Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

“What’re you drinking?”

“Vodka soda,” I answer.

He looks at the bartender, a young guy, a few tattoos, gelled hair. He’s more what I was hoping to nab tonight, but he’s certainly not rocking a several-thousand-dollar watch.

“Vodka soda for the lady and a Manhattan for me.” I swoon over him calling me a lady.

“Ron,” he says, sticking out his strong, masculine hand. That’s something that always bothered me about Dave; he had feminine hands, and he always wanted to hold mine, intertwining our fingers. I constantly felt like I was holding my mother’s hand.

“Jessica,” I coo, surprised at how comfortably the name falls out of my mouth. I figured it would be hard to shake Margaret, but it turns out, not so much. I stick my hand in his. It is big and cradles my hand just right. By far the nicest hand I’ve ever shaken.

“Nice to meet you, Jessica.”

“Likewise.”

The bartender sets our drinks in front of us. I’m about to guzzle half of mine for some liquid courage, to make sure I don’t blow this, when he holds out his glass.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Cheers,” I repeat.

Our glasses clink. We each take a drink. I’m trying to remember if this is how it should be. Picking up guys, dating. It’s all rather foreign to me, since I’d been with Dave so long. Dave was actually one of my very first loves, the guy I knew I’d spend the rest of my life with the moment I met him—at least, that’s what I told people most of my life.

Not so sure what I feel about Ron here, but I’m open to the possibilities. Perhaps he is, too. He’s definitely curious, looking at me, trying to figure me out, not knowing he can do no such thing.

“What’s your story, Jessica?” he asks in a polite yet pressing manner.

“My story?” I repeat. I don’t have a story prepared. I’m not ready to share a life story, true or false, with anyone after just meeting them. “Just a woman scorned by her husband . . . ex-husband. Abandoned by our child. Wanting to start fresh. What about you?”

“No kids. Had a wife for a while, but I was really married to my job—and sleeping with women whenever I wanted.”

“Well, that so makes me fall in love with you,” I say with a chuckle.

He laughs too. “Yeah, but that was the old me. I’ve settled down. I’m ready for a relationship.” He slides over the seat in between us so now we are sitting right next to each other.

“Whoa, there, slow down a little. Relationships are nice, but sometimes a fling is just as good.”

“We’re too old for that. Unless you’re one of those middle-aged college students.”

“I am not. Please—I couldn’t handle one child let alone a whole college full of them.”

“You know,” he says in thought, “I never really wanted kids. Are you close with yours?”

“Haven’t seen her much lately,” I answer. “Not my ex either.”

The lies are just falling out of my mouth. Although, technically those aren’t lies. I haven’t seen Lana or Dave in a while. With each word I speak, I feel more confident, I feel more like Jessica. I am losing myself . . . my old self—a self I am more than happy to see go by the wayside.

“That’s sad,” he says. “Unless it’s not.”

“Life’s sad,” I say.

It’s the truest thing I’ve said maybe in my entire life. I am sad about how things have turned out. I am sad when I sit here and even briefly look back on my life so far. I don’t think I’m the only person who feels this way. For some inexplicable reason, we, as people, are expected to deal with heartbreak, illness, death, and more, without thinking life sucks. It’s not worth it. Without wanting to kill ourselves or think the dead are the lucky ones. Who came up with this thing called life?

Behind all the lies I’m telling my new friend here is the raw truth, as despicable as it may be.

“It’s complicated and messy, and sometimes it goes in all kinds of ways we don’t want it to. Then again, maybe sometimes we just think we don’t want it to,” I add.

“I like you, Jessica.” His hand brushes against mine. I grab a finger just as it is about to return to its position around his drink.

“I like you too, Ron.”

He downs his drink. I do the same.

“You wanna go somewhere else? Maybe back to my place . . . or yours?”

“Sure, yes, all of the above, any of the above.”

My hormones are firing like I am one of those crazy college students. I am in lust. If I had a little less decorum and wasn’t afraid of causing some kind of major scene, I’d kiss him right here. We’d make out and throw each other against the bar, before stumbling back to the bathroom and having sex.

Going back to his place sounds nice. I bet it’s a decent dwelling, and certainly less trashy than having sex in a bar bathroom.

“Harder, harder,” I yelp. I haven’t had sex in a long time, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it. Ron is much more skilled in the bedroom than Dave ever could have dreamed of being. He’s strong, yet tender; he knows what he’s doing, but let’s me have control. He wants to please me as much as I want to please him.

This is actually our second go-round. The first was a little sloppy, our alcohol buzz fresh after having a few more drinks in his kitchen, standing in the shadows and soft light from the moon. We fumbled our way through his house, taking our clothes off. I was terrified my wig might come off no matter how much the woman at the store had assured me it wouldn’t, as long as I affixed it correctly and wasn’t too rough. Too bad; I think I might like it rough.

I thought about taking it off, then realized that would probably