MAGPIE

by Reyes, M. A.

  Having successfully logged on to my account, I noticed I had one message. Whoa, he had pictures…and a complete profile—an anomaly in the online-dating world.

  I called Tony into my office, “Tony, can you come in here for a quick sec?” I’d developed a terrible habit of having someone else open my Match mail because, quite honestly, it made me nervous. I preferred Tony, but more times than not it was Katie. We’d meet after work, Katie scouring the site for potentials, while I gulped a glass of wine to summon the courage to check them out.

  Eyes shut, I asked, “Can you take a look at this one?” He knew to open the profile and vet the candidate before saying anything.

  Breaking that rule, however, Tony said, “Hey, I like this guy, Mags.”

  I couldn’t open my eyes, “What does it say?”

  “Hold on, wait just a minute,” Tony’s voice lowered an octave. “Mags, he lives in Georgia. Why the hell is he writing you?”

  Tony was clearly annoyed—at himself and the suitor—and scrolled to close the tab, when I stopped him and said, “Hang on, let me see.” Why did a guy from Georgia reach out to me, a Colorado native?

  I skimmed the message,

  Looking for a great friendship first, that leads to a long-term relationship with someone special, someone to share my interests as I will share hers. Looking for a relationship where we both make each other better versions of ourselves.

  Intrigued, I leaned back in my chair and glanced at the few pictures of “setpnt58.” He had nice eyes, great legs (guys always seemed to include close-ups in shorts if they had nice legs) and a genuine smile. I liked setpnt58.

  Tony saw what was happening, “Mags, come on. It’s never going to happen. You’re going to get hurt.” He’d become the brother I never had, overly protective and doting.

  “I’ll just read his note and respond politely with a ‘No, thank you.’” Before I finished my sentence, I opened setpnt58’s message,

  Dear MGroadie,

  We live approximately sixteen-hundred miles apart. It’s ridiculous to think that anything would come of us. But I had to write and tell you how beautiful your eyes are. I wish you all the best in your search for Mr. Right. BTW, what does MGroadie mean?

  I thanked Tony for his guidance, but explained that I’d take it from there. He huffed out of my office, clearly irritated. Ignoring his silent outburst, I settled into my chair and began drafting a response in my head. What could I say to a man who lived sixteen-hundred miles away?

  Dear setpnt58,

  You are kind, thank you. Yes, it seems sixteen-hundred miles is too much to overcome. I, too, wish you well on your search. Re: my profile name—the “MG” are my initials, and “roadie” is a reference to my addiction to road trips. Never saw the other meaning until someone asked if I was really grody…May I ask about your profile name?

  Leaving the site open, I switched to Outlook. Damn, one hundred and twelve new emails and I hadn’t opened one.

  I didn’t leave the office until seven o’clock. I spent a good deal of time deflecting pranks and avoiding conversations about who did what to whom and how terribly funny it was. My stealthy avoidance drained every last ounce of cerebral muscle, forcing me to shut my door at three o’clock to get a few things done. I made a mental note to work from home on the first of April next year.

  It was raining and dark when I got into my car, Jack’s ratty 2001 hunter green Toyota 4Runner; a relic I refused to sell or worse, drop off at a bleak junkyard. After starting it, I patted its dash, a practice I’d picked up from Jack. I wanted the jalopy to last forever, filling the void.

  Once, driving to Boulder to visit a friend, it died. I managed to steer it onto the shoulder as it chugged to a slow, pitiful stop. I felt almost breathless as it came to a standstill, as if something inside me had ground to a halt, too. Not wanting to experience that again, I had my temperamental sidekick overhauled at a neighborhood shop. Watching the guys work on it brought about an almost maternal sense. It needed a name, I thought. Thereafter, my mechanical companion was known as “Beater” because, well, he was one.

  Turning out of the parking lot, my stomach growled and I realized how famished I was. Thanks to my co-worker Sarah, who Saran-wrapped the refrigerator closed, I hadn’t eaten lunch that day. I heard only playful guffaws over the April Fools’ stunt while I moped about, missing my heat-and-serve low cal slop. I opted to stop by a local joint that served pretty good noodle dishes. My phone buzzed with a text while waiting for my food,

  Today, 7:32 PM

  TOM: Horny yet?

