by Dermot Davis
“Exactly, right?”
“Who have you got so far?” she asks but I pretend to chew my food longer than I need to in order to avoid an answer. “When is the wedding?” she then asks, sensing my embarrassment.
“Less than three weeks.”
“What’s the date?” she asks as if maybe she’s considering it, is she?
“The twelfth. Why?”
“I’m not doing anything on the twelfth,” she says and calmly takes a sip from her wine.
“You’d go? I mean, would you like to come? As my date?” and suddenly all my pretend maturity and sophistication abandons me, leaving behind what feels like an insecure six year old kid inside.
“Sure, why not?”
“Seriously?”
“Email me the details,” she says and gives me the sweetest smile that totally melts my lonesome heart.
4. I Only Want To Be With You
After our amazing meal together, I don’t want to leave the company of Frances so I invite her to a bar next door for a drink. She gladly accepts and one drink turns into many. The place is full and very lively; the only seats available are a couple of bar stools at the counter. I’ve sat on a bar stool at many a bar with my male friends but never with a date; it’s always been at a table or a booth where we were both on our best behavior.
Frances is different. It’s almost like she’s one of the guys, yet she’s the hottest chick I’ve ever dated. Even the word chick doesn’t do her justice. She’s a lady, yet it’s as if she has no pretentions about anything. She slings her amazing, yet petite ass onto the bar stool like it was the most natural thing in the world and, without hesitation, orders us a couple of beers. I think I’m in love.
“What’s up?” she asks me, as if she can read my mind.
“I was just thinking that I’m more used to women who will only sit at a table and sip a glass of house wine for the entire evening, all the while watching their Ps and Qs. And mine, come to think of it.”
“I don’t like Ps and Qs,” she says, adorably. “What kind of woman have you been dating, anyway: uptight and boring?”
“Pretty much, I guess.”
“I have a theory that a person’s attitude towards women is formed the first time their heart gets broken.”
She also seems to like a challenge. It’s like she prefers the cut and thrust of conversation more than she does finding out answers in a typical question and answer kind of way. I need to keep up and not be boring.
“Tell me about the first woman that broke your heart and I’ll tell you how your attitude to love changed as a result.”
Okay, Frances may have a few years on me, and obviously has had way more experience in the broken heart department than I, but I’m not going to make our age difference so obvious by telling her that I’ve had just one broken heart in my life or that it occurred only a few brief months ago. I don’t want to think that maybe she is robbing the cradle, after all.
“I had a very unusual first love experience, as a matter of fact...very weird” I answer, stalling.
“Try me,” she says, straightening in her seat, in expectation of a good yarn.
“It was in summer…on the beach,” I say, wondering where I am going to go with this.
“What was on the beach?” she asks, her curiosity piqued.
“My first love.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen,” I quickly say and take a long swig of drink. “There was a sand sculpture competition. The entire beach was one long stretch of really neat sand sculptures. It was there that I met her.”
“Who?”
“The woman of my dreams.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She had amazing breasts, I mean, an amazing face with very pouty lips and long flowing hair and curves, curves everywhere, just an amazing, sensual, naked woman, lying on the beach.”
“You’re describing a sand sculpture, aren’t you?”
“I was in love, Frances. For the first time in my life I was in love. It may have been an impossible love, most tragic love stories are, but I couldn’t help myself. Love knows no bounds.”
“Agreed. Then what happened?”
“The attraction was so powerful, so magnetic, it was if I had to have her…”
“Eeeuw.”
“I don’t mean like that, I mean that I had to have her in my life, in my heart. I thought, then and there that if we were to be together, the gods would make it happen. I believed in magic, then.”
“I’m feeling all teary already. What happened?”
“I kissed her.”
“Nice. Did she have dry lips? Tell me you didn’t French kiss…”
“Frances, you’re ruining this,” I say, mock chastising her. Frances raises her palms in mock apology. “She came alive,” I continue. “She came alive with my kiss. Her eyes opened and what beautiful, soulful eyes they were. My heart…rejoiced.”
“Rejoicing hearts are the best.”
“I extended my hand to her, smiled a beautiful smile…she took it and I lifted her up…”
“Your love lifted her up. Beautiful.”
“She stretched and yawned like she had been in slumber for eternity…”
“She was probably made fresh that morning but go on…”
Again, I mock chastised Frances and her lips smiled with a hint of naughtiness. I could tell that she was enjoying my little romantic, made up escapade and, hopefully, liking me better.
“She was the most beautiful vision I had ever seen. Hand in hand, we ran and…frolicked on the beach.”
“I love to frolic,” says Frances, unable to help herself.
“I was in bliss,” I continue. “I took her down to the shore and we playfully cavorted…”
“If there’s one thing I like better to do than frolic, it’s to cavort,” Frances says, lightheartedly. “What happened next?”
“I picked her up in my arms and took her to the water. Knowing I was going to dunk her, she squirmed in my arms, flailing her arms about, trying to break free.”
“That’s so playfully romantic.”
“She screamed as I dropped her into the surf.”
