Let Us Prey

Ever since Anya's mother made her watch an entire documentary on the relationship between tanning and skin cancer, Anya has never set foot outside her large mansion without slathering three bottles of Coppertone sunscreen on herself. For the most part, she has everything within the comfort of her home, so she hardly ever sets foot outside. She even has a special indoor pool just for parties like these.

During the evening, Tom and I arrive at Anya's iron-wrought gate by taxi. Tom eagerly pays the cab driver as I press the buzzer. Anya's sing-songy voice answers, high pitched and happy. "Who is it?" she asks, stretching each vowel.

"It's Ophelia," I answer bleakly. The gates open slowly, and we head inside. Anya holds the door open for us, and she beams, eyes locked on dear Tom in his silver dress shirt and royal blue tie. He sticks out a hand and introduces himself, and Anya quickly shakes it.

"Ophelia, I thought you said you didn't have a boyfriend," she replies, a tall man with broad shoulders approaching her. "Were you lying to me?"

"No," I say, adjusting my floral print sundress. Tom coughs and looks around, fingers unbuttoning the collar of his shirt.

"So he's a life partner," Anya says, the man looping a hand around her waist. "This is my boyfriend, Travis." He winks at me, and I grope for Tom's hand. He finds mine and squeezes it. "Travis, this is Ophelia, the super heroine of relationships!"

"Oh, I don't know about that--"

"No need to be so modest, dear," Tom says, lacing our fingers together. He winks at me. "You are the best in the business."

Travis pries Anya away from us after an awkward silence where Tom and Travis had a staredown. I heave a sigh of relief once they leave, joining a party of six nearby. Travis is a jerk; he's the sort of guy that tries to pick up lots of women for his own pleasure. He has to realize that happiness doesn't come from "getting some", but rather by finding someone to spend his future with. Of course, these men will never learn that, not even when they're going through their mid-life crises.

"Lots of people appreciate what you do," Tom starts, hand still intertwined with mine. We stop by the bar in the corner for something to drink. I pick up a peach daiquiri while Tom reaches for something less fruity. Women pass by, their hands on their mouths, whispering to friends or significant others.

"I'm hoping it's appreciation they're showing," I grumble. Several have the nerve to point at us. "It's ridiculous that people feel like they have the right to know about our private lives." I down half the drink, an icy feeling crawling to my brain.

"You're mysterious. Maybe they feel that way, because you never talk about yourself." He laughs. "Besides, they don't really want to know about me; they want to know about you. Don't use the collective pronoun 'we' when you're just talking about yourself."

Why did I say "we" in the first place?

Past the French doors is the pool with clear aquamarine water littered with clumps of people. Women in bikinis huddle around me, showing off their pearly white teeth. "Oh, Ophelia, we thought you'd never show up. And you brought your boyfriend!" Tom grins, tightening his grip around my waist.

The redhead in the emerald monokini goes first. "My husband doesn't seem to be happy with me anymore. I just feel like he goes out and finds other women to be around. What should I do?"

"There's no use in keeping secrets. Ask him if he's unhappy with your relationship; the answer may not be what you're looking for, but it's much more satisfying than not knowing a thing." The woman nods, eyebrows furrowed.

"What should I do about my daughter, Ophelia? She's been angry with me because she wants to have sex with her boyfriend," the woman with curly hair says, frowning. Tom shifts his weight. "I just don't think fifteen year olds should be allowed to do anything like that so early."

"You should tell her the consequences, and take her to a teen pregnancy class and allow her to talk to those girls." The circle of women applauds, and I turn to Tom, understanding his awkward circumstance. "If you would like to discuss more, I would appreciate it if you contact my office and schedule an appointment." The women whine, asking for only five more minutes, but Tom can't handle any more. And I can't either.

Maybe this is the reason men have no interest in dating me.

"I had no idea your business traveled with you everywhere," he says, chuckling. "It's almost as though everyone wants a piece of you. I feel as though I'm competing with a mob, and losing miserably."

I wave goodbye to Anya, who says something along the lines of "but you just got here!". One of her chauffers whisks us into a Buick and drives us back to the city, where Tom and I opt to sit at a coffeeshop and talk. I thank the driver, but when I pull out my wallet, he shakes his head.

"Miss Sorenson would murder me if I took money from you," he replies, rolling up the window. He tips his hat and speeds away into the night, the lamp posts flickering as he passes by.

We step into the quaint coffeeshop, and head for the counter to order. We both choose tea rather than coffee.

After receiving our drinks, we find a place by the window and sit down. "You know, Ophelia, your thought process is very analytical," Tom says. "It's almost like you're solving a math equation."

I raise an eyebrow.

Rule number 72: Take in a deep breath and then analyze your situation. If you do it with a biased view, the outcome will not be good.

"I just want to remind you that as humans, we're not as predictable as you may think." His lips spread into a smile. He leans in, his blue eyes sparkling in the dim lighting.

"Well, I--"

He presses his lips against mine.