  MAGS: I can’t do this anymore

  TOM: What?

  MAGS: This horny stuff

  TOM: Come on, having some fun is all

  MAGS: It’s not fun, more like childish - Let’s just say we had a good run and call it quits ok?

  TOM: Serious?

  MAGS: Ya

  Tom didn’t respond. Thank God. Easiest break-up ever.

  The disinterested and freakishly pierced youth at the counter called my name and handed me my food. “Thanks,” I responded automatically, to no one in particular and walked out the door.

  The food smelled wonderful, and I couldn’t wait to get home. One more stop for a half bottle of Prosecco, and I’d be set. I’d learned that, during a particularly bad spell, I could blow through a full bottle in no time. Since then, restraint and I had become friends…sort of.

  Placing the to-go container next to the stove, I took Cody for a quick walk around the block. The smell of the mouth-watering pasta lined our nostrils as soon as we stepped through the doorway, reminding me that I’d forgotten Cody’s food. I felt terrible, so I pulled out a single portion Angus-beef patty and defrosted it while I ate. Poor guy just stared at me in disbelief. I couldn’t help it; I was starving. In between bites, I fried the patty, leaving it mostly pink. I let it cool for a few minutes and placed it before the slobbering jowls that framed Cody’s sweet face.

  “Hope this makes up for it, buddy.” Cody, like most Labs, had no capacity for grudges.

  My phone buzzed, and I glanced to see who was texting,

  Today, 8:51 PM

  KATIE: Got the promotion!

  MAGS: Great Katie, really

  KATIE: Still grumpy?

  MAGS: No, just ate so I’m good

  KATIE: Mags, it’s going to be so amazing!

  MAGS: Then dinner thurs is a must, am thrilled for u!

  KATIE: What r u up to?

  MAGS: Gunna chk email then bed – u?

  KATIE: Out with friends to celebrate!

  MAGS: Ok, be safe

  KATIE: Thx MOM!

  MAGS: :) Nite

  That wasn’t so bad. Katie and I had finally figured out how to resolve our silly spats. Jack’s calm nature had an influence, I’m sure. He had a sixth sense about things, especially people. Gently inserting a comment or two (often one of his terrible jokes), he’d extinguish the heat between my baby sis and me, leaving us laughing at ourselves. I acknowledged him occasionally for his spot-on insights, but not enough. I didn’t do or say lots of things nearly enough. About two years ago, I quit asking God to give me five more minutes with him; now I just talk directly to Jack and leave God completely out of it.

  After being woken up so early, I was tired. Normally, I’d read for a bit, curled on my comfy sofa with Cody at my feet, a nice cup of chamomile tea and light jazz leavening the mood. That night, however, I skipped all that. A quick face wash and tooth brushing and I’d be ready to fall into bed, which I did with relish.

  Nearly asleep, I sat straight up, remembering the guy from Georgia. I never checked back to see if he responded to my message. I grabbed my iPad off the nightstand and turned it on. I’d downloaded the Match.com app on my phone but not this device, so I did it the old-fashioned way and entered the URL.

  “What the hell is my password?” I said out loud and rubbed my eyes as if that might help me recall the information I so desperately needed.

  “Why can’t this au
tofill like my fucking phone?” A funny thing happens when you live alone for a long time: Profanity flows like rain in spring.

  Finally, I entered the correct sequence of characters and noticed a red circle above “Messages,” which showed the number “1.” Tony and Katie were not available to open the message for me, and I fumbled for a few seconds wondering why it was so damn difficult to do it myself.

  “Okay, Maggie, just do it,” I whispered as though there were people in the house sleeping. The message was from setpnt58. I didn’t know when he sent it; Match doesn’t timestamp messages. I wondered if he waited to write it until he got home from work.

  No time like the present, as the notable “they” say,

  Dear MGroadie,

  It is clear to me from your gorgeous pictures that you are NOT grody. Only a fool would ask such a question. (So now you know one thing about me: I’m no fool.) My profile name is a reference to tennis, a sport I’ve played since college. I love it and attempt a game or two every week, weather permitting. Do you know what a “set point” is, MGroadie? (Will I ever know your real name?) You know my age from my profile, so you know I was born in 1958. Pretty simple. What if sixteen-hundred miles were 16? Would you care to meet?

