Never in Vegas

by Gwen Cooper — May 7, 2007

Robert and I have been in Las Vegas for two days now, and he continues to surprise me. Just last night we were strolling through the Bellagio lobby (not where we're staying this trip), where an alarming number of employees bow their heads as we pass and address Robert with a, "Hello, Mr. T."

In answer to my inquiring look, Robert tells me, "I'm here a lot for conventions, and this is where I usually stay."

"Ah," I reply. "I was starting to think that maybe you had a secret double life as a Vegas high-roller or something."

Robert assures me that such is not the case, but does press me to sit in for a hand at one of the blackjack tables we're walking by.

"I'd sooner light my money on fire and throw it out the hotel window," I inform him.

"Do you have a moral objection to gambling?" he wants to know.

"Nope--more of a deep-seated aversion to simply handing my money over to people who are much, much richer than I am."

Robert laughs at this, and tries to explain the fun to be had in gambling small amounts of money. "It's not just handing your money over--you're paying to be entertained."

"I find nothing entertaining about losing money."

"But I thought you loved Vegas! How can you love Vegas and hate to gamble?" he asks.

"I'm an enigma," I deadpan.

But I do love Vegas, and I love being here with Robert. I'm finding myself with more downtime on this leg of the book tour than I've had thus far, and Robert and I wander the strip in quest of shows, cabarets, buffets, show girls, stores, swimming pools, exhibits of Russian and Impressionist art, and bleary-eyed tourists disoriented from all-nighters in casinos that contain neither clocks nor windows. I make a call to some friends I have out here, and Robert and I meet up with them at a locals-only type of place, where we dive headfirst into impossibly large and mercifully cheap cocktails until way, way past what would have been sunrise if we were still on the East Coast.

Sometime around the west-coast sunrise, Robert slings an arm around my shoulder, pulls me in for a kiss, and says in a happy, sleep-dazed way, "I love you, you know."

This is the first time he's said it. I want to say it back, but something about saying it for the first time on the Vegas strip after a night of hard drinking feels wrong. I kiss him back and whisper, "Not in Vegas. Tell me again when we get back home."

Gwen Cooper is the author of Diary of a South Beach Party Girl, recently published by Simon & Schuster. To read all of Gwen Cooper's posts in "The Dating Life," click here.