-a-kind," he said, feeling this should cover anything and everything. "But it's late and I really should be going."

"I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Nothing makes me more content than watching a man's face after he's had a good meal."

And the Academy Award for best actor in a drama or comedy goes to Brad Bonaparte! "Yes, I gave what was my best performance, and lived to tell about it..."

He put on his overcoat. Stopping at the front door he turned to mutter a few parting pleasantries. He had some peppermints in the glove compartment of his car, which would settle everything down quite nicely.

Before he could mouth a goodbye, before he could thank Sylvia for the repugnant repast, she had reached around his neck, grasping the back of his slick black hair in her long manicured fingers. She drew him to her mouth and gave him the longest, most spectacular kiss he had ever experienced.

His mother, tucking him in at night with her tender kiss, now seemed inconsequential. The luscious lips of Sally Riley, in 7th grade--his first--paled in comparison.

Blu Bryson, his high-school sweetheart, in the steamed-up window of his car at the drive-in movie didn't even come close. He tasted the lingering residues of cheesecake and coffee on her tongue. This was the mother of all kisses. But he did have to finally come up for air.

"Sylvia, I never imagined..." He felt nearly speechless.

"Brad, I've always been attracted to you. I thought you had never noticed me."

"Yes, but..." She pulled him up tightly against her. He could see the beginning of her cleavage and smell her lovely perfume rising from that warm place. It was the smell of freshly baked angel food cake. She bent down and placed small soft kisses on the side of his neck, then whispered into his ear, moving her tongue slowly around the contour of his prominent earlobe, as if licking whipped cream from a silver spoon.

He moved his hands under her cardigan and rested his palms against her warm back. He kissed her neck. Her skin was softer than the silk of her chocolate mousse on his tongue, sweeter than the cheesecake that he could still taste in the back of his mouth.

She put her head back, closed her eyes, and moaned softly. At the same time, she hugged him even tighter and pulled his hips against hers. It would have been impossible to find a space between them. There wasn't room for the most slender filigreed butter knife. A terminal anorexic would have suffocated.
As Brad and Sylvia sank to the white carpet of the quiet living room, various articles of clothing began to be removed by one from the other with the skill of two chefs delicately peeling sweet ripe fruit.

Had a mouse emerged from his hole, at that moment, in search of a morsel from a late night supper, it would have seen a most unusual sight. Soft pink undulating hills stretched across the plain of carpet, like a quivering erotic Jell-O salad on bed of feathery coconut. And that mouse would have heard Sylvia crying out in a joyous ecstatic voice:

"Oh, god, Brad, wait till you see what I'm fixing for breakfast."

Part 1 of this story ran in the July 18 issue of The Seattle Press. It can be found here in the Writers Corner section.

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