“You brute.”
“My joy quickly turned to terror…”
“Oh, no. What happened? She turned into a sea lion?”
“Worse. She began to dissolve. She literally melted into the ocean, never to be seen again.”
“You must have been devastated.”
“I tried to save her by scooping up what was left of her but all I came up with were lifeless handfuls of wet sand.”
“That’s cruel. Did you yell at the gods for your misfortune?”
“I railed against the gods: why, why take someone so young and vibrant?”
“With curves everywhere and such an amazing rack. Tragic.”
“My first broken heart,” I say with exaggerated sadness. Frances smiles and appears to think deeply, as if putting on a therapist’s demeanor.
“The sand girl is a metaphor for the type of woman you attract. You wake someone up with your love. They blossom in your attention but it never lasts. They vanish from your grasp like sand running through your fingers.”
“Man, you’re good,” I say, matching her mock seriousness but inwardly meaning it.
“Stick to your own kind, Martin. Sand girls are trouble.”
“Okay, your turn,” I say. “Your first broken heart: I’ll analyze you.”
“His name was Scruffy,” she says, right away.
“Scruffy?”
“He was a terrier. A terrier mix, I guess.”
“I’m not talking about pets that broke our hearts when they died.”
“Me neither,” Frances argues, “Scruffy was the first I had sex with.” I almost choke on my beer. Have I judged her all wrong? Is she a pervert?
“You had sex with a dog?”
“He lived next door,” she continues, calmly. “I never really noticed him till one day I was sent o
ver to deliver some food to old Mrs. Birdwhistle.”
“Where are you going with this?” I ask, a wee bit concerned.
“I entered her house with the plate of food and shouted out for her, ‘Mrs. Birdwhistle?’ She shouted at me from upstairs to wait, that she’d just be a moment. She could have been in the bathroom.”
“How old were you?”
“Ten, eleven, maybe.”
“This is so weird, go on.”
“As I stood in her living room, a small, scruffy little dog came sniffing in.”
“The aforementioned Scruffy, I take it.”
“I was polite and probably would have petted him, had my hands have been free. He sniffed at my feet and without so much as a friendly greeting, he mounted one of my legs.”
“Aw, jeez…” I squirm.
“I didn’t know much about sex at that age but I knew enough to know that this strange dog was having his way with me.”
“You must have been horrified.”
“I was. But strangely, as the shock wore off, I realized that I had actually enjoyed it. The pleasure on his face as he was…it was exhilarating.”
“I don’t want to hear any more,” I say and mean it. This is too weird.
“Love isn’t always clean and clear cut, Martin. Sometimes the emotions can be very conflicted. I made several more visits to the house, delivering food for the old lady but I really just wanted to see Scruffy.”
“What happened? Did you guys elope?”
“One day, I looked through Mrs. Birdwhistle’s window and got the shock of my life.”
“Mrs. Birdwhistle was dead on the floor?”
“Please,” Frances mock admonished me, “don’t be macabre.”
“Sorry.”
“I saw Scruffy cheating on me.”
“With a dog?”
“No, my next door neighbor, Timmy Dolan. Scruffy had another lover. Maybe he was two-timing me all along, I don’t know, but he broke my heart. I felt cheap and betrayed.”
“That’s pretty… shocking. Are you guys still in touch?”
“I did see him a few times after. He’d come up to me and act like nothing had happened. I never told him that I’d seen him that day.”
“Wow. Well, I see how that could mess you up for life.”
“What are your thoughts, doc?”
I pretend to light and smoke an imaginary pipe as I consider her bizarre tale.
“Let me see,” I say with fake gravitas. “You feel that men are like dogs. If they get horny enough, they’ll hump just about anything. You’ll think that their love is special, that you are their only one. But then they’ll cheat on you. Men will use you up and they can’t be trusted.”
“Pretty much sums up my experience. You’re very good.”
“Hence the solo dinners,” I add, strengthening my evaluation.
“Touché, doc,” she mock salutes. “Thankfully, they don’t allow any dogs in the restaurant.”
I laugh and hold up my beer glass in a toast: “To dogs and sand women.”
“And broken hearts,” Frances says as she clinks my glass. As we exchange a long look and smile at each other, it really does feel like I’ve known this beautiful, sensual and fun, fun woman, since forever. Please god, don’t let me fuck this up.
5. Never Take Your Date To a Party
I was busy with work the next few days but all I could think about was Frances. I was a bundle of excitement counterbalanced by a hefty dose of anxiety, all rolled up into one big mess of butterfly stew in my solar plexus. Part of me wanted to go full steam ahead and another part of me wanted to run away and flee. I decided to opt for a course mid-point between the two: proceed with caution.
There were a million things I liked about Frances; she is beautiful and sexy, tons of fun, and obviously very intelligent. Strangely enough, I didn’t know which side of the ledger to put her intelligence on: is it a positive or a liability? I haven’t been with that many women whom I could say were actually more intelligent than me and I’m not quite sure why I feel so intimidated. Is it simply that I am feeling like I have to mentally keep pace with her on our dates (which might get to be a bit exhausting) or is it that she will soon discover that I’m not as bright as she thinks I am and she’ll then tire of me and find me boring?
