by Ruth Kaufman
“So what was the ‘emergency?’” VIH demands.
“Is everything ok now?” I ask instead.
“Much better, thanks. How about dinner on Thursday?”
Jeff still wants to go out. His voice is so sexy he makes a simple question sound like an invitation to the boudoir.
But, hmm. Thursday’s safe, not risky-give-up-a-special Friday or Saturday. What have I got to lose? “That sounds good.”
“Have you heard of Dragon?”
“Great idea. I’ve been wanting to go there.”
Dragon is a new upscale Chinese restaurant in Lakeview. I will not at this point worry about who pays the bound-to-be-expensive bill: the unemployed creative director or the employed AE. No, I will not.
“I’ll make a reservation and meet you there at seven. See you then. Bye.” He hangs up.
That’s it? No conversation? What happened to our easy friendship?
I’m not looking as forward to our dinner as much as I’d like, but at this point it’s better to have something to look forward to even a little. I wear a new turquoise three-quarter sleeved shirt with black pants and black Franco Sarto boots. Long gold earrings add panache. I battle with my hair until it cooperates, then take a bus to the restaurant.
All of Dragon’s walls are bright, shiny red. Black lacquer tables with gold borders sit on a random-patterned red and black ceramic floor. Painted on the long, back wall is an elaborate, multicolored, curving dragon, mouth open wide to reveal a glossy red tongue. The waiters wear red button downs with black pants and red and black aprons that match the floor. New age music with an Asian flair plays. Elegant yet festive.
Jeff is waiting when I get there. Since I’m always early, and appreciate timeliness in others, this is good. I hope it means he’s looking forward to our date. He looks great in a French blue, fine cotton shirt that enhances his eyes, with black pants, and nifty shoes. Possibly Kenneth Cole, but I’m not good with men’s designers because Ex had no interest in nice clothes even at an off-price store, so paying attention to men’s fashion would’ve been a waste. And unappreciated, pretty much like everything I ever did for him. I’m over it.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
We stand there smiling goofily, gazing into each other’s eyes. The awkward phone call is in the past. I get a tingly feeling in my stomach.
This is fun.
“Your table is ready.” The very tall and very curvy hostess in a red satin cheongsam interrupts our moment. “This way please.”
Her hips slide as she walks. If I tried to walk like that, I’d knock myself over. After we sit, she hands us menus and leaves.
Delectable smells make my mouth water. I resist grabbing some of those little crispy things filling a bowl on the red tablecloth.
“How’s your week been?” he asks.
I certainly don’t want to launch into a litany of complaints...but I’m a horrible liar. “I’ve had better.”
“Me too, actually.”
We order wontons for our appetizer and a couple of beers.
I relax. Maybe my self-improvement efforts are sinking in. “I’m hungry.”
“Me, too.”
Brilliant discourse. I think I sense mutual attraction, but where’s the easy conversation we shared for hours doing the ice skating scene? How do you know if a guy likes you unless he comes out and says so or makes a move? If you can’t “just tell,” does that mean nothing is there?
“Marla,” Jeff says, “I need to get something clear up front. I don’t want to mislead you.”
Uh oh.
“I can’t be with just one woman.”
“You like ménages-à-trois?” Did I just say that? Guess I couldn’t keep in the snappy improv comeback.
Fortunately, he laughs, and reveals his nice crinkly-eyed smile. “No, I’ve never tried one. Wait. That didn’t come out right. No matter how I say it, I’ll sound stupid. And that’s the last thing I want. This isn’t normally something I’d get into on a first date.”
“It’s sort of our second, if that helps.” Nice that he’s worried about sounding stupid, too.
“I felt a connection with you at the ice rink. That’s why I want you to know.”
Our drinks arrive. We sip. Tension seeps in, and we’re only minutes into our date. Where did the fun go? Maybe I imagined that shared look.
Apprehension makes me warm. The cold bottle feels good in my hands. “I appreciate honesty. Just tell me the truth.”
“The truth is I recently broke up with a woman I’d lived with for five years.” He takes another sip of beer and swallows carefully. “The truer truth is she left me for another man, a partner in a law firm. And broke my heart.”
“Wow. Sorry to hear that.” I get it now, I’m Rebound Rita. Finally, I meet a nice, attractive guy, though terminally unemployed, and he’s heartbroken.
