The satellite said 6:31 PM and the satellite is never wrong. Closing the phone and shuffling hastily through the lazily shoveled snow and along the treacherous sidewalk I see the lights of Coles growing in size and brightness. I flip open my phone again: 6:32. I’m never late; I can’t believe I’m late. No second chance no second chance at that first impression and I’m late.
I bust through the door and scoot rudely by the couple standing too close in the frigid air, talking into each other’s faces. A little too drunk and a lot too cutesy. Perhaps I’m a little jealous.
And there she is, Kelly. She’s right, she does look different than her profile picture. Darker hair, unnaturally dark. Curly hair sloppily straightened, and short. I take inventory as I work hard to maintain my natural smile. I can’t let her see that reality is far less flattering than her flashing pixilated grin, but I’m being too harsh. She’s cute. Cute enough for dinner. Cute enough to flirt with. Cute enough for witty repartee. She smiles as I approach and some of the harshness melts away.
I fumble my first line.
“I’m sorry I’m late.”
She smiles, just smiles, and offers her hand. Doesn’t stand. No hug. She offers the limp dead fish hand.
I don’t notice.
I sit down in a great mood. I’m really feeling my ‘A’ game tonight and the bustle of the restaurant invigorates me. I look around, catch the server’s eye and order a beer. Even on a date, there must be priorities. With essential tasks completed, I start into the usual. Day. Job. Events.
I’ve already lined up my first few stories. One about work, throwing in key details about the essays I’m grading and the planning I’m doing for next semester. I figured an English Education major would find some morsel to nip at. We could talk about teaching philosophies, favorite books, the profession, the lack of state funding and the absurdity of standardized English essays. I even have a connection to Heller’s Catch-22. I’m not pretentious; I’m prepared.
A forced smile and a nod. A sip of wine. The wiping of a water spot on the glass. A forced cough.
Quickly, again maintaining what I hope appears to be the epitome of natural ease, I try to assess what just happened. Did I whiff? Is she shy? Where is the witty, boisterous girl of twenty-four hours ago?
“So how did you get into social work, and why the switch to education?”
Just get her talking. Get her talking about herself. Sure fire.
“I’ve always loved reading, writing and analyzing.”
She picks up the menu and begins to peruse the salad selection.
Not quite sure what just happened, I follow suit. Quickly feeling like this evening is going to become one of dating’s myriad of missteps, I order something cheap and wait for Kelly to set her menu down.
The evening continues on the trajectory that was established with our first volley. Any attempt to tell a story or feeble attempt at humor is met with an almost confused look. Any line of questioning I begin is met with deft brevity, unalterable stoicism and a turn to the wine glass.
As we eat, I become increasingly fixated on Kelly’s movements. I hadn’t noticed before; I was probably too busy calculating my next step. Her movements were finite. They seemed to lack all basic fluidity and I didn’t know what to make of it. Eating her salad was a marvelous sight. Fork in hand, she would stab quickly and violently at bits of spring mix as if they had deeply insulted her mother. Each assault was punctuated with a pained grimace and deep furrowing of the brow. I was rapt.
I didn’t know what to make of it, but I’m sure I was staring. Then it came to me. I had seen this before, this concentration, this singularity of intent. She was an eighty year old woman. She was an octogenarian trapped in the body of a thirty year old. It all made sense now. Fine, it didn’t make sense, but at least I was amused. So as not to be too obvious with my staring I began to catalog the other women, conversations, interactions. This is not part of my usual dating tactics, but this was no longer a date. It was more of an observation, and I felt like I needed a control by which I could judge the oddity of my situation.
Mercifully, the meal moved along quickly.
By this point I had given up on trying to force the conversation. In all likelihood she was sitting there silently hating me, wondering how quickly she could scurry back home to her reading of “Beowulf”.
Then she surprised me. She turned to me with the same furrowed brow used to attack her supper. She turned to me and asked, “Last night, what did we talk about.” She looked up and to the left, never relaxing her forehead. “We talked about so many things. What did we talk about?”
We had talked about so many things. For hours we had joked and played and flirted and shared. Still, like her, I couldn’t recall a single thing we had discussed. I’m not sure if I had already packed away those memories and archived them to make room for more salient conversations to come, but I was damned if I could remember any detail from the night before.
“Do you hate smoking?”
And I was again back in the madhouse.
“I, I guess I don’t hate smoking,” I fibbed. “I’ve been known to have a cigar or two over a bottle of red wine.”
“Good, because I kind of lied. I originally posted that I smoke ‘occasionally’, but I figured that wouldn’t sell, so I changed it to ‘never.’”
It didn’t make much of a difference to me at that point, but I found the honesty quaint. I should have known better.
“I’m sorry, but would you mind if I ran out for a quick smoke?”
I honestly didn’t mind. I actually broke into a wide brilliant grin. This was so contrary to every dating convention that I was excited to actually be a part of it. I tried to imagine the situation where I would leave a woman on a first date to go and indulge in a personal vice. “Excuse me, I lied; I actually LOVE Bukowski, and would you mind if I slipped outside for a quick poem or two? Thanks, hun.”
Before I could answer, she picked up her paisleyed purse and began to rummage. I watched intently. After a minute or two of growing frustration she began to huff and unpack the contents of her purse onto the table. A phone charger. Tic tacs, Mentos, two packs gum (the ‘occasional’ smoker’s cover-ups). A wallet. A second ID. A second phone charger. I felt a bit voyeuristic and began to sit up in my chair to see the next item to gain freedom from the depths of her purse. I was hoping for something fun. I moved my plate aside to allow her more room. I was waiting for something big, purple, maybe vibrating. It just seemed fitting.
It didn’t happen.
With disgust she repacked the purse and patted down various pockets. Unwillingly reengaged with the date she turned to me and I started in on some new line of conversation. It didn’t last long. After a moment she emitted an expletive and began again to dig into the purse.
“They have to be here. I just bought them on the way here,” said the occasional smoker.
This search was more violent and briefer but produced the same results. I restarted whatever it was I thought I was saying before I was interrupted and—
“I know where they are”
“Side pocket?”
“Side pocket! I was trying to hide them from you.”
Unphased and amused, I don’t even feel badly as I pull out my phone and text Karen before Kelly even makes it out the door. When she returns to her chair, and flicks two Mentos into her stinking mouth, I longingly watch the remainder fall back into the pink abyss on the chair. Still chomping, she picks up her wine glass and announces that she’s tipsy. I sigh at the non sequitur and drain the dregs of my beer.
“Are you happy? Are you having a good time?”
I audibly laugh, stunned, and with a wide smile reply honestly.
“I am. I’m having a fine time.”
I spare her the return volley, but suggest that we retire for the evening. She looks dismayed and I wonder if she actually thought the date was going well. She is just full of surprises: how cute.
As I walk her back in the direction of her car, we’re forced into single file. With her just ahead and me watching my step I notice her cute little ass. I slot that in the ‘pro’ column and reweigh. I can almost hear the cacophony as the ‘cons’ come crashing down and spill on the ground.
Reaching into my pocket, I check to see if Karen has texted back.
