“Watch me.”
He laughed, took her hand, and smiled at the doorman as they exited the hotel. It was a warm night, and the District was brimming with young, dynamic couples much like themselves, out on the town, celebrating their good looks and golden careers. They were the next generation of movers and shakers, and they knew it. Some of them, like him, were thoroughbreds, groomed for success. Others were strivers, those who fled the mill towns of Cleveland and Detroit and the farmlands of Iowa and Nebraska, trading on personal smarts and searing ambition. It didn’t matter how they’d gotten here, really, just that they had. They all worked like Roman slaves during the day at their jobs at the White House or on the Hill or in the lobbying firms that formed a kind of parallel government in the District. But the nights belonged to them, and they poured out of their tiny but well-appointed apartments eager for entertainment. Fueled by their expensive wines and the latest microbrews, munching on grass-fed beef and organic chicken, they traded the latest gossip, the news from the Hill, insider information on sex scandals that had yet to be reported and indictments that would soon be front-page news. They thought they were happy, that these were the best days of their lives and that they were smart enough to recognize them as such. If, when they returned home to Cleveland or Omaha for the holidays and were asked by a machinist uncle or a farmer cousin, “But what exactly do you do down there?” and were at a loss for an answer, they assumed the fault was with the relative and not with them. Or they might try and explain that the age of doing was over, that cars and toys and machinery could all be manufactured over there at a fraction of the cost, that it was all about information now, and that they were the vanguard of this new age. If the relative still looked puzzled, they would look away with some irritation and, at the first available chance, text a friend back in the District, “Counting the days until I’m back home.”
Anton was enjoying the anonymity of being in the city with his girl, and he felt a looseness in his limbs, in his gait, that he seldom experienced back home. They had made love just before getting ready for dinner, and he could smell the damp scent of sex in her hair as they walked. A warm wind blew, and he was glad that he’d made reservations on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Tomorrow they would check out a few of the Smithsonians before meeting Andrea, a friend from Harvard who now worked at the National Portrait Gallery, and her husband for dinner. He had been desperately busy the past few weeks—the Right to Life folks had descended on the state in droves after a federal appeals court had ruled in favor of a hospital that wanted to pull the plug on an indigent man who had been in a coma for six years—and Anton needed this time away. Also, he was really enjoying getting to know Katherine. Things were passionate and romantic between them, and back home it was impossible to spend an entire weekend away from the office.
They were seated right away when they got to the restaurant, the perfume from a nearby honeysuckle bush wafting toward them. They ordered drinks and then relaxed in the comfortable patio chairs. Even though they had debated whether to risk ordering martinis at an ethnic restaurant, they were not disappointed.
They were smiling at each other across the table when a woman in her early twenties approached their table. “Excuse me,” she said, and Anton looked up at her. A few tables away, he could see a few of her friends giggling at her boldness.
“Yeah?”
“Aren’t you Anton Coleman?” she asked.
He flung a quick, apologetic look at Katherine before saying, “Yes.”
The young woman smiled. “I thought so.” She looked over her shoulder at her friends. “Actually, we—my friends and I—we have a bet. One of them says you were named the Sexiest Man Alive by People magazine last year.”
He was used to such occurrences, but it didn’t make them less embarrassing. “I wish,” he said lightly. “I’m afraid your friend is wrong.”
“Oh.” The woman stared at him, unsure how to keep the conversation going. She blushed. “Well, I think they should’ve,” she said in a rush.
He heard Katherine gasp, a light sound that perhaps only he heard. He rose to his feet and stuck his hand out. “Well, thanks for stopping by. Enjoy your dinner.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” He stood watching as she walked back to her table, guarding against any further intrusions. He rolled his eyes as he sat down. “They’re all a little drunk.”
Katherine gave him a bemused look. “Apparently, women get that way in your presence.”
He tried laughing it off. “Aw, come on. You can’t blame this on me.”
“No, of course not. I just don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted when these little episodes happen whenever I’m out with you in public.”
He reached out for her hand. “Baby, forget it. She’s just some silly college girl. Now, where were we?”
“We were complimenting each other on our good judgment in ordering these fabulous martinis.” She looked down at her glass, which was almost empty, and Anton immediately signaled the waiter for another round.
They began their meal by ordering Tamarind’s signature appetizer, a combo of crispy spinach and yogurt, and devoured it within minutes. “Wow,” Katherine said. “Guess we were both hungry.”
He looked at her knowingly. “Certain activities always give me a good appetite.”
Katherine laughed. “Yup. Nothing wrong with your appetites. I can vouch for that.”
He leaned over and kissed her. Her mouth tasted faintly of cumin. “Wanna get another one of these?” he said, pointing to the empty dish.
“Sure.”
They went through the second appetizer and then ordered their main dishes. As they waited, Katherine asked his opinion about a human rights violation case in Rwanda that she was currently working on. She knew more about human rights law than he ever would but Anton still appreciated her occasionally asking for his counsel. Her auburn hair fell across her face as they talked, and he resisted the urge to smooth it back.
The chicken sizzled on its platter as it was served to them, and they tackled it in silence. This was another thing Anton appreciated about Katherine. Unlike so many women he had dated, she ate as heartily as a man and didn’t pretend to hide her appetite out of some misguided sense of femininity. After they were done, they felt compelled to look at the dessert menu, even as they swore they couldn’t eat another bite. But the desserts looked fabulous, and they decided to split a mango kulfi. They were waiting on it when Anton’s phone rang. It was Brad. Anton turned the ringer off. “It’s okay.” He smiled. “I’ll call him back tomorrow.”
“You can answer. I don’t mind.”