  Have a splendid evening,

  Daniel

  Daniel. Nice name. “Evening” meant he wrote it earlier, especially since he was two hours ahead of me. Hmm…a tennis player. I dated one in high school. Nice legs, too. I tried tennis myself once—a complete disaster. I possess the coordination of a slug, making sports uninteresting. Jack played hockey, something I could watch because it was fast, which complimented my self-diagnosed ADD. And, of course, because he loved it.

  I felt like I needed Tony to help me respond, but it wouldn’t be very professional to contact my employee at ten o’clock at night with a dating question. Propping myself against a stack of pillows, I reread Daniel’s message. I smiled with delight at his playfulness. Daniel was sweet, a word that most men hate, but a “must have” quality for me.

  Feeling frisky, I wrote, hoping he’d get the reference,

  Daniel my brother, you are older than me…

  I couldn’t help it, it’s late! But you really are older than me—I was born in ’59. Never took you for a fool, BTW. Not a real sports person, though I can appreciate the athleticism (is that a word?) of tennis. Actually, I was glad to see something about you that is so different from me—makes the point that there never will be an “us” easier to swallow. Would I care to meet if sixteen-hundred were actually 16? Good question—may I sleep on it?

  Sweet dreams,

  Maggie (not short for anything, it’s really my given name)

  I hit the “send” button and realized I was flirting with a man who lived hundreds of miles away, yet I’d set him up for a response. Giggling quietly, I felt my face flush with a heat I hadn’t felt in years. I closed the Match tab on my iPad and set it down. Calmly, I turned out the light and dozed off to sleep, an impish smile brushed across my face.

  ***

  For the next few weeks, Daniel and I traded messages. I continued to flirt, and he volleyed back. I didn’t tell anyone about him. I lied to Tony when he asked about setpnt58, explaining that I hadn’t heard from him since that first day. When Katie asked how my online dating was going, I’d shrug and tell her I rarely checked the site, too damn busy. In reality, I checked the site daily, looking for Daniel’s sweet, clever messages.

  “Good morning, buddy! Want your bunny basket?” I asked Cody, making my way into the bathroom.

  It was Easter Sunday and the weather was going to be fantastic. I planned an early morning walk with Cody followed by brunch with Katie. It was our tradition. Our folks lived on the Western Slope in the same house we grew up in. We attempted to go back home every few months, but not this Easter. Snowfall in the mountains had reached record numbers, and we didn’t want to get caught in a spring storm that could render I-70 a parking lot.

  I threw on some yoga pants (none of the four pair I owned had sullied a studio), fleece jacket and my “outside” sneakers. Cody knew the routine and was dancing in circles.

  “Hang on, Cody! Just wait, let me get your leash.”

  I’d made an effort to keep his eighty-five pound frame in good shape, hoping like hell he’d live a long, healthy life. I snapped the leash to his loose collar, and we headed out. Cody lived for his walks, and I delighted in giving my pooch what he longed for.

  I was happier than I’d been in years, thanks in part to Daniel’s fun and flirtatious messages. We hadn’t traded personal contact information yet; I’d learned to be cautious after a few crazy online-dating experiences that had ended before I met the weirdoes in person. Daniel’s messages had become a little more suggestive but not in an obnoxious way, like those I’d received from so many other guys. He had a way with words that made me think he was a writer, either professionally or as a hobby. He excited me, what can I say. Unfortunately, our budding romance made it difficult to concentrate at work and I’d missed a few deadlines, a rarity during my professional career. Damn, it was easy to daydream about Daniel…

  Before I knew it, we were back home. Cody made a beeline to the sofa, while I jumped in the shower.

  Katie and I agreed we’d make reservations at a new place every year for Easter. Mom and Dad loved Village Inn and ate there on Easter Sundays when we weren’t visiting. They would call afterward, excited about running into friends who shared similar beliefs and opinions, most of which were straight out of the fifties. Pinkies interlocked, my baby sister and I vowed never to grow old minded, though we knew age was beginning to take a toll on our bodies.

