Just Three Dates

by David Burnett

  “I know this one.” Karen turned to Mark, but he did not seem to hear her. He stood without moving, staring vacantly at the wall behind her, his glass of punch suspended between his plate of cookies and his mouth.

  ***

  What’s the difference between a coffee house and a pub,” Lucia asked, glancing around the room. “There’s a bar, and tables, and a whole mass of people…”

  “A coffee house serves coffee rather than ale. There are poetry readings, singers like the one tonight. Very civilized.”

  “Very American. I want a little loving tonight. How do I get that without a pint or two in my boyfriend?”

  “Your boyfriend? You have a boyfriend?” Mark raised one eyebrow questioningly. “You should have told me.”

  “You’re being terribly silly.”

  “Should I call him out? Pistols at twenty paces at dawn? That’s how you Brits would settle a dispute, isn’t it?”

  “Not in the last century, stupid Yank.” Lucia slapped his arm. “Anyway, you’re my boyfriend, and you know it.”

  “Really? I thought I was simply a casual…”

  She popped his arm again. “I do have morals, you know. I wouldn’t have spent two hours last night snogging with a casual friend.” She crossed her arms and turned away.

  Mark laughed. “I know.” He slipped his arm around her and hugged her. “I wouldn’t have been there if you weren’t my girlfriend.” She turned toward him smiling and he kissed her.

  “What is country music?” she asked. “I’ve never heard it.”

  “Surely you have. It began as British folk music. You’ll like it.”

  As they settled back, sipping their coffee, the guy standing on the small platform at one end of the room finished tuning his guitar.

  “Hello. Good evening. Thank you for coming out tonight for a little music. We’ll be singing some folk tunes for you as well as some more modern works. We’ll start off with an American tune. It was first recoded in the late sixties by John Denver and, later, by Peter, Paul, and Mary.

  “It’s a love song. The guy is leaving the woman he loves, but he is assuring her that he will be back. No matter what happens, no matter what he does, he will always think of her. When he returns, he promises…We’ll see what he promises. ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane,’ ladies and gentlemen.”

  The slow, gentle music filled the room and Lucia cuddled against Mark. He saw her crying, and, as the song ended, she whispered in his ear. “That’s how it is with us, isn’t it? That’s true love.”

  Mark nodded and hugged her.

  After the concert, he walked her home. Her roommates were inside, so they stopped in a small park across the street and sat on a bench.

  “What are we going to do, Lucia? You know the school term ends in a month, and I have to go home.”

  “I don’t know.” She snuggled closer. “But we’ll work it out. It’s like in that song.” She sang the words quietly. “Nothing can tear us apart. No matter how far you wander or what you do, you’ll always be mine.”

  “And when we’re married?”

  “Love will still be the most important thing,” she whispered.

  ***

  The song ended and Mark let out a long, deep breath.

  “Lucia’s song,” he mumbled.

  Karen placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you all right?”

  “What?” Mark looked around, disappointment on his face. His eyes focused on the glass in his hand, then on Karen. “I’m…fine. I…I really like that song.”

  “It’s sweet, isn’t it?” She looked into Mark’s eyes, and could see pain. What was it he had said? Lucia’s song? Who was Lucia?

  “Doctor Stuart, I thoroughly enjoyed your presentation.” An older woman with white hair stood beside them. “I would never have imagined we could quantify beauty.”

  “Thank you, Dean Williams. I’m not certain we can capture all of beauty in our measurements, but to a degree, yes.”

  “Who is this young lady?” Dean Williams turned to Karen.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. This is Karen Wingate. She’s a curator at the museum.”

  “Assistant curator,” Karen said as she smiled.

  “Dean Williams is Dean of the college.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Dean Williams.”

  “You should have used Ms. Wingate’s photograph to illustrate your computer program.” She studied Karen’s face. “I’m certain she would have an exceptionally high score.”

  “Thank you.” Karen dropped her eyes.

