The Encounters

It was hot that day. I remember, because I felt a bead of sweat run down my spine while I was walking to meet a last-minute Hinge date I had set up that day at work. An anomaly for me, but after mine and Peter’s break-up, I would get the sudden urge to be in the company of a man (words I genuinely thought I’d never utter.)

Two blocks away, I pulled out my phone to confirm the name of my impromptu Prince Charming. Rhett. “Rhett,” I said under my breath. “Rhett from Texas.”

He looked younger than his stated age of 30, but other than that, mostly my type. Dark brown hair, grown out a bit — what we would have called ‘lax flow’ back in college. Scrolling through, all seemed fairly predictable: a snap of him and his friends posing in front of a sign at music festival sign, a picture holding a toddler I assumed was his niece. A photo with his father on a golf course — a DC classic — hair mostly hidden by his hat, with some fringe poking out around the sides of his ears. I promptly zoomed in to see the logo on their half-zips. Burning Tree. Interesting.

In the world of DC country clubs, Burning Tree is for the insiders’ insiders. Male-only and hidden in the depths of Glen Echo on the Potomac, its the Bohemian Grove for the government’s (actually) powerful and powerful-adjacent. I scrolled up to re-confirm his hometown. Dallas. Huh. Burning Tree is the stuff of legend among homegrowns who attended establishments like Georgetown Prep and Landon. How did a couple of Texans make it past the red tape?

Before I knew it, I was approaching the bar — a waterfront spot in Georgetown where people with lip filler sip spritzes and take selfies in front of lobbyist’s yachts. By some miracle, my back sweat had mostly dissipated. Score. Given we had agreed to meet on the patio, I was already scanning for my evening’s company after arriving a customary five minutes late.

I was wearing a strapless navy midid dress that by some miracle gave me a bit of cleavage — a welcome sight after losing most of my B-cups to post-break-up weight loss — and landed a few inches above my ankles. The nude heels I was wearing that day at work were replaced by a pair of chic gladiator sandals I had intended to return during lunch a few days ago. Looks like they were now here to stay.

While I was no longer actively sweating, my skin still had a moist sheen. I told myself it looked intentional, like the body-glittered clavicle of a Real Housewife about to start a fight during an on-air vacation. I’m almost positive it did not.

“Oh, so you’re a businesswoman.” Rhett said, after I performed by three-minute diatribe about what I do for work and how I ended up in advertising. I laughed, assuming he was joking, but Rhett only cracked half of a smile. After an hour went by, it was well established he was intrigued by the depth of my mind, and I by his breadth shoulders. Interesting.

More soon. xx.