Claire’s phone rang. It was Dorian. She looked at her watch, it was two-thirty. Dorian’s flight wasn’t supposed to arrive from Thailand until three. He’d been away on business for a solid week and ached for home. Since giving up his wayward lifestyle, travel didn’t have the same appeal as before. It was early days with him and Claire but Dorian allowed himself to open up—to trust a woman in ways he once feared.


The women in Dorian’s life were a touchy subject from the very beginning. His mother passed away before he took his first step so in essence his relationship with women got off to a pretty shitty start and went downhill from there. He and Gabriel were raised by their father, a well-respected academic with a predilection for extremes. His father instilled in his sons a love of learning, an over inflated sense of self, and an insatiable hunger—one that he neither understood nor wished to.


Thus far, the parade of women could be described as quickies and overnighters. No lasting connection with any of them. Hell, even Gabriel had been in love once. What was wrong with him? Why, before Claire, couldn’t he feel anything?


Not for nothing, but this placed Claire in a class of her own. She stirred emotions within him he’d never known. He knew it instantly when he stumbled into her shop. It was late August and the fall chill was already in the air. He’d been in town for less than a week and decided to get out and see the city on foot. After picking up a local paper from the newsstand on the corner he happened into Claire’s bakery. She was putting out fresh angel wings, jesuites, canelés, and mille-feuilles and she looked tired, her hair was an utter mess but she was still pleasant. For him at least, it was one of those moments where everything else in the room faded into the background as they became totally focused on each other. They made friendly small talk and he purchased two of everything she had on display—he would’ve purchased anything just to keep her talking for a few more precious seconds.


She rang him out and Dorian left with a bounty of sugary sweets, a cup of coffee and the hope of seeing her again. And so began their flirt-fest—though there were times when Dorian wasn’t sure if Claire was in fact flirting. She was a strange bird; always moving about, flipping from English to French in the same sentence. He thought it a bit odd at first until the old man who sat in the corner table informed him that she was the owner not one of the bakers and the attention she showed him wasn’t given to everyone.


Hope springs eternal! Or so he was told. Up until their first coffee date, Claire had been lukewarm at best. Or had she been? He wasn’t exactly a preeminent judge of the inner workings of the female mind.


Two months had passed since that memorable coffee date and he felt secure in whatever they were to finally make it official. If only he could get home!



Claire, in contrast, didn’t know where they stood. They did everything a normal courting couple would do: They went out to dinner, spent vast amounts of time together, even slept together. But when the moment intercourse came into play Dorian turned into Gandhi; his cock was off limits. Claire would’ve sold one of her kidneys just to give him a hand job! She pined for him, all of him. How could he not be pining for her? Was he the Merlin of self-restraint? Could this universe have such a cruel sense of humor to gift her with a burning passion for him and dish up cold neutrality for her? No. No, it couldn’t. For what he showed her without the physical act of sex was beautiful. But where was his head?


Claire basked in him but she wanted more. She wanted him to caress her, run his hands down to her hips, lift them up and squeeze her ass while his tongue trailed along her stomach. She wanted him to flip her over and run his tongue along her spine. She wanted to be manhandled—she knew he had it in him … she saw glimpses to the fact. Why, oh why, wouldn’t he unleash it on her?! Why didn’t he care?


There was an increasing amount of insecurity that came with waiting and it was taking its toll on Claire. So when Dorian called from the airport and asked her to dinner, he was met with a surprise.


“I’m sorry,” Claire said shooing one of her girls out of her office. She was about to walk out of the door for the day. “I have a date tonight.”


Dorian’s heart folded over like a wounded bird. The noise in the airport seemed more pronounced and the air was heavier than a second before. He blinked rapidly, grasping what she’d said and going through the stages of rejection in mere nanoseconds: Denial, acknowledgement, examining the facts, and acceptance. “I, um …” He struggled to form his words. Acceptance hadn’t come easy. Who was he kidding? It hadn’t come at all. He was hurt. “… I didn’t … think, right, um, well I’ll talk to you, um, later I guess.”


If Claire could’ve taken her words back she would’ve. No date was worth this torture. “Dorian, I’m …”


“No. Don’t. I … wow” he sighed before lapsing into silence. “They’re boarding the plane. I have to go now.” Again silence. “Goodbye.” He hung up and looked at his watch, regretting he’d taken an earlier flight. Whatever, he was home and in a few minutes he’d be locked in his apartment.


