The Optimist

by Sophie Kipner

  I get a text from Hans around three in the afternoon telling me to meet him at PF Changs in Santa Monica at 8 o’clock. ‘We can have a bite,’ he says, ‘and just take it from there.’ It seems promising, leaving the rest of the evening open to love is always a great start.

  I look at myself in the mirror again, pimple still present, and try to see myself clearly. I tell myself all the reasons why I’m a catch. But now that I have a real date approaching, I can’t shake this kernel of fear that something is going to go wrong, like it always does. I know that deep down, I like myself; I know what I’ve got. But ever since seeing my dad at the bar, realizing it was my mother who ran him down, who pushed him away with her wild expectations of love and fantasy, I don’t trust myself. I’m trying to believe my mom and I are doing it right, though. I have to hang on to the idea that we’re going to be okay without having to change who we are. I just have to keep being the vivacious me, my optimistic self, difficult as it is at times, and trust that Hans is going to see this bright light that my mother gave me.

  I’m all dressed up but I’m thinking my vibe looks casual, with high wedges and a skirt to look feminine and light and open. I’m dressed in a summer orange too, as black signals baggage. As I’m leaving the house, I scream out to Milk to come over, that I need him just for a second. Finally, he opens the door and I rush over to him.

  ‘I have the worst pimple!’ I can’t help but blurt out. ‘All he’s going to be able to look at is Alice.’

  ‘Who’s Alice?’

  ‘The pimple! It’s so big my sister named it.’

  He laughs and draws in his breath. On the exhale, he puts his thumb gently between my furrowed brows to soften them out, massaging the space like his thumb could erase the lines my anxiety creates. ‘Don’t you worry,’ he says. ‘He won’t be looking at Alice with that smile of yours.’

  All at once, I feel as if he’s lifted me back to my usual plane of confidence. He’s always been able to do that, to get me back on track. Get me back to me.

  ‘Thanks, Milky,’ I say calmly. ‘Have fun on your date tonight.’ I give him a hug and scruff his hair up, and touch his newly grown beard for good measure.

  ‘I need to shave,’ he says.

  ‘No!’ I yell. It comes out too quickly. ‘Messy beards are great. She’s gonna think you’re a real man!’ He grunts at me, in sarcastic acceptance, and ends our little driveway rendezvous with, ‘Don’t do anything that gets you in trouble. I’ve got a pretty date and don’t want to have to explain that I have to cut it short to rescue you from the police station.’ He winks more casually than he usually does, or at least how I remember. When I think of Milk winking, he’s usually quite awkward: one lip always turning up, an exaggerated tilt of the head. He might as well give me a thumbs-up at the same time. This time, though, with his body relaxed, he owns it. That girl’s going to fall in love with him.

  I reminded myself the entire way to the restaurant to play it cool this time, just as an experiment to see if it works out better. I must have repeated ‘Keep it cool’ so many times it started to blend into ‘Keepitcool’ until it eventually sounded like a completely different word in another language and by the time I parked in the dismal parking lot, I caught myself saying, ‘Kepitcol.’ The hostess asks me for how many and I beam when I say, ‘A table for two, please!’ She jumps at my enthusiasm. People are on dates all around; I can’t believe she’s not used to this level of happiness. I’m taken to my table and perch next to a couple eating in silence. I order a dirty gin martini because it sends the right signals, and after a few sips I get a tap on my shoulder. It’s Hans!

  ‘You came!’ I say, unable to hold myself. When he smiles, I see a dimple surface that must have been hiding in his double chin. He’s not fat, but his youth still clings to his face, revealing his softness. He’s got a little stubble, too, and I want to bury myself in it. Make him read to me while I’m in there, nestled and warm and at home. He sits down and, despite having told myself to not talk too much, I can’t keep my mouth closed. As I’m talking, I’m hearing my voice and it just sounds so embarrassing. It’s too high pitched; I’m boring myself already. Surely, I’m exhausting him. As I ramble on about everything I can think of to avoid a silent gap, I witness his eyes widen and close, jaw dropped open.

