Unnaturally Green Read Online Free PDF Page B

fact that I was out with someone, (1) who looked like a gladiator, (2) who wasn’t brain-dead or sociopathic, (3) whose company I was starting to really enjoy. What I do remember is I was served one whole sea bass, with eye and bones intact, on a wooden slab. Rather than send it back, I chewed down the fish, bones and all, as if this were my regular practice, which was an early sign that I was falling for him.
    A few dates more and I accepted an after-dinner invitation to have tea at his place.
    You heard me: tea! Because “tea” is code for “I spent the night.”
    Chastely!
    (Okay, not in the true Catholic sense of the word. But we were able to resist our lightning-bolt mutual attraction, i.e. nobody scored a homerun, i.e. do you want me to spell it out for you? i.e. we didn’t have sex, i.e. but we made out.)
    The next morning I woke to homemade eggs and toast, my impossibly muscular chef decked out in nothing but boxer briefs and a striped scarf, which I first observed through the frame of his kitchen doorway, squinting my eyes so it resembled the watercolor book jacket of a romance novel. (I can see it now, in paperback: The Brooklyn Scoundrel: Omelets of Sin. )
    I slunk over to the kitchen table, where I commented on the fact that Marshall was left-handed.
    “Just like Obama.”
    “Or Sarah Jessica Parker,” he said.
    We lazed into the afternoon, eating eggs with globs of goat cheese, bantering ten miles a minute, at which point I realized that not only was this guy a total hunk, but he was—gasp!—smart, funny, and interesting.
    Was dating supposed to be this great? History, political scandals, and all my prior boyfriends had taught me, no.
    That day after my audition Marshall wore the same structured, burnt-brown leather jacket and plain white t-shirt he wore on our first date, which made him look a bit like James Dean (if James Dean were a giant, stylish gladiator). His hair had been mussed from the wind and hung a bit in his eyes, in an unnerving “come hither” way—which made me want to obey, immediately, rubbing oatmeal cookie all over him, like some weird baker’s porn.
    “How did the audition go?” Marshall asked, putting his arms around my waist.
    I chewed and swallowed.
    “Oh, pretty okay,” I said, telling him about Lipstick Loop, Faux Hawk, my unfortunate Western-themed introduction. In recounting it struck me: the audition hadn’t been half bad.
    “I’m sure you were awesome. Can I walk you to rehearsal?”
    I did that Seinfeld thing where Elaine shoves Jerry.
    “You remembered my skedge? What the—!”
    Marshall grinned, his dimples revealing themselves, like commas in the run-on sentence of his cuteness.
    “I’m always looking for excuses to see you,” he said.
    What was he selling!  I mean, c’mon.
    To better understand my skepticism about the entire male race, perhaps we should pause here and take a quick stroll through my Dating History Museum.
    This vast, temperature-controlled space, curated by yours truly, houses tributes to the long lineage of questionable men to whom I’ve offered my pulsing, wound-weary heart. 
    Please place your umbrella in the bin, help yourself to an information pamphlet, and follow me inside (donation optional).
    Beginning in the foyer, you’ll see our Early Years Collection, when dysfunction first reared its head. As these posters and magazine cutouts reveal (fashioned to replicate my childhood bedroom), during my youth I retreated into elaborate fantasy worlds of celebrity romance. At five, I wrote Hulk Hogan a love letter (yes, the wrestler). At eight, I went steady with John Travolta (his chin butt made me swoon). At twelve, I was torn between Leonardo DiCaprio and Johnny Rzeznik from the Goo Goo Dolls (who could resist such messy coifs?). Later I had a mind fling with Richard Chamberlain (who didn’t look a day older than 65), before becoming obsessed with Alan Cumming and the lead singer of The Darkness (Picasso had a Blue Period; I had