Tears on a Sunday Afternoon - Michael Presley [37]
“Donald, give the waitress your order. She’s way too young for you.” Julie had obviously found the object of my attention.
I had always stayed consistent with my choice in women. Nationality and age never mattered to me. I would sleep with a forty-or twenty-year-old woman. The one that I was checking out looked to be no older than twenty-one.
“Order for me,” I instructed Julie and got up from the table.
“You trust Julie that much?” Brian asked.
“If she cares for me half as much as she does for you, I’ll be okay.” I had gotten the attention of the young woman and I was sure she would follow me into the restroom.
Julie gave me a killer look, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t have her so why should she give a fuck about who I went to bed with. I didn’t look at her as I walked toward the restroom. The lounge area was as stylishly designed as the restaurant; there were two big couches and a few lounge chairs. On the wall there was a pay phone for someone who, for some godforsaken reason, had forgotten their cell phone. The plasma located on the left side of the wall was approximately twenty inches in length. The men’s room was located to the left of the lounge and the women’s on the right. I didn’t have to wait long before she appeared. Her walk was pronounced, yet very sexy, and her tight jeans sent praises to youth. I could tell that she was a woman who got what she wanted; even at such a tender age.
“You were waiting for me.” She made it more of a statement than a question.
“I was waiting.” As always criminal activities were the main topic in local news. I didn’t want to watch it but the location of the TV didn’t give me an option.
“Any woman at the tables could’ve followed you into the restroom. You and your friend really made an entrance but I see that he’s taken. So, what do you want now that you’ve gotten my attention?” She sat down on a beige chair and crossed her legs. She might have been young but her upbringing must have had some money input.
Our age difference did not give her the right to ask that question. “Shouldn’t I be asking that question? I’m old enough to be your father.”
“If you were interested in being my father, we wouldn’t be in this room right now. Besides, I already have a father.” She was confident. I liked that. “I’m twenty-one, presently a junior at Columbia, and I’m sure you can tell the kind of men I like. You don’t have on a wedding ring, which means that you’re not married; or you took off the ring because your wedding vows didn’t include forsaking all others.”
“How much time do you have?” I asked.
“This is my father’s restaurant. I’m not fucking you in here.”
Even though the thought had crossed my mind, fucking wasn’t paramount to me at the moment. “You live on campus?”
“Hell no! My father has an apartment in Manhattan that I’m using while I’m at school. We live in Mills Basin on Livery Drive.”
“Who are the friends with you?” I asked, trying to complete her character in my head.
“The boy is Carl and he’s gay. He thinks you’re hot. The girls are my friends. They’re all at Yale, but we went to the same prep school. Don’t be so concerned. I don’t hang around children. My cell number is 927-678-2344. By the way, my name is Brenda.” She stood.
I stowed her number in my phone. “What time is good?”
“That would depend on what you’re calling for.” She gave me the look that only a twist of the lock on the bathroom door would satisfy.
“Got it,” I said and turned my attention to