Houston’s: Part 1 of 2

Around the end of last fall I was invited by a good friend, who was visiting Atlanta, to…
wine

Around the end of last fall I was invited by a good friend, who was visiting Atlanta, to go for dinner and drinks downtown. Kevin, a childhood friend, was taking an acquaintance, Ty, to Houston’s and she also invited a girlfriend who was looking for a good reason to get out the house. Always the matchmaker, Kev called me and we discussed the potential double date. He told me Ty’s friend would be meeting us at Houston’s if I decided to come. He also said that she didn’t have a man and he had seen her before at a previous get together. In his short description, her looks were summed up as “decent”. As any other pair of male childhood friends, me and Kev understood one another. I trusted his analysis of women as he did mine. “Decent” was a step up from “straight”, meaning that half way through the dinner I wouldn’t pretend to have forgotten something in my car, turned the ignition and sped off into the night. In our youth, we’d done worst only to later call one another and laugh about the awkward experience that the last man in attendance had to endure. I could even tell by the way he spoke that this was something I need to do if I really and truly had nothing else planned. I didn’t, so I did.

Ty and Kevin drove together and her friend had let them know she’d be coming straight from an appointment, thus, arriving before us. When we entered Houston’s, we were greeted with the sound of a hundred conversations spread over the soft sound of the live pianist. Corporate types unwinding at the bar, entourages toasting at the tables and sweethearts sat with lowered shoulders in the deep sitting booths. Earth tones put a frame around the setting, allowing the bar and it’s occupants to all blend together into a welcoming scenario fit for late night socializing. Drinks were being poured and waitresses slid in and out of sight from the kitchen area. The tenderloin aroma passing through the air made my mouth water.

Houston’s was high end/casual. Suit and ties weren’t required but it wasn’t the type of place you’d order take-out wings from. A $75 tab wasn’t unusual for the usual patron.

By the time the hostess asked how many would be attending our party, we spotted Ty’s friend at the bar. When she saw us she waved us over motioning with the same hand she held her drink. Her name was Yvette. Kevin elaborated on the word “decent” via text message on the way over. In his texts were information that couldn’t be communicated verbally with Ty in an audible distance.

Paraphrasing, his messages read: She’s 36, 2 years divorced, no kids, some type of health care executive and still had the figure of an undergrad. Anytime I hear a description of a woman with that many positives it’s hard to keep my thoughts from diverging to the worst possible scenario. No way I was falling for this female mirage. There had to be some type of impending danger.

Yvette stood from her bar stool to hug Ty while simultaneously greeting Kevin with a long “Heeeeyyyy Kev!” Me and Yvette shook hands and we both pretended not to ogle one another’s appearance. Her hair was cut short and since I have no name recognition of a Black woman’s hairstyles, the best way I could describe it would be “Halle Berry-ish”. She wore a black business suit that hugged her body enough to show her figure yet suggestively neutral enough for a professional meeting. She had a soft cappuccino color that contrasted well with dark brown eyes. Her bosom was modest but present. Although petite in stature, her hips were in classic Black woman proportions, disproportionate…..in a sexy way.

After we all order drinks from the bar, we decided to get a booth. The women held their own conversation, laughing and joking about their respective goings ons of the week. Between sips of his Grey Goose martini, Kev gave me an exaggerated eye brow raise to silently ask my approval of the extra dinner guest. I brought my glass of Guinness close to my face and responded with a nonchalant head nod.

The hostess came by to tell us our table was ready and we then followed her to our booth. Making our way through the the tables, I intentionally lagged behind to get a full view of Yvette’s figure. Everything seemed to be well in order. She walked swift and upright, working her Blackberry with one hand, while her other hand was clinched tight swinging as fast as her legs moved; like a pendulum. When we arrived at our booth we faced that somewhat awkward moment when the couples pair up for seating assignments. I hadn’t yet read any signals from Yvette that I had a passed the physical appearance test.

Opposing each other, the ladies enter the booth first. We then helped them with their jackets and followed suit. We sat down and before anyone could open their mouths or menus, Yvette put her hand on my wrist, saying “So Marcus, tell me about yourself”. At that point she had broken the touch barrier which set my insecurities at ease. It didn’t mean I could sex her under the table but I knew that women touching you on purpose is usually a good thing…

To Be Continued…

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