  “She does, as a matter of fact,” Mark said. “Nine-point-five.”

  “Well, of course,” the woman smiled and patted Karen’s shoulder.

  Liar, Karen thought. She knew she was not ugly, but she did look in a mirror each morning. Mentally, she compared her face to that of Amanda Baker, the actress whose face Mark had projected on the screen. Nine-point-five? The actress had a lower score.

  “Now, you know I wouldn’t score so high…” Karen began to object, but the discussion had moved on as Mark explained how psychologists had studied the relationship between perceptions of beauty and the ratings given by the program.

  Why would he say such a thing? Karen moved away and stood alone by the refreshment table. After pouring herself another glass of punch, she looked back at Mark, but he was still talking and he did not seem to notice she had walked off. She strolled around the meeting room, inspecting the pictures hanging on the walls, finally plopping into a chair and staring off into space, pouting.

  ***

  It was after eleven when the party ended. As they stepped out onto the empty street and began to walk toward her apartment, Karen felt Mark’s hand brush against hers, but she pulled hers away, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “It’s rather cool,” she said when he looked at her questioningly. He slipped his coat off, offering it to her, but she refused to take it.

  Giving her a curious look, he draped his coat over his arm, rather than putting it on again. “The cold front they were expecting tomorrow must have arrived early.”

  Karen didn’t reply as they stopped at the corner, allowing a car to turn in front of them before crossing the street.

  “The streets are pretty empty at this time of night. I had no idea we’d be so late, or I would have driven. Of course, with no crowds to avoid, walking is not at all bad.”

  Karen’s eyes were fixed on the door to her apartment, a block away.

  “The audience seemed to like my presentation.”

  In her mind, Karen heard the silence in the room while Mark was speaking, the members of the audience so attentive there was hardly a whisper, barely any movement that would distract one’s attention. She heard the applause that had lasted several minutes. She recalled that the young woman sitting near her had retreated to a corner as the lecture concluded, her cell phone in her hand, searching online for the program Mark had used.

  After a moment, Karen nodded. “They did,” she acknowledged, marching away, leaving Mark behind.

  Nine-point-five. It was a line she’d not heard before, and she had to give him some credit, but it was a line, nevertheless. She clenched her jaw. What else should she have expected? She had told her mother that all men were liars. Mark was no exception. Thankfully he’d offered her proof before she had gotten too involved.

  She realized she was several steps ahead of him and she slowed her pace, staring at the sidewalk, allowing Mark to catch up as they covered the final block.

  “Did I make a convert?”

  They had reached her apartment and stood on the sidewalk as she turned the key to unlock the door. Karen ignored his question. “So, nine-point-five, huh? Come on, Doctor Stuart, I’m not that easy. Tell me the truth. What did your program say?”

  She stared at the door, refusing to look at him for a moment so Mark couldn’t see the frown on her face.

  She glanced up and he seemed think she’d been teasing him.

  “What can I s
ay? Everyone wants to be a ten.” He shrugged. “Like me.”

  Karen wheeled around. That half-smile again. Perhaps he was joking.

  “Are you telling me you ran my photograph though your program and it spit out nine-point-five?” she barked.

  The expression on Mark’s face changed from humor to confusion. “You don’t believe me?”

  Karen turned away. Crossing her arms across her chest she led the way as she stomped up the steps to her apartment without speaking.

  She turned at the top expecting to find Mark anxious to apologize, angling for a goodnight kiss, but he had stopped three steps down. His eyes seemed to be focused on the top step and not her.

  He was angry, she could tell. Angry because she had caught his lie.

  She opened her mouth to tell him where he could take his flattery and what he could do with their third date, but she changed her mind, taking a deep breath, saying what was expected.

  “I’ll confess that I was not looking forward to our date tonight, but I had a terrific time. Thank you so much for asking me to go with you.” Her voice was flat.