  ‘So are you from LA?’ I ask him, trying not to sound too much like an interviewer.

  ‘I’m from Milwaukee. Moved here ten years ago after college. It’s a seductive lifestyle here. Hard to let it go in exchange for the Midwest.’ I’m not used to this sort of chit-chat. Is this what most dates are like? I’m usually moving so fast, I’m uncomfortable with sitting still and letting it unfold naturally. I blame my impatience.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say as our waitress comes over. Hans orders a Heineken and I get my second martini. ‘With olives, please!’

  ‘I could eat olives every day, forever,’ I tell him. ‘I’d never get bored. I think my biggest fear in life is being bored; equally, being boring. But for some reason, daily olives are an exception.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the salt,’ he guesses.

  Exactly. Exactly. Exactly. I learn what his last meal would be (steak and fries, then a Big Mac and an Oreo milkshake). Whenever I see people eat fast food, I imagine their insides rotting and how that would make their breath stink. I have to shake my head to erase the image. He’s got great breath, I repeat to myself.

  Laughing and giggling and flirtation fuels our conversation, letting it flow delicately like a game of badminton.

  I lean in towards him across the table, hair accidentally dangling into bok choy and oyster sauce and spicy prawns.

  ‘Do you think it’s weird that people around us are just having dinner but not talking to each other?’ I ask him. ‘Have they run out of things to say? Is that what happens when you’ve known someone too long? It would be the death of me.’

  He looks over to observe those around us. ‘I think it’s just that they’re comfortable with each other. You don’t have to talk all the time to prove you have something to say.’

  Oh great. I’ve clearly already messed this up. He’s obviously referring to my inability to revel in silence. Or am I taking this too personally? It’s not always about me, I remind myself, and then I keep talking. With each martini, my heart warms and I become a loopier and more swishy version of my sober self. I reach out and touch his arm when emphasizing a punch line, and he reciprocates. It’s all going so well; and I haven’t had to even manhandle him to get him here. He’s sitting here by his own free will. Every now and then he twists a lock of hair out of his eyes and smoothes it back to meet the other waves. He looks like he could have been the South African doctor in my dreams; you know, the one who I always thought Simon was? It’s so obvious now, in retrospect, that it’s Hans. He even looks like a doctor, off duty and on vacation.

  ‘What happened to your Hawaiian shirt today?’ I ask. ‘I thought it might have been some signature look for you?’

  ‘Nah,’ he says, smiling, bashful. ‘I’m a bit more spontaneous than that.’ Oh God, he’s also spontaneous! He just keeps getting better and better. We order Mongolian beef next, grinding the gristly meat between our teeth, imagining what sex is going to be like. I imagine baby names and how many baseball bats I’m going to have to keep in my trunk for our six children together. I just can’t wait. The bill comes and it’s that awkward moment of who is going to pay.

  ‘Here,’ I say quickly, jumpy. ‘Let me put down half.’ I want him to pay for the whole thing, not because of the money, but just so he can be the man. The gentleman who wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m sure feminists would gasp at this, but I can assure you I’m all for equality and having things even out on date two. I don’t need anyone to take care of me: it’s just old-fashioned chivalry on the first date, because it sets the tone for the rest of the relationship. I slide my card across the table, my gaze on him steady, but before I lift my fingers off it he grabs my hand and pushes it back towa
rds me.

  ‘Let me get this,’ he says as I’m dying from jubilation. He’s looking at me like he’s in love. I really think he’s in love with me already! When we get up, we’re both a bit wobbly. I say I have to go to the bathroom and so does he, so he follows me from close behind through the restaurant towards the toilets. There’s a darkly lit hallway, with UB40’s ‘Red Red Wine’ playing on the speakers, with signs for the boys to the right and the girls ahead.

