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. 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 powerful and powerful-adjacent. I scrolled up to re-confirm his hometown. Dallas. Huh. Burning Tree is the stuff of legend at homegrown 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 — and 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 the customary five minutes late.
I had a pitch earlier that day in Bethesda, though had obviously left the blazer behind at the office when I departed for my date, leaving me in 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 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.” a 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.
More soon. xx.
The Encounters 