Two Dinner Parties

We are at a dinner party. The first time we have gone out since viewing that positive result on a pregnancy test. After-dinner coffee steams before us. The dinner is populated with his friends—jovial, shallow, and predictable. Jason, the louder of the group, is telling a tale of his latest conquest. A blonde with the requisite “big tits and legs that go on for days,” whose key skill is prostate play and letting him cum in her mouth. I take a sip of my coffee the color of desert fatigues due to the higher ratio of milk, and taste warm earth with cherry notes as I silently observe Jason’s anecdote. The man seated beside me is named Clint. He fathered the growing seed inside me, and sitting on the edge of his seat laps up these details as a lion licks their lips watching the caribou frolic on the savannah. Jason goes on to divulge “the blonde with the big tits” singular drawback being her request for the designation of girlfriend and the presumed monogamy that title entails. Jason laughs and preens while he basks in his commentary slaps on the back, “She can’t get enough of me, man.”

I stir from my silence and flash a smile a Jason, more tooth than mirth. “What’s her name?”

“Oh.” He clears his throat and answers, “Sarah.”

“Your sperm must have magical qualities or perhaps Sarah is at a place in her journey where she hasn’t realized that she deserves a better finish than your cum in her mouth.” My eyes harden at the close of this response and my honed smile returns.

The table erupts with raucous laughter and sympathy toward my tongue inflicted wounds. It is decided that the party will adjourn to the couch for a movie. “Let’s break out the whiskey.” Clint adds, that gleam in his eye sharpening as he determines his vengeance for my earlier comment. His vision of tonight will unfold like this—get whisky belligerent with the conclusion of the night being a sloppy, yet roughly prolonged fuck lacking in any orgasmic finality. It will end with an eventual roll off to a back lying, slack-jawed position that is quickly preceded by ethanol vapored snores.

Clint walks over, his swaggered grandiosity embodied in every movement. His right-hand forms a vice on my breast as his lips quirk to his perceived clandestine scheme. A sharp lightening of pain stabs the center of my breast and spreads. A responsive reflex ensues and I dig the tips of my fingers into the delicate nerve found between the radius and ulna of the offensive grasp.

“Ow!” He scowls and drops his hand, rubbing his forearm. “I was just checking how big they are getting.” His smile now sheepish in his attempt to hide the exposed antagonist.

“Indeed.” I respond. “Well, I thought that nicer than my initial reaction which was to punch you in the face.”

He scowls as his dominance wanes, “You know we are going to be drinking it up while watching this movie. I am not sure you want to stay.”

I point my eyes at him, “You’re right. I don’t care to stay. In fact, I’m pretty tired, being pregnant and all. See you Friday?” I stare at him until I am sure he grasps the important detail in this final message, being that I do not want to see him again until Friday—and I’m not even sure then. I have much to think about, and I need space to clear my head and make a proper decision. I flash another smile that is not felt, “Night guys, it’s been a pleasure as always.” I head to the door, the acid in my tone quiets the room as I make my exit.

Friday arrives, and I am finishing up my errands for the day. I ponder our plans for the evening. A nervous flutter in my chest, as tonight I meet Clint’s sister for the first time as a result of announcing our news. Per Clint, she is a genius introvert. Partly, because of her success as an entrepreneur who primarily works remotely for her progressive women-led company. Secondly, due to her almost fatal case of meningitis a few years back while touring the South American continent. I was surprised when she suggested we meet for dinner after Clint disclosed the news of the pregnancy, as they have not historically been very close.

I pull my car into the drive of a house surrounded by a tall stone wall topped with bountiful fuchsia bougainvillea. The only visible portion being the garage in front of me and the glossy navy gate, rounded at the top, that provides entry to the property. I breath out a slow breath and take stock of my face in the mirror. Grabbing the take-out and making my way through the gate, I absently ponder when Clint will arrive. Looking around, the golden hour is casting a magical light to the courtyard filled with fertile fruit trees and an array of colorful flowers and succulents. The scent of citrus blossoms pulls me down the path toward the entry door, which is propped open with a posted note.

Please come in, I am out back working in the garden.

Entering the home, you are first greeted with a tidy open room featuring a wall of sliding glass doors open to the patio and surrounding gardens. The home is mid-century in style and architecture, the sunken living room has sectionals centering around an orange Malm fireplace and mod light features. In an effort to tame my aesthetic boner, I force my gaze toward the gardens. A light coastal breeze moves through the home inviting you outward. My eyes finally land on the long and graceful back bent over a garden bed at the perimeter of the yard, working from a flat of marigolds, she is dispersing them through her vegetables. She has shoulder length chestnut colored hair with golden notes and a light wave in it. Similar to Clint’s hair though he keeps his cropped close. Her long slim body is folded into a perch on her heels, and she wears a light blue cotton shirt and jeans, feet bare. There is a subtle difference in skin tone and texture between her feet and I realize she has a prosthesis in place.