  ‘See you in a minute!’ I say, far too zealously for the sit­uation. I’m thinking to myself, What’s wrong with you, you moron! I put my head down to hide my enthusiasm but then he grabs my shoulder and turns me around, pushing me against the wall and without missing a beat he kisses me. It’s everything I’ve been waiting for, storybook romance, culminating into this moment in a bathroom hallway at PF Changs. My purse drops out of my hands; for the first time in my life I’m being pursued and it leaves me weak at the knees . . . that or the martinis. His lips are wet, not slobbery but more slippery, as I navigate around them, moving where he tells me. It’s not really in rhythm; I can’t keep up with his tongue; it’s like a washing-machine cycle, but I’m not worried because this awkwardness will subside when we aren’t so nervous. His hands are soft around me, twirling atop my bare skin until they reach my palms, ending in a surge of butterflies when they land there. We’re holding each other’s hands tightly now, gripping them as hard as we want ourselves to latch on to each other in this cold, scary world! His hands are giant paws, borderline paddles. He stops for a moment and tilts his head back, his eyes cross ever so slightly as he ­stumbles to keep straight. Oh shit, I hope he’s not just kissing me because he’s drunk. I rationalize he’s just dropped his ­inhibitions, doing what he really, truly wants to do. Our re­­lationship being nascent, I choose to ignore these pesky signs of insecurity and rationalize that everyone gets drunk on a first date. We’re nervous! It’s how we cope. I haven’t actually had sex with another person in a long, long time. Years, I’d say, because it always gets ruined just before the good stuff. I blame bad timing.

  Without saying anything he kisses the lids of my eyes, then my forehead, and leaves me in the hallway to go to the men’s toilet. I gather myself slowly, consciously, and go into the girls’. When I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t notice Alice. I feel slightly light-headed but I think it’s just elation, giving me a buzz on. I knew it would pan out if I just waited long enough to find someone who really got me. I go into the toilet stall and do a small thank you prayer and stamp my feet and wave my hands in circles in a sort of victory dance. The alcohol is really kicking in now; I can tell because I miss the door handle on the way out a few times.

  I see Hans in the hallway, waiting for me patiently (what a doll!) and I wink at him. It just comes out of me, unplanned, and it elicits a smile. I can’t believe this is going so well. I keep thanking all the angels I’ve prayed to all my life under my breath; every now and then he says, ‘What?’ and I realize I’ve been muttering too loudly. I tell him it’s nothing and we move on.

  ‘Thank you for the lovely dinner,’ I say. I’m not sure what to do next. It’s never really gotten this far.

  ‘Want to go for a stroll and find somewhere for a nightcap?’ Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s his idea to keep our date going. He reaches for my arm; we’re walking hand in goddamn hand and it’s electrifying. I can’t stop smiling. Light collects around us like we’re spotlighted on a stage and I finally understand why my mom looks like she’s half her body weight when she’s in love. It literally makes you feel light; I’m skating on a moonlit street on a date that will surely change my whole life’s trajectory. The full moon’s inciting my sexuality; I’m heightened, through my senses, to an apex I’ve never met before. I’m crossing the Rubicon. I can relate to Julius Caesar. But I’m so full on food and life and love that I’m not looking down and so I trip over a large crack in the cement and totally eat shit. In one move, on my big date night, I land on the floor like a dead person. I’ve had way too many martinis. Goddammit, I should have never worn heels. I can’t walk in heels!

  He quickly grabs my arm, bends down and helps me up. He stops and looks at me. Pulls his head back, tightens up. I’m praying that he just totally missed my face-planting.

  ‘I’m sorry I just fell,’ I say, eyes big. Wide. Beaming. Embarrassed. ‘I can’t walk in these shoes.’

  ‘Eh, it’s nothing,’ he says. ‘Everyone falls. I’ll probably even fall before the night’s over.’

  As if I hadn’t just tripped horrifically, I continue on. After passing a certain uncountable number of lines in the cement, we turn in to a sports bar. It’s the only one open as it’s just turned 11 p.m. and the chairs are upside down on tables in all the restaurants save for this sports bar, Yankee Doodles. It’s offensively unromantic but I’m so happy that I almost don’t even notice the inconsiderate beer bellies, belches and stares. I learn about his nomadic adventures through Brazil, wandering around to find himself through the Amazonian jungle, getting his toes nibbled by the piranhas in the swampy waters with the locals who coaxed him to jump in with them, his time volunteering as a humanitarian aid in Cuzco, Peru, his first sips of an authentic Pisco Sour and how he found what he was looking for through an ayahuascan revelation.