Where the hell is acceptance? Dorian wondered as he waited at the baggage carousel with the throngs of other passengers. His chest tightened with every passing piece of luggage. Rejection wasn’t an emotion for which he was accustomed but now he knew it well—it was brazen, unrelenting and harsh in its infliction. Never had he expected Claire would be its root cause; that she would wield it so coarsely. He thought they’d turned a corner in their relationship. Yeah, they turned a corner, but there was a Mac truck waiting to plow him down. It had, emotionally. And he didn’t know what to do … or how to react … or what was next. Had he been so blind that he didn’t see this coming? Caring had gotten him into this debacle. He’d made the mistake of caring. He just wanted to stop hurting long enough to get home and vomit in the privacy of his own bathroom.


Dorian came out of his pity-fog in time to see a short Asian woman struggling to free her bag from the vice grip of that was the conveyer belt. He rushed to assist her before she was sucked into the undercurrent of the baggage claim abyss. She was small, no more than five-five, slim, and Korean if the tag on her bag was correct. She had medium length black hair and smallish breasts unlike Claire’s full Cs.


“Thank you,” she said as Dorian sat the bag at her feet. “They canceled my connection.”


“Aw, you were supposed to be on the plane going to Darby. I heard the cancellation over the intercom on my way down.”


“Yeah, they’re making us remove our bags so the plane can continue. I was lucky enough to have found a room at the Hyatt next door.” She swung one bag over her shoulder and raised the handle on her roller bag and looked around. “You’re local?”


“Unfortunately.” Dorian smiled.


“Can you point me in the direction of the closest bar? I need a drink.”


“Come on.” Dorian took hold of her roller bag. “I’ll join you. I could use one myself.”


Over drinks, Dorian learned that Lilly, the Korean lady, was buyer for a small chain of boutiques and spent a great deal of time traveling. It was a grind that he sympathized with. To blow off steam she took kickboxing classes but swore she wouldn’t use any of her lethal moves on Dorian. He was thankful; he’d hate to whip out his bag of tricks. They talked for hours and at some point they realized that it was getting late and they should at least try to get some sleep.



                                                    ******



His name: Robin Madison
Occupation: Dentist
Looks: A 5 at best. His buttery voice made up for the BS that came out of his mouth.
Overall Score: 0.


He was a jerk and Claire wanted out of the conversation. She wanted out of the date. She wanted Dorian. The sorrow in his voice plagued her. She knew she’d hurt him and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do while Mr. Douche Bag rambled on about his new car. God, the evening had been a comedy of errors made worse by the late hour. “I have to go,” Claire said blankly, abruptly.


“Excuse me?” Tom asked.


“I can't do this.” She stood and gathered her purse. “I have to go. It’s been real.”


Outside she called Dorian’s cell and then his home when he didn’t answer. That line rang unanswered as well. It was after two o’clock am, where the hell was he? She looked both ways down the street; there wasn’t a taxi in sight. She’d have to leg it. Luckily, Dorian’s apartment was only four blocks over. Claire called him continually along the way, still no answer. When she arrived at the building she noticed a few pieces of junk mail protruding from his mailbox. He hadn’t come home after all otherwise he would’ve collected his mail, Claire reasoned. She took the elevator upstairs just to be certain her instincts were correct. They were, he wasn’t home. So she left and flagged a taxi home.


Claire rose with the sun the next morning expecting to see a missed call from Dorian. There was none. Not even an “I’m home” email. Nothing. Her stomach suddenly churned, panic and angst swept over her, each fought for dominance.


The weekend passed with no word from him. Claire in true girlie fashion made excuses for his disappearance: He was working, he was out of town, he as tired. Anything was better than the truth: She’d hurt him, he was avoiding her, and it was over. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday passed in like order—Dorian didn’t come into the shop or call … or anything for that matter. It was as though he never existed.




“Now what?” Dorian sank into the plush sofa cushions with a beer in hand.


“Now you move on.”


“Is that it?” He drank a gulp. “Is that your brotherly advice?”


“What do you want me to say?” Gabriel spat. “Should I tell you it’s aright to sit around in your dressing gown drinking economy vodka while freebasing butter? No. You have to get on with it, man! If you need to come stay for a while, my door will be open but for heaven’s sake don’t mope about feeling sorry for yourself. You got your heart broken, big fucking deal! I told you to get rid of that thing a long time ago.”


Dorian almost choked on his beer laughing. “Wait. You mean like you? You’re my example?”


“Yes, like me. I’ve been where you are!”


“Once!”


“Once was enough, you arrogant prick. And it’ll never happen again!” Gabriel hurriedly changed the subject. “I need your help.”


Dorian slumped his head. “What now?”


“Check your email. I have to run. Samantha will be here shortly. If you need me, you know how to find me. Bye”


Dorian clicked the phone off and tossed it to the opposite end of the sofa. Maybe Gabriel was right. It was time to move on. He was sick of avoiding her but he feared contact. It was too soon. He locked the doors, turned the ringers off and went to bed.