  Thank God and all the Holy Ones for Spanx.

  I made my way to the restaurant and, spotting Katie, called out, “What a cool place!” I gave her a bear hug and held on for a few extra seconds.

  Sensing the shift in my affection, Katie said, “What’s up with the mongo hugs Mags? You get laid?”

  She always went there. Though she rarely shared details, I knew Katie had a healthy sex life. So did I. Before Jack died, I recalled. Sexually, I’d shut down since then. My grief had robbed me of my youthful passion and I’d boxed it up. Until now.

  “Nope. No man in my life. I just love spring. It’s gardening season, and when, pray tell, will you be joining me for a day of tilling?”

  “Why do you need to say stupid stuff like ‘pray tell?’ It sounds uppity,” she scolded.

  Katie had earned a degree in marketing, which consequently didn’t require much reading or writing. She often chided me for my word choices or references to current events. Simply put, Katie’s world involved more socializing and less critical thinking. Strangely, our differences were the stickum that kept us close; had we been more alike, one of us would have strangled the other long ago.

  Inside the restaurant aptly called, “Above Bored,” I counted nine tables: a mixture of four tops, two tops, and several tall tables where a few couples stood, a new dining trend in which I was seriously uninterested. I waved at Katie and we were seated at a small table near the front window facing a beautiful greenbelt across the street.

  Minutes into our brunch, Katie asked, “So, what’s the deal, Mags? I can see that something’s going on with you. Plus, you’ve lost your winter weight and I know you haven’t been going to the gym.”

  My sister was on a roll, and I lowered my eyes, scanning the menu to avoid her stare.

  “Did you meet someone? Online? Who is he?”

  I raised my eyes, locked onto hers, and told the truth, just not all of it, “Katie, I haven’t met a man. I’m just happy, and I think I’m finally moving on after Jack and Michael.”

  “You’re lying, Mags.”

  God, I hate my sister sometimes.

  CHAPTER 2

  Budding Things

  My phone buzzed, stirring me from a wonderfully deep sleep. I could identify a few “4’s” on my digital clock, but had no idea what time it really was. I knew Katie wasn’t
up yet—too damn dark outside—and no one from work would dare. Finally putting two and two together, I smiled, knowing the author of the text before I looked at the screen,

  Today, 4:45 AM

  DANIEL: Thank you

  MAGS: For what

  DANIEL: A great night’s sleep

  MAGS: Me too

  DANIEL: Sorry its early

  MAGS: Well, what puts us to sleep could work the other way

  DANIEL: Hmm

  MAGS: Ya

  DANIEL: :( can’t – meeting in 15

  MAGS: Effin time zones

  DANIEL: Tonight?

  MAGS: Tonight

  ***

  Less than a month into it, Daniel and I had agreed to share our phone numbers and email addresses. We’d been swapping Match.com messages several times a day and decided logging on to an awkward dating site stymied our getting to know each other. Once direct communication lines were made, my intuition about Daniel being a writer was confirmed. He worked for an online sports rag, writing about tennis, soccer and lacrosse. He was also a talented creative writer. We used email for lengthy discussions about work or current events and, though we knew a bit about each other’s personal lives, we avoided delving too far; didn’t want to be bogged down with details that had the potential to interrupt our carefree virtual world.

  Daniel hadn’t missed a beat; within minutes after swapping phone numbers, he’d called,

  “Hello, Maggie Garrett.”

  “I knew I’d love your voice.”

  “Hi Daniel, what took you so long?”

  “You intimidate me, what can I say.”

  “Aw, you’ll get used to me.”

  It felt like we’d known each other forever; in just a few weeks, he’d managed to peel back layers most of my closest friends couldn’t. Strangely, sharing the loss of my husband and only son came easily. I explained that I lived alone and hadn’t seriously dated for some time. I worked very hard, I told him, which was true, leaving little time for romance. My family, I said, were extremely important to me. My folks were still alive and living in the house I grew up in, while my sister, my best friend and part time nudnik, lived right around the corner. Most importantly, Daniel understood that I was a Colorado girl and had no plans to move. Ever.