Tempted Read Free Page A

experienced hand apply some war paint.
    Being an utter cameraphobe , I have always been grateful that my choice of profession allows me to be heard and not seen.   Having the proverbial ‘face for radio , ’ I am far from the polished newscaster type.   I wouldn’t know the first thing about proper gl amming techniques, and frankly I’ m not sure I even own mascara.
    The menagerie doesn’t seem to mind.   In fact no one in my life does ... except my mother.   I can just picture the look on her face when I tell her I am going out to dinner with a respectable, educated, single gentleman.   That priceless moment alone could make the whole outing worthwhile in and of itself, even if Peter were not fabulous in every way imaginable.
    I am really looking forward to meeting him at last.   He came into my life as something of a knight in cyber armor when I was going through intense heartbreak over David, the love of my life, after finding out he not only had a girl, but was living with her in Italy , and not just there for business , as I had believed.
    We’ve all had people who get under our skin.   For whatever reason, whether they’re sinners or saints, we just can’t shake our attachment to them.   And that’s exactly the way it’s always been fo r me where David’ s concerned.   But he is no longer foremost in my mind.   Today I am just grateful for Peter’s emergence on the scene.   It lessens the sting of the David situation.   Now, after a spate of online flirting – my first on Facebook, and initiated by him – I am actu ally doing the unthinkable.   I’ m getting together in person with a Facebook friend – with the prospect of it turning romantic, if not downright lusty.   Well, why not?   The guy is hot!
    6:51pm finds me waiting by my front door, sweating despite the chilly weather.   Peter had messaged earlier bid ding me to dress ‘appropriately . ’   Only he didn’t stipulate appropriate for what.   I opt for a fetching , classic 50’s-ish , black dress, heels and pearls, with my hair actually down and cascading in long flowing tendrils, curled just for the occasion.   My kohl-laden lashes feel heavy on my eyes and I do my best not to touch my face for fear of soiling the makeup artist’s handiwork, complete with an assault on some unruly eyebrows that were trying to break from the pack.   Despite my tomboy tendencies, I feel all girl tonight ... and rather pretty, if I do say so myself.
    April often refers to me as a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a mystery, and frankly , she’s not the only one.   I get that sort of comment a lot.   Apparently being a tomboy but only wearing dresses and skirts poses a paradox.   I eschewed pants a few years ago and even went so far as to divest myself of jeans – something I never saw myself being able to live without.   Maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of Mad Men in recent years, but there is something incredibly freeing and spirited about wearing girl apparel exclusively.
    Suddenly self-conscious and bashful, I look down and note the sassy heels elevating my stature, and I consider how after running around madly to ensure I got a pedicure , my colorful toes are now ensconced in black leather, hidden from admiring eyes.   Oh, no matter.   It was fun , and a treat I never give myself. If the date proves to be nothing more than something to laud over Mom and the impetus to get a mani/pedi, I will still regard it as a triumph.
    Lost in my thoughts , I don’t even notice the polished, vintage , bathtub Porsche pulling up in front of my drive.   Hearing the car door snap closed , I come to and grab my little black Prada bag and emergency satchel containing sweats and sneakers, should my ‘appropriate’ apparel be way off base.   I open the door just as Peter is about to knock and my breath catches at the sight of him.   Wow, he really is handsome.   Yikes, maybe intimidatingly so.   I miraculously locate the keys in my