  Mark looked up at her. He didn’t speak for a moment, and Karen thought he was about to say he was sorry. She intended to accept his apology, and she reached out to take his hand, wanting to invite him in.

  “Why are you so angry?”

  Why was she angry? He couldn’t be serious. She placed her hands on her hips. “Nine-point-five? If you’re going to lie about something so stupid, you should at least try to make it believable.”

  He stared at her again for a moment, appearing dumbfounded, as if he didn’t believe he’d heard her correctly. Then, without waiting he turned. “I’m happy you enjoyed yourself. Good night.” Then he descended the stairs without looking back, his shoes clattering on the metal steps. As he reached the door to the street, she thought she heard him mutter “beyond belief,” but he was speaking to himself, and she could not be certain.

  Reflections: Second Date

  The next morning as Karen sat in her office, proofs of the catalog for the winter exhibition spread across her desk, Vicky entered.

  Karen’s eyes fixed on the cups in her hand.

  “How did things go?” Vicky handed Karen one of the cups. “Thought you might need some energy after a long night.” She smirked.

  Karen accepted the chocolate.

  “Oh, thank you.” She took a small sip. “Perfect. I’ve been here for two hours. I’m on a deadline.”

  “Everything all right?” Vicky peered at the frown on Karen’s face. “Is beauty still in the eye of the beholder or is it measured by a computer program?”

  Karen sighed as she looked up from her monitor. “Mark’s lecture was really quite interesting, and yes, there was a computer program.”

  “You’re joking.” Vicky placed one hand on her hip. “Truly?”

  Karen nodded as she placed her cup on her desk. “Truly. Beauty on a scale of one to ten.”

  “Wow.” Vicky eased herself into a chair.

  “You scan a photograph, it does some calculations, and it spits out your score…Mark told me I’m a nine-point-five.” She looked Vicky in the eye. “I was really annoyed and I let him know it.”

  Vicky grinned. “Everyone wants to be a ten. We can’t all…”

  Karen shook her head. “No, it’s not that. I was annoyed because we all know it’s not true. Nine-point-five? Give me strength,” she exclaimed. “He made up the score to flatter me.” She crossed her arms. “Just like a man. Tell her she’s pretty and she falls right into bed. I almost told him to go straight to hell.”

  “No goodnight kiss, then.” Vicky shook her head sadly.

  “It would have been really cold in a really hot place before…” She paused, biting her lower lip. “Not true. If he’d apologized…Not that he tried. He didn’t even follow me all the way up the stairs. He was angry, and…”

  “Imagine.” Vicky shook her head. “He gives you a compliment, you call him a liar, and he becomes angry…Really strange.”

  Karen ignored Vicky’s sarcasm. She stood and walked to the window, peering out at the street. A small figurine rested on top of a low bookcase under the window and Karen picked it up, idly fingering it as she continued.

  “I feel so badly about it all. He was a different person during his lecture. He smiled, he teased, he joked, he didn’t speak in a monotone, and his lecture was fascinating. I truly enjoyed being with him. If he hadn’t made up that stupid score…” She wheeled around. “Why did he do that?”

  Vicky sighed. “You know, most girls are pleased when a guy tells them they’re pretty, even if it’s an exaggeration. Why, every single morning John tells me I’m beautiful. I’ll bet I’m a…a five-point-two, but I’d cry all day if he told me that.”

  “If he lies about something like that, then…”

  “I know, I know.” Vicky raised both hands for her to stop. “Heard it before. If he lies about your appearance he’ll steal from you, beat you, and cheat on you…Bull.”

  Karen stared silently through the window, deep in thought. Maybe Vicky was right. Was Karen a broken record when it came to men? Had she been hurt so badly that she would treat every man as though he were a lying, cheating louse? All because one man—the wrong man—lied to her? Was she being unfair to Mark? To all other men?

  “Karen?” Vicky was at her side, gently shaking Karen’s shoulder. “Karen? Are you here?”

