Boston's Man-Eater

XLIII

A picnic in the sweet-smelling grass of the Monrose Lake with Tess—my idea of perfect.

We had our backs to the ground, the muted blue sky above us, with the very same clouds that backed her up as she relayed the encounters she experienced after moving to America.

Her voice was so soft and soothing, allowing her mind to unravel all but her life in England.

For instance, I learnt that she actually was serious when she said she had thought to be allergic to men.

"My first relationship was with a girl, a former roommate when I was a college freshman."

I remember chuckling as she went on to elaborate why she had thought she was lesbian.

The way her nose crinkled in disgust as she spoke of the college boys who pursued her, and the high school ones that jeered at her.

"It was then that I started exploring myself, to find out if I really was. But then, I found out that I was bisexual."

"Who changed your mind?"

"I guess it was sort of hidden—I then came across Dexter."

"He must've been a very impressive guy," I smiled, and she scoffed.

"So snobbish. I believed that it was because he was the top of our class at Harvard, but he was compensating for what he lacked."

My eyebrows shot up as embarrassment colored my cheeks.

How was she so blunt?

It's not that I had not expected her honor and appreciation towards women—feelings of intimacy were not shocking.

She still was strongly opinionated and picky when it came to men.

Always careful to choose the wrong ones.

And she was not much of talker unless if she was around Ayanda, Marisol and Kit-Kat—her cat.

She had a cat named Kit-Kat who I never met because she's apparently slick.

Tess preferably engaged in full conversations with her two friends (understandable), and a feline named Kit-Kat who couldn't comprehend human language whatsoever.

She also made pretty mean sandwiches that went down with her favorite white wine.

In all the times I'd seen her, she consumed white wine more than red, but apparently, the opposite was what she preferred.

She loved the grape, and could distinguish hundreds of brands solely by their smell, also possessing a cellar in the basement of her stone castle.

I thought she was an alcoholic, but she went on to say it was healthy, and wasn't addicted.

Don't lay low on the wine, Tessa.

Her name wasn't Tessa either—just Tess.

"But I thought it was Tessa."

"It is not," she snapped.

"I didn't mean to make you upset, I just heard it before and thought it was."

"Heard it from who?"

Brace yourself, Keith.

"Derek," I answered, and glacial barricades glazed over her pale face.

Not this again.

"It's just Tess—I don't like Tessa, and I'd prefer it if you don't call me that again."