Free Pearls for Jimmy by Maureen Gill Page B

smell his cologne. His mint-scented breath brushed across my hair like a warm gentle breeze.
    After we coaxed my chair into position, Jimmy floated a surprisingly gentle hand across my right shoulder. It was as much a kiss as a caress and it conveyed a presumptive sense of ownership that quite surprisingly I didn’t mind. My experience with men had been that giving a man a sense of ownership was never a good thing and yet at that moment I believed being owned by this man could be marvelous.
    It was all I could do to not lean backward and bury my face into the palm of his hand. I wanted his hand to cradle my face, massage my neck and, of course, eventually explore every inch of me.
    I was surprised my friends weren’t staring at me in astonishment because I couldn’t imagine how anyone could not have noticed what had just happened, but they were chatting away with one another and the waiters – totally oblivious to me, totally oblivious to Jimmy.
    Jimmy moved to the other side of the table, directly across from me, and issued more orders in Greek. Almost instantly our table was laden with carafes of ice water and fresh lemon, bottles of Retsina wine, baskets of crusty bread, colorful bowls of briny Greek olives, feta cheese, creamy tzatziki, bottles of olive oil and several tall stacks of little white plates to hold these treats. He nodded approvingly as waiters filled water glasses and poured wine.
    We sampled the olives and feta and dipped bread in the tzatziki and olive oil and generously praised the house wine. Before we could put a dent in what was already before us, waiters brought us bowls of smoky melitzanosalata, a classic eggplant dip, and skordalia, a creamy puree of potatoes, bread, oil, lemon and the ubiquitous mainstay of Greek cuisine, garlic. The dips were followed by a huge platter of dolmades, delicious treats made with lamb, rice, pine nuts and seasonings, and carefully wrapped in tender grape leaves.
    We were being treated to a true mini feast and hadn’t ordered any of it. Jimmy explained in perfect English, with a very sexy accent, that it was his pleasure to have us dine in his restaurant. When he announced the appetizers and wine were on the house, Doreen mistakenly believed she was the reason for his largesse and jumped from her seat and gave Jimmy an enthusiastic hug and kiss, which he accepted graciously without taking his eyes off me.
    I acknowledged his generosity with a smile and a nod and he smiled and nodded back. I understood he was pleased that I knew he was honoring me and no one else.
    Suddenly, overwhelmed by the richness of the foods before me and maybe also the wine I was drinking way too fast, I had a moment of clarity about myself. I saw the history of my own insatiable hungers, my own needs for love and passion, and realized what I hungered for was not contained in any bright bowls or on any platters, and certainly not in the arms of any man I’d ever known. What I hungered for was a man like Jimmy, a man equal to my passion. I saw most clearly that Jimmy had a passion for life; he lived large and loved huge. It was his briny salt, not the olives I wanted; it was his sweetness and his spice I craved. I wanted to drink wine from his lips, nibble at his muscles and suck the juices from his body. I had no doubt that he could be as generous with his physical love as he was with his food.
    Several diners drew Jimmy away from our table and I took the opportunity to study his restaurant with the eye of a jealous lover. I wanted to understand my competition. I wanted to understand what Jimmy loved, what made Jimmy tick.
    I listened to Greek music play in the background and the happy shouts of “Opaah!” that announced a skillet of sizzling saganaki had just been ignited at a table of delighted diners. I savored all of the rich smells that went past our table; spit roasted lamb, pork, kabobs, gyros, squid, and whole fish. I inhaled garlic, oregano, basil, fennel, and dill, as well as