Page 44 of Lessons in Love
The other one huffs and backs away. The saleswoman approaches and this time speaks in a softer tone. “How may I assist you, sir?”
I might be mistaken but when she says sir it sounds like a purr. I like it. A lot. “I need a gift.”
“For your girlfriend or wife?” I swear she bats her eyelashes at me.
But I’m too busy trying to figure out what Virginia is to me to pay much attention. “Umm . . . a friend. A lady friend. A woman friend.”
“Lovely. I see you have Godiva Chocolates. So you’re looking for something else for a birthday orrrrr?”
Damn, all of these questions were unexpected. “A gift because she doesn’t have any.”
“Any?”
“Gloves. She lost hers. So I want to get her a new pair of gloves.”
“Right this way, sir.” While we walk from this area with the handbags displayed into another with scarves and hats, she asks, “Gloves are a very thoughtful gift for a friend, but no occasion?”
I start saying it before I can stop myself, “Third base.”
The saleswoman does a double take. “Well in that case, I suggest cashmere. Unless you’re planning on turning third base into some bondage in the bedroom, and then I suggest my personal favorite—leather. Either way, both are nice”
A million excuses for my lewd behavior cross my mind, but nothing is going to take away the humiliation I feel. So I just carry on like my chemical imbalance isn’t controlling my mouth since she seems to suffer from the same disorder. “Cashmere sounds great.”
When we reach an empty counter, she says, “Well this is odd. Let me check with Regina.”
“Okay.” I stand there awkwardly holding my box of chocolate, but then I spot a pair hanging on a display near the front window. I make my way past two older ladies who are contemplating the life cycle of bees and using buzzing sounds to back their point. I whip around an oval table, and just as I reach the display with a mannequin atop, another lady swoops in and grabs the gloves. “I was going to get those.”
Taken aback, the lady, about my mother’s age, says, “So am I.”
My original saleswoman and Regina—the glove manager or would it be manager of gloves—anyway, they intervene. And when I say intervene, I mean, offer to wrap the gloves for the lady who stole them out from under me. “Wait,” I say, “do you have any other pairs? Any color. Doesn’t matter.”
Regina responds too calmly to be trusted. “No, sir. That was our last pair. Christmas is only a week away and gloves and winter go together like, well, like gloves in winter.”
Checking my watch, I only have forty-five minutes to get to the Flatiron District, which seems nearly impossible to do with the snow and this lady holding onto the gloves like I’m going to steal them. I decide to plead my case. “I really need those gloves. I’m begging you. I want to give them to a woman I’m meeting at a romantic restaurant in hopes to win her heart.”Wait, what?Is that what I’m doing? Oh shit. I just might be. “I got these chocolates and I’m sliding into third base with her tonight, but she lost her gloves and she has really great hands—pretty fingers that she likes to use to express herself when she talks. Solid grip—oh wait, I probably shouldn’t go into all the details. My point is, I want to protect them and keep her warm.”
The three ladies are staring at me with that look—it’s the one of love that I see at the bar. I think they’re going to help meout when the customer with the gloves in her hands says, “I love chocolate.”
I’m not sure what my face is saying, but she taps the box in my hands.
Dot.
Dot.
Connect.
“Ohh. You like chocolate. Do you like Godiva?”
“I love Godiva.”
“How about a trade?’’
“Done.” I hand her the chocolates and she snatches them from me like I’m going to tease her and take it back.
The soft fabric of the gloves is securely in my hands when Regina says, “Let’s go ring you up.”
As the woman digs into the candy box, I realize the health store hipster was right. This box of chocolates led me to what I needed. Wow. My mind is kind of blown right now. I buy the gloves and shove them in my pocket before grabbing a cab to the restaurant.
I’m late. I hate being late, but I especially did not want to be late tonight. Fortunately, Virginia is later. I’m led to our light green booth toward the back of the restaurant and seated. It’s rude to order a cocktail before the other guest has arrived, but the nerves from earlier have flocked back like seagulls on a bad hair day. That doesn’t even make sense to me. I’m convinced I’m officially broken because I met a virgin named Virginia who made me break my own rules before I had a say in the matter.
