Chapter 4, Parochial School, God Loves Me, Maybe Not

Big Tits

It was long ago but for me, not so long ago. On an October 1975, evening, I crossed a forbidden threshold. Although twenty-five-years old, married and mother of two, I was young, a girl, not yet a woman.That evening, I backed out of our home’s driveway, glanced from the rear-view mirror to the kitchen window and saw him, my husband. He watched me leave, just like Mom did when Dad drove off. At the curb, I looked away and drove off too, uncertain but determined not to turn back.As I sped off, I asked myself.Am I like Dad?But answered.No, it’s only dinner and a movie.A lie, I was no longer a faithful wife. I was meeting a man, not my husband and the father of my children, evidence of premeditated betrayal in my purse. Leaving my Mountain View, California neighborhood, I turned onto the El Camino Real, the commercial thoroughfare connecting the peninsula cities from San Francisco to San Jose. As I drove among the congestion, I mused about life, my life.I was a poor girl, educated by Catholic nuns, was going to be one! It was on my way home from Notre Dame High School when he stopped me. He blocked the sidewalk as I walked home from my bus stop.  I was, only sixteen, Asian, he five years older, white.He’s the first man I kissed.Engaged with parent’s acquiescence on my seventeenth birthday, I gave my underage marriage consent, for security, to escape a dysfunctional family, because I didn’t know how to say no. Engaged, he assumed control, ensured my virginity on the altar. A year Anadolu Yakası Escort later, we married, I just turned eighteen, he twenty-three.  I’ve never known another man. Now twenty-five, I’m meeting my first real date. I’m being me, at last. Conversing with myself between stoplights, I rewrote my personal history to justify meeting a man, not my husband.Approaching Michael’s restaurant in Sunnyvale, our meeting place, however, my rationalized confidence dissipated, replaced with timid reality.I’m risking my marriage, family, my world. I should go home. I knew I wouldn’t. I was adrift, on remote, led by a yearning set loose, something long-repressed, now free. I didn’t know where or how it would end. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. I just went heart forward.Familiar with the restaurant from driving past, I’d never eaten there. Its outside decor proclaimed it too upscale for our family budget. Going in was entering unfamiliar terrain, economic, social and moral.I was scared but fear was part of the enticement. Scanning the parking lot from across the street, I wondered if he even came, with a false hope he didn’t. There it was, his black Porsche, parked near the front entrance. Knowing I shouldn’t but no longer in control, I turned in.Parked, I calmed myself and checked my lipstick in the mirror.                                             Assured, no pleased with my reflection, I recommitted myself, smiled confidence, clambered out Anadolu Yakası Escort Bayan and hastened to the entrance. I strode forward, my small gold sequin purse strung on a shoulder, my knees visible in the red mini dress. My heels clicked on the pavement with each step declaring determination.                                I glanced down into his Porsche as I passed it and imagined him in its leather seat, driving to see me, his left hand holding and turning the steering wheel, his right gripping and shifting the gear shift knob.Did he rush here to see me with anticipation? What’s it like to ride in a Porsche?My quick pace wasn’t determination confidence. I was afraid to be seen by someone known. They would want to know why I was there, dressed up, alone, seeing a man, not my husband. Yet haste was also fed by desire, desire to see him again. Fear and desire swirled together with each step.The maître d’ standing in the foyer swung open one of the heavy entry doors with beveled glass panes as I approached. He bent down and whispered as I entered the foyer.”                                 “Are you meeting Dr. Evans?”Nodding, he replied.“Follow me.”The crowded tables blurred past as I followed, pleased he had the maître d’ look for my arrival. Then I saw him behind a secluded table. Edward, his jet-black hair combed straight back, clean-shaven. His clear, inquisitive, blue eyes looked up. Our eyes met. His full lips broke Escort Anadolu Yakası into a smile. White teeth flashed as he rose to his full six-foot-plus height.A pang of unease swept me; afraid he’d hug on my arrival as others turned to watch. Instead, as my chair was pulled back by the maître d’, he simply said.“Elizabeth, I’m so happy you came. You look beautiful!”His expensive blazer and assured deportment matched the establishment’s upscale decor and silverware as did his confident, resonant, timbered voice. Not outright handsome, he was nice looking, a pleasant face to view. It was his mannerisms, urbanity, and voice which pushed him into handsome.Beautiful, my husband never says it.Seated, I was glad I came. His presence dissipated the last anxiety. His voice mesmerized my attention. Looking across the table, my heart knew I was his. Wearing the shoes, dress and earrings he’d bought told him it was true.He ordered a rose’ wine by its French name. At his suggestion, I ordered their specialty, Shrobster, a New England stuffed lobster.  Flush with wine, his voice, and charm we ate. We talked but I did most of it. For dessert, we had sherry and shared a flan Brulee, all new to me. I stared transfixed as the little blue fire flickered and flamed out.Tipsy by wine, we walked from the restaurant to the adjacent Century 21 Theater to see the movie Chinatown, the innocent pretense for our meeting.           In the safety of the dark theater, I put my hand on his knee, then his thigh. At “The End” I finally let him hold my hand as we walked up the aisle to the lobby. There he turned me to face him.“Stop for a glass wine. I’ll show you my place.”“I need to use the phone.”In the security of the wooden phone booth, I closed the folding door, composed my mind what to say and called home to assure all was okay.    

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