The Escapee
The back of my thighs stuck to the hot passenger seat. The keys dangled in the ignition of the convertible. If I was going to do it, I had to do it now.
BNR Response
I weighed the consequences as I watched Dex enter the quickie mart. “I’m just gonna grab some Delta-8 and take a piss and then we’ll head to the winery, beautiful!”, he shouted from the door. I nodded, a pained smile on my face, then, once he was 10 seconds out of sight I hopped into the driver’s seat, buckled up, and sped off.
Dex had gone from dream date to nightmare in the space of 20 hours. As I drove through the lush landscape of Sagaponack, I frequently checked the rearview mirror – no sign of Dex. Phew. My getaway was a success.
“How the hell did I get here?” I thought to myself, remarking on the beautiful shingled homes and enjoying the fresh, cool, ocean breeze on my face as I approached Water Mill and then Tuckahoe.
I’d first met Dex at the corner wine shop where we bonded over the wannabe sommelier’s overindulgent use of personifying adjectives during the four o’clock free tasting. “This wine’s vulnerability lends to the gravelly after taste, which is a surprise given its fruit-forward nose. This Cab Franc has a bit of a grudge, I dare say.”
We’d enjoyed two and a half weeks of casual dating before he invited me to join him in the Hamptons for an overnight trip. Granted, it was a lot of driving from the city for just a one-night stay, but I was relieved for it – as I wasn’t ready for a full weekend.
I loved road trips – and Dex and I always had plenty to talk about. He was a good storyteller and was curious about what I had to share as well.
The trip had started out well enough. He finished work before I did, so he picked up our Zip rental car and collected me right from the office. We were entering the Queens Midtown Tunnel, a mere 20 minutes into our two plus hour drive, when he said, “I’m really glad we’re doing this. I feel we’re at a point where I can be my true, full self – warts and all as they say!”
I was puzzled by this comment. I’ve heard people talk about how dating is like a job interview – where we only show our best side to the other until it feels safe to “cut loose” and let it all hang out – but I thought that was a vestige of the aughts, before it was a turn-on to discuss therapy and swap attachment styles. I hadn’t been hiding any part of myself, even though Dex hadn’t had the opportunity to see all of my facets yet.
We checked into the Topping Rose House, my favorite hotel in Bridge, and headed to dinner at The Pierre. It was a balmy evening and I wore a gossamer sundress. “Wowza, you’re smoking hot!” Dex said, “I can see your tits right through your dress!” he nearly squealed with sophomoric glee. It was my first glimpse into the hours that lay ahead.
Over dinner he regaled me with tales, as he often had over the last two weeks of courting, except the stories now took on a newly self-congratulatory tone. He told me about how he hadn’t always been a life coach, he had once been a massage therapist. He boasted about how his “magic touch” had the ability to heal marriages. I should’ve just let the story peter out on its own, but I took the bait – asking how he came to the conclusion that his massages brought couples back from the brink of divorce. There was a brief break in the story where Dex chose to attend to his personal hygiene. Some parsley from his escargot starter got stuck in his teeth while talking and eating, and he reached across the table to pull a hair from my head whereby he started to attempt to floss with it.
“I once had luscious locks like yours,” he said, squinting and gazing into the distance as if he was visualizing his younger self. “All the boys at the spa called me, ‘Little Fabio’,” he said, wistfully. “When husbands came to pick-up their wives from the spa and they say me, Little Fabio, and realized that I was the one caressing their wives and turning their skin to silk, their jealousy often reignited passion that had long gone dormant.” It went downhill from there.
He reached into his knapsack and revealed a stowaway bottle of booze that came in a vessel that looked a cross between Jabba the Hutt and a melting happy Buddha and insisted to serve himself at the table. When he saw our waiter eyeing the bottle and speaking to the Maitre D’ while gesturing towards our table, he told me we might need to run out on the bill to avoid and ABC violation ticket. I thought he was kidding until he actually bolted from the restaurant with his liquor as the two men approached our table. I paid the 300-dollar bill and apologized.
We took a walk after dinner, I was hoping he would revert to his usual banter, and the Dex I was really just getting to know and warm to. What I thought would be a 30-40 minute Summer’s eve walk became a two-hour odyssey I could not escape. Dex talked about his aquaponic indoor gardening and the effect it had on the shape of his stool. He said he had prophesied the LA Riots and how the city burned in the aftermath of the beating of Rodney King, Jr. he said he’d relied on glasses everyday for 20 years until one day, in the not-too-distant past, he’d woken up with perfect vision – better than 20/20.
At this point I was done and trying to figure out how to flee. I was two and a half hours from home and staring down the barrel of a shared-bed hotel room situation. We hadn’t slept together yet, and, prior to the day’s unfolding I had thought tonight would be the night. Al that had changed. I frantically stalled, and once we got back to the Topping Rose I suggested brandies at the bar – whereby I made several lengthy trips to the bathroom to call my bestie Suzie as an SOS. Through her laughter she proposed solutions. “Tell him the fois gras gave you the runs!” she snickered. “Or that you’re allergic to sex!” She interrupted herself, “Ooh! Ooh! Tell him you’ve been spending a lot of time on Ancestry.com and you think he might actually be your first cousin!”
Defeated and exhausted, I emerged from the ladies’ room for the last time and was pleased when Dex unknowingly did the heavy lifting for me. “I dunno about you, but that Chilean Sea Bass really gave me the shits!” he said, clutching his gut. I made a pained face and nodded. We shared a bed but nothing else that night.
Dex had a whole Saturday planned as I was so bummed to not be spending it alone or with someone less…Dex. Over benedicts, he gave me colorful detail of the long tail of the intestinal distress caused by last night’s fish.
We met up with two friends of mine at the Bridge Gardens botanical garden on the way to Sagaponack, who were tickled by my boorish date whose manner bore a striking resemblance to the unscrupulous innkeeper from Les Mis. It wasn’t until we had checked out and were back in the car on our way to the Wölffer Estate Vineyard that I saw my chance to buck and took it.
On my way back to the city I called Suze and we talked the whole way home about my treacherous Hamptons date. I didn’t worry about Dex finding his way back. All he’d need to do was get a cab to the Jitney, walk a bit to the 6 line, ride the subway to Midtown wherever he lived and then walk home. We had never been to each other’s homes; I was a stickler for really protecting my space until I was in a committed relationship.
Summer turned into Fall and then before I knew it it was December. I hadn’t heard from Dex since I made my escape in the rented Zip car back in the Summer. On the morning of December 19th, I grabbed my work bag and my coffee and burst out my door, running late for work on the last day before Winter holiday. As I swiveled around, bag falling off my shoulder, to lock my front door a friendly hand reached over and pushed my satchel back up my arm. “Hello…neighbor?” said a familiar voice. It was the 12B to my 12A, and it was Dex.