  Karen’s eyes flicked toward Vicky. “Sorry…I was just thinking…We were having refreshments, talking, Mark was actually smiling and…” Karen glanced back out the window. “Vicky, who is Lucia?”

  Vicky’s cup slipped, but she caught it just before it left her hand. “What do you know about Lucia?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “You know her name. Did Mark say something?”

  “While we ate refreshments, they were playing this song and, suddenly, his body became tense, and he whispered…I think he said, Lucia’s song. He seemed to be in another world as he listened. Who is she?”

  Vicky took a long drink of coffee. “Lucia is a woman,” she finally said.

  Karen rolled her eyes, signaling her recognition that Vicky was avoiding her question. “And?”

  “She was a friend of Mark’s, just a friend. He met her while he studied in England.” Vicky looked away.

  “And?”

  “And what?” Vicky placed her cup on the bookcase and crossed her arms, briefly making eye contact.

  “You know there is more. Mark didn’t name a song after ‘just a friend.’”

  Vicky retrieved her cup and held it between her hands as if warming them as she stared though the window.

  “Okay, Lucia is the girl who broke Mark’s heart.”

  “What happened?”

  Vicky held up her hand as Karen began to speak. “I told you before your first date, that’s his story, not mine. If you want to know what happened, ask him.”

  She sipped her coffee then waved dismissively. “But since he’s a terrible, wicked liar who had the nerve to say something nice to you…Since you’re no longer speaking…” She shook her head. “It shouldn’t really matter to you, should it?” She looked at Karen with an expression of mock innocence. “It shouldn’t matter at all.”

  Karen sighed. Terrible, wicked liar. It sounded so stupid when Vicky said it. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was only trying to be nice.

  Or perhaps it didn’t really matter. She had described to Vicky how he had changed when he spoke in front of the group, when he answered questions after the presentation. He didn’t behave that way when they were alone. She recalled how he hadn’t noticed as she had walked away to inspect the pictures on the wall at the meeting room. He didn’t laugh and tell jokes as he had walked her home.

  I may be over-reacting, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t really care for me. She took a deep breath as she glanced at the cup in her hand. And I don’t care for him…

  ***

>   Mark flung his office door open and threw himself into the chair behind his desk. To his left, a large window overlooked the college campus. Two tall bookshelves crammed full of books of all types occupied the wall in front of him. He glanced at the bottom shelf where he kept several art books, including one with photographs of Monet’s work.

  He could donate that entire shelf to the math club’s fall rummage sale.

  A straight-back chair stood next to his desk and an overstuffed chair occupied the corner to his right, partially hidden by the door he had not bothered to close.

  Just as well. He would have slammed it, alerting everyone on the hall that he was angry.

  The woman was certifiable. A nut case. His mother had given him the photograph of Karen in her swimsuit and he’d run it through the beauty program. He’d have used it as his example, but he’d thought it might embarrass her.

  When Dean Williams had complimented Karen, all he had done was to agree with her assessment. Karen was beautiful. They had been talking about the ratings, and he had simply proved their validity by citing hers. The other people at the party—at least ten of them had been clustered around, listening—had all smiled and nodded in agreement.

  “I mean, anyone who looked at her would agree with the rating,” he exclaimed, “but she calls me a liar.”

  He rummaged through his bottom right desk drawer, fished out the flash drive containing the analysis of Karen’s photograph, and plugged it into his computer. If she wanted proof, he’d give it to her, but sending it would be the last contact he would ever have with that woman.

  “She’s nuttier than Aunt Mary’s five-pound fruitcake,” he muttered.

  He’d made that decision—never to date her again, never to place eyes on her again, if possible, no matter what his mother said—the night before as he had stomped away from her apartment. He’d reaffirmed it at three in the morning as he sat in the overstuffed chair beside his bed after ransacking his home office, looking for the flash drive, finally recalling he’d left it in his desk at school. Then, being fully awake, he had plopped into the chair, staring through the window at the darkness, the muscles in his legs so tight they ached.