Unsure of interrupting her sanctuary, I wander my gaze around the back yard filled with more fruit trees, vegetables, and flowers. The vegetation is dispersed in what appears to be a permaculture design with berries vining up the trees and a cedar bridge crossing over a pool of water that looks set up for tiered irrigation. I hear chickens clucking as they till and graze throughout the yard. Finding peace in this sanctuary, I am struck with this deepening instinct of finding home. I finally return my gaze to Clint’s sister and find her watching me, her eyes warm and observant. My face heats to her gaze and eventually my voice is found.

“I’m Ina,” as I walk towards her with hand offered. Gently she pulls her hand free from a worn gardening glove and like a caress slides into mine, a faint smile appears briefly on her face. “Clint always calls you Robbie, though I’m not sure what you prefer,” I continue. My hand shake grows awkward as I await response.

“Robbie, Rob, Robin. It all works,” she replies, her voice sounds like honey and my mind wanders to thoughts on whether she tastes like honey too. My eyes having settled on her lips are startled from their reverie as I realize I have been staring too long. Forcing my eyes to remain on hers, I finally remove my hand somewhat reluctantly and give a polite but fleeting smile.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Robin. Where shall I put this?” Indicating the take out. She stands and gestures to follow as she leads me into the kitchen. Her gait has a subtle hitch, a favoring of the right side. I place the large bag of takeout onto the counter. “Clint should be here shortly. I believe he is bringing wine.” I turn towards her and see the pensive look on her face, she has news and it’s not good. I square my shoulders and nod my head to indicate I am ready.

“He’s not coming.” She responds, like a wince.

I suck my breath in, not fully ready for that slap in the face. Slowly releasing the breath, eyes hooded, I turn toward the bag of food. “I think I am going to break into the soup.” I say as I start working the knot of the bag as hot, jagged spikes of anger course through my body. My hands trembling and fumbling the process. By the time I get to the soup, she has quietly placed a bowl on the counter. I am struggling with the lid at this point, when she covers my hand with hers. I release a sigh as my eyes begin to sting with the tell-tale sign of hormonally fueled tears. I turn towards her and she gathers me into her strong and steady embrace. My face buries into her shoulder, the silky veil of her hair caressing the side of my face. I feel I am melting. Eventually I pull away, her warm hand rests firmly at my mid-back to steady me. I look into her gold-flecked eyes, and find myself not wanting this moment to end. “Perhaps I should set the table and allow you to change your shirt?” I ask as I gesture to the large stain of tears left on her shirt. She nods in acquiescence.

I begin unpacking the remaining takeout and setting the kitchen table. Hearing her steps as she enters the room, I look up and take in the view. Her new shirt is a blue plaid, long sleeves with pearl-snaps and I inwardly groan as I recognize the tall kryptonite walking towards me. Stunning, fails as a descriptor.

“Would you like some music?” She asks and I nod, words failing. A David Bowie album spurs to life with the lovely, scratchy intonation of a needle entering the groove of vinyl. I smile affectionately, as this is one of my favorites.

We sit down to dinner and slowly fill our stomachs. A period of comfortable silence ensues as we taste, listen, and feel our presence.

“Thank you for inviting me to dinner. In spite of the turn of events, it has been refreshing and surprisingly edifying.” I say, finally breaking our bubble as I sit back in my seat and return my utensil to an empty plate.

“I’m sorry about Clint. I wish I could say that this is unique for him, but he has a certain pattern.” Robin responds quietly, empathy written on her face.

I nod and smile, “I could say that I am disappointed at his absence—but that would be a lie. Full disclosure, we weren’t a good match for many reasons, and I only lingered due to the surprise pregnancy. I wish him well and I do hope for him to be involved in our child’s life, but that decision lies with him. I had intended to tell him this after we wrapped this dinner.” I observe as she nods her head, her thoughts turning inward as her brows knit. “With that said, what are your thoughts on being an Auntie?”

Her eyes hold mine as she authentically responds, “It would be an honor.”

“Slow Burn” begins to drift from the record player and a smile creeps onto my face as my hormone-muddled mind dances with erotic thoughts that have me shifting in my seat.

“Would you like to dance?” I blurt out, feeling the capillaries in my face expand.

She responds by gracefully standing, and extending her hand towards me. A secretive smile playing at her lips.