The snow was blowing in sideways as I struggled to open the door of the quaint West Village restaurant. The doctor wasn’t there yet and the host frowned as he eyeballed the reservations list for his name. Nothing. I decided to wait at the bar for him to arrive.
Traffic in the city was a nightmare on that blistering cold Sunday evening, and I waited with a glass of champagne twenty minutes before he finally arrived. I was wearing a snug fitting black Tom Ford dress and black patent Louboutin pumps. He walked up to me and without saying anything, pulled me in tightly for a long hard kiss.
We were seated in the back corner of the restaurant and barely came up for air the entire meal. I felt like a teenager who couldn’t keep my hands off my new boyfriend. When we finished our dinner, we decided to forgo dessert and head back to my place.
We ricocheted along the walls of my apartment as articles of clothing hit the floor one by one. Our desire for each other was unreal. I had never felt so alive.
Afterwards, I lay my head on his chest. But I could sense that things had changed. The unexpected shift in his mood was palpable. He was distant. Tense.
“What’s wrong?” I asked hesitantly after a few minutes of silence. Things had been going so great. He sat up abruptly and leaned over me, his eyes wide. I didn’t know the man behind this intense gaze. He appeared to be looking through me, not at me.
“Bianca, I am going to hurt you. I mean, I feel like I am going to hurt you. I always do this to women. Things will be going well and I will completely fuck it up. I don't deserve you.” He said to me, now only inches away from my face, breathless.
“What do you mean?” I asked softly, attempting to calm his fears and ran the tips of my fingers lightly along his arm.
“I’m going to fall for you, then push you away and hurt you. And I’m going to blame it all on you. Just wait.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to believe it. That was the night I started lying to myself. Things would be different with me. They had to be.