Date Night

Date Night

I arrive at your apartment building at 4:30, on the dot, in my brown Lamborghini. I’m sitting in the driver’s seat with a grin on my face, wearing my best tuxedo. My hair is sopping wet from the long shower I took, and I’m starting to get a sweat going. You stand on the top step of the stairs leading up to your building and give me a big smile as you begin your elegant descent down to the sidewalk in your fancy dress with the long zipper. You fold yourself into the passenger seat with all the grace of a deer, and I drive us back to my penthouse at a modest fifteen miles-per hour. We arrive five minutes later, and I park curbside as the complimentary valet driver hustles on down to the idling Lambo to park it. My doorman, Knute, holds the door for us, and once we’re inside the lobby elevator, the elevator operator needs only to glance at my face before wishing me a pleasant evening and thumbing the button that will take us to my penthouse suite.
Once inside, I hand you your bathrobe and toiletries bag and I sit in my largest, most extravagant leather recliner, mere feet from my roaring fireplace, and watch as you enter the bathroom, wherein, you turn on the shower, making sure to turn the big shiny knob all the way to the right; as hot as it gets. Before long, I can start to see steam rolling out into the parlor from underneath the thick mahogany bathroom door. You step into the cleansing flow of scalding water without flinching in the slightest, and remain motionless, letting the water splash all over your back, shoulders, and neck, taking care that none of the water should enter your mouth.
Meanwhile, out in the parlor, I sit motionless in my large chair, watching the fire dance, and listening to the water clean you. My sweat intensifies, further wetting my sopping hair. I tighten my bow tie and synch my belt one hole further. I reach into the breast pocket of my jacket and produce a heavy, gold pocket watch and note that it’s been exactly twenty-six hours since I’ve had my last drink of water; my last drink of anything, to be exact. After my watch tells me you’ve been in the shower for exactly one hour, I get up, walk over to the bathroom door, and rap my long knuckles ever so softly on the dark wood.
“That’s enough,” I call in my softest voice, and the water ceases at once.
You let me into the fog-filled bathroom after you’ve dried, and I help you back into your fancy dress with the long zipper. We both look at your reflection in the mirror, admiring your wrinkled pink skin, and soaking hair plastered against the back of your dress. Before we leave, I feed my turtles and toss several more birch logs onto the fire.
We descend to lobby-level and as Knute opens the door to us, bidding us a fine evening, my Lamborghini slowly rumbles to the sidewalk’s edge. The driver gets out, and dashes around to the passenger side to open the door for you. We take our seats, and then its off to see the big, new, long, fancy movie.
After a careful, pleasant drive, we arrive at the theatre hours later. I drop you off at the entrance and park the Lambo. After its parked, we walk into the lobby, arm in arm. As we walk in, you notice me frown slightly at the chill of the air conditioning, but my mouth quickly morphs into grin of pleasure as I spot the popcorn machines behind the snack bar. The aroma of light, buttery corn sprinkled with salt floats through the lobby and into my nostrils, where I take deep, long breaths of the heavenly scent. Your pupils dilate as you watch me enjoying the smells of the theatre. With identical grins on our faces, we approach the ticket counter and request two tickets for the new “Transformers” movie. The lady behind the register smiles at us and informs me of my total, which is sixteen eighty-four. I reach into the front left pocket of my impeccably-ironed slacks and take out my cashmere wallet. From it, I produce nine two-dollar bills which I slide across the counter to the lady behind the register.
“Keep the change,” I say in a perfectly content tone of voice.
Still arm in arm, we move to the snack bar and each order the largest tub of popcorn the theatre sells. We do not order drinks of any kind. After dolling out an additional nine two-dollar bills, the two of us make for the butter pumps. Pump, pump, pump go the plungers as we douse our steaming tubs of corn with liquid butter, all the while smiling into each other’s eyes. After the popcorn is thoroughly saturated, and the butter has started to pool at the bottom of the tubs, we make our way into the dark theatre, careful to give the drinking fountain a wide berth.
We sit in the dark and watch the movie, all the while stuffing our gourds with slimy, cooling popcorn. The movie is good. It has plenty of funny jokes to make us laugh, but not too hard, as to make us spill out popcorn. It has plenty of big explosions to make us sweat. It has plenty of heartfelt moments to make us sweat. And, of course, it has plenty of Transformers, to make us sweat.
After the movie has ended, and we’ve finished our popcorn, we walk back to the Lambo. As we walk, I begin to feel the slightest dull throbbing in my kidneys. I allow a small chuckle to escape my lips, and you give me a curious, inquisitee look, but say nothing. Our hair is no longer soaking wet, but it is still pleasantly damp. I open your door and walk around to the driver’s side after you are seated. I press the ignition button and the Lambo’s big engine rumbles to life. We begin our slow, pleasant journey back to your apartment building.
As we come to a stop in front of your building, the streetlight illuminates your glistening, still-wet hair. You step out onto the sidewalk and peer through the Lambo’s open passenger-side window at me.
	“Have a wonderful night,” I exclaim.
	You smile at me and turn to ascend the steps of your building. I follow your progress with my eyes. The dull throbbing in my kidneys has become a proper ache, and I turn my pleasant smiling face back to the road, roll the passenger-side window up, and begin the short drive back to my penthouse.