“Which means I’m not ready to commit to one person. It’s not you.” Jeff looks sad as he studies his beer. I can’t tell if he’s thinking of her or thinking that starting a date this way is uncomfortable. “I’d like to keep this casual.”
“I see. Well, I got divorced not that long ago. I know the pain when your partner chooses someone else over you.” If that helps. I don’t say I’m not ready to commit, because I could be. “Maybe we could take this one step at a time? Not make any assumptions or decisions, but see how we feel.”
I will not say, “Let’s just be friends, then.” I want more from him.
Jeff smiles, clearly relieved. “I can do that. I just wanted you to know I’m not ready to be exclusive. What I do want is to have some fun.”
“Maybe we can just enjoy dinner,” I say. Though dating and/or sleeping with more than one person at a time doesn’t sound like fun to me. Nor does worrying if he’s not calling or texting because he’s with someone else....
“And each other’s company.” He raises his bottle in a toast.
At least the air has been cleared, but not to my satisfaction.
The waiter serves the wontons. I pick one up, as usual examining my food before eating it. A bowl of potato chips isn’t simply a pile of snack food but a repository of individual treats, each worthy of investigating and savoring. I select each chip or French fry with care, then seek the optimum spot for that all-important first bite.
This quirk stands me in good stead today. For when I study the wonton I’ve chosen, I find a surprise.
A cockroach cooked inside. Dis-gust-ting. I jump, but don’t give in to the urge to scream.
What do I do? I’m on a date, for crying out loud. I don’t want to cause a scene. Nor do I want to look like the picky bitch who sends her food back. But it’ll look weird if I don’t eat anything, especially after I told Jeff how hungry I was.
Didn’t I just say honesty was best? I’m still holding the thing in front of my face. The little fried roach head stares at me. Gingerly I set it down and look for the waiter as I wipe my hands on my napkin.
“Don’t you like wontons?” Jeff bites into one with a crispy crunch before I can stop him. “We could’ve ordered something else.”
I can’t help but shudder. “Ordinarily. But this one came with, um, a special guest I don’t care to partake of.”
Jeff stops chewing and covers his mouth with his napkin.
The waiter comes over. Discretely I show him the affected wonton.
His face turns as red as his shirt. “Oh, my. So sorry. This has never happened before. I will bring a fresh order right away.” He glances around, perhaps to ensure that no one else has noticed.
“No, thank you.” I’ve lost my appetite. Though they’re bound to check the new food for bugs.
“Thanks anyway,” Jeff says. “We’ll just finish our drinks. If that’s ok with you, Marla.”
“Great idea,” I agree.
Maybe a new atmosphere will get this date on track.
I want romance. I want Brad Pitt in Troy, the way he protects and cherishes Briseis, except when he squee
zes her throat. Clark Gable’s Rhett wooing Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind with kisses, trips, tons of desserts and lovely green bonnets. Even Nick on The Bachelor during his first one-on-one with Vanessa. What I’m getting is heartbroken men and well-done insects.
“Drinks on the house. Stay as long as you like.” The waiter takes our plates and the platter of wontons.
We finish our drinks and go to a nearby Italian place. It’s cozy and intimate, a far cry from the contemporary elegance of Dragon. Over angel hair pasta—real capellini, not mere thin spaghetti as many restaurants are wont to serve, osso bucco and a bottle of Pinot Grigio, I relax.
We’d covered families: he has an older brother who lives in Milwaukee, his parents live in Tampa. Education: graduated from the University of Illinois. Career: worked his way up through various ad agencies as a copywriter. After re-hashing the cockroach incident and catching up on life events since we met, such as his interview at a major agency and waiting to hear about a second, I’m ready to learn more about him.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask. Besides not be exclusive.
He grins, a bit sheepishly I think. “I grow bonsai trees. I have around eighty of them.”
Bonsai trees are fun? What a jungle his apartment must be with eighty little trees scattered about. “How did you get into that?”
“My ex-girlfriend owns a bonsai nursery. I started collecting and couldn’t stop. They’ve taken over my spare time and my backyard. The trees don’t live long inside and require a lot of care, what with repotting, pruning, wiring, watering, feeding and pest control.”
Jeff launches into a lengthy description of each tree and how to care for it, from his larch to his American hornbeam. He’s a good speaker and passionate about his topic, but how do I move our date away from Bonsai 101? How do I turn his passion toward me? I think he’s on tree twenty-seven, leaving fifty-three to