In the meantime, I will have fallen seriously for her and then here comes heartbreak number two? And how old is she, anyway? She’s gotta be in her thirties…is her age something that I can ask her about? Maybe I’m thinking about her too much and what if she’s not thinking about me, at all? Am I just a little distraction for her until she finds a more serious candid date? Why is she single, anyway? I’m sitting on a park bench in my favorite park overlooking the ocean, the sunset is about to unfold and, instead of feeling mellow and relaxed inside, my head feels like it’s just about to explode.
And why aren’t I taking any photos of courting couples? What’s happening to me? Is this what entering a new relationship does to a person, or is it just me? Am I going to let all my interests and my customary routines fall by the wayside and become obsessed instead with what Frances might be thinking and feeling about me? Should I call her? What if she’s seeing other guys? She must get hit on, all the time. Why would she be interested in me? I should call her. If she’s all weird and doesn’t want to go out again, then that will be fine; it will be a relief, actually. I’m kinda hoping that she does blow me off. Who cares about bringing someone to the wedding? So, I look at the ocean to calm myself, take a few deep breaths and call her.
“Hello?” she answers.
“It’s Martin.”
“Hello Martin.” As soon as she says my name and her tone is warm and welcoming, I calm down a lot. She actually sounds quite happy to hear from me. “I’m glad you called,” she says. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you.” Women put themselves out there emotionally way much more than guys. I love it.
“What have you been thinking?” I have to ask.
“Oooooh,” she purrs, “yummy thoughts.” Okay, all is great in my world.
“I’ve been thinking yummy thoughts about you, too,” I say with absolute ease and calm confidence.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m on my way home from a job, just stopped by the park. I looked at the beautiful sunset and thought of you.”
“You are a romantic chappie,” she says, her voice intimate and affectionate. “I like it.”
I smile to myself. This is fun. “What are you doing? As a matter of fact, what is it that you do…professionally?”
“I’m a production designer for stage and TV. I’m working on a stage design right now. It’s driving me mad.”
“How old are you?” I ask quickly.
“Thirty-eight.”
“Really?”
“Is that ancient?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m surprised because you look much younger. Not that thirty-eight is old, it’s not, it really isn’t…”
“It’s all relative, isn’t it?” Frances says, helping me out. “To you I may be old but I normally date older men and they think I’m young. My ex-husband is ten years older, as a matter of fact.”
“You’re divorced?”
“Yeah. Three years ago. I was married for fourteen.”
“Wow. How come you guys broke up?”
“He left me for a younger model,” she says with a hint of…bitterness? Even as I ask her questions, I realize that I am in over my head. This is an older, mature woman with a past. She has a history of relationship…I mean, god knows how many serious boyfriends she had before she got married. And she was married for how long? FOURTEEN YEARS?
“Are you there?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, I…I have an idea. We keep interviewing each other like this and we’ll just freak each other out and never get past a first date. Let’s just spend some time together. Whatever gets revealed, gets revealed. Deal?” I am dead serious.
“Deal. I was freaking you out?�
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“Just a little,” I answer, dying to get off the phone.
“Before you go,” she says, perhaps sensing my withdrawal, “want to come to a party Friday night?”
“Yeah, love to,” I answer.
“I’ll call you back with the details,” she says and we hang up. As I put away my cell phone, I realize that I am impressed with how she handles me. I was freaked out by her answers and I would have ended the conversation and hung up without asking her out on a further date. Very smartly, she asked me out on a date and did it so casually, it was no effort for me to say yes. This is one smart cookie, I almost laugh out loud.
Friday couldn’t come quick enough and then, when it came, it came too soon. In the apartment I had been keeping to myself, holed up in my room with Pandora streaming indie love songs which I’ll never admit to anyone is my favorite genre station. I had two hours to get ready for the party and I hate to sound like a girl but I fully need two hours to do everything that I need to do to make myself look good.
I had already used up thirty of those precious minutes by staring into my wardrobe and pulling out clothes that I thought would be appropriate until I realized that I hadn’t a clue about what was appropriate to wear. I had never been to a party for grown-ups before where, presumably, everyone was over forty and was going there to chat and meet people rather than get wasted and hook up with the nearest willing nympho. What do you wear to a grown-ups party? A dress shirt, a nice pair of slacks and a corduroy jacket with elbow patches? I don’t have a single article of sensible clothing in my entire wardrobe.
I had heard Mike go the bathroom earlier on, so I was surprised to realize that he was still using it twenty minutes later. He had the door open because he wanted to hear if his phone rang. He was shaving when I gave him the nod that I needed to use the bathroom.
“You going out tonight?” he asks me when he sees me carrying my change of clothes, party clothes. “Haven’t seen you around much.”
“I love you, too,” I say, inching my way further in.
“Are you dating someone?”
“Just met someone but I’m not sure yet if we’re dating. Checking each other out, I guess.”