  ‘I saw everything, laid out before me. A map,’ he tells me.

  ‘A map of your life?’

  ‘Of where I was going,’ he says.

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. All I know is that I want to keep moving. I’m going somewhere.’

  I’m hoping he’s meaning somewhere with me. I picture us moving to South America to return to the work he’s done, work we can finish together, as a team.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Peru!’ I say, accepting the in­­vitation early.

  ‘You should go, for sure. It’s a great place.’

  He didn’t say ‘go with me to Peru’ and it sets me into panic, imagining that I might be making this all up. Insistent upon not letting this shit get to me, I gather all of my better judgment and imbibe every ounce of confidence in myself. For all I know, he was probably just being polite and trying not to look too eager and presumptuous. Oh goody, that’s it! I have to work on not jumping to conclusions before I fuck this all up big time.

  I don’t look at my watch and completely ignore the rule Delina gave me about not letting my first date last more than five hours because, let’s face it, I’m dating more than her!

  Another kiss leads us to his car, which leads us to his apartment. Once we are back at his house, we drink copious amounts of wine (a ‘special’ bottle he was saving) until we can barely walk to the bedroom and, when we do, it gets all sorts of silly. Our rolling and tumbling is exciting but awkward because neither of us have the wherewithal to know where to put what (of course, I blame the alcohol). He’s not grabbing me in the right ways, the ways I’ve always dreamed he would, but I tell myself he’s probably a bit shy. I notice under the covers I have a colossal bruise on my left leg from the fall. It’s literally the size of a football and for a moment I wonder if a blood clot will be the inciting incident to my death. I don’t die, though. I just keep trying to roll around, hoping his booziness won’t impede his ability to get a hard-on for the entire night, but indeed it does. I try to arouse him but, with a floppy penis, it just looks like I’m driving stick shift with an uncooked hot dog. Before long, the engine stops.

  The next morning I wake up with a hangover so bad it sets me into the sweats and I can hardly distinguish what I’m saying out loud and what I’m thinking. I catch myself a few times unintelligibly uttering my thoughts, pushing him further and further away from me to the sides of the bed. I wonder why he’s not trying to have morning sex, why he’s able to keep his hands off me. Why aren’t we cuddling? This isn’t how I pictured it, but maybe I’m expecting too much.

  ‘I have the worst headache I think I’ve ever had,’ I explain. ‘I never drink that much!’

/>   ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he chuckles and smiles. ‘That’s what they all say.’ He looks at me from the opposite side of the bed, his hands behind his head on the pillow as he looks up to the ceiling.

  ‘Do you want me to run you a bath?’ he asks.

  A slow smile emerges from my face. ‘Are you kidding? I’d love that. That would be so divine.’ There’s a shadow behind his irises, casting a darkness in him, but I can’t tell if it’s just his old soul or if it’s something deeper. I want to kiss his darkness away and let my lips climb around the smile lines cupping his eyes but before I have the chance he gets up to run me the bath.

  ‘I’ll make you some coffee, too,’ he adds. ‘You want it with milk and sugar?’ I must have just been worried for no reason, scared from my past. I lay there waiting for the tub to fill, telling myself he’s the man I am going to be with. I just have to let it happen naturally.

  Over the next few days, we speak with relentless enthusiasm. He is crazy about me. Finally, some reciprocity! He tells me about how he hates his job, how he hates the people he works with, how he doesn’t understand the meaning of everything and how he feels bad bringing kids into such a fucked-up world. How he distrusts people even though he tries not to. How he doesn’t think he’d like to be a dad. Of course, I ignore this because all I can think about is his dreamy mention of kids! It’s okay that he’s sad, because I’m happy, I tell myself over and over. I could pump him up and make him see there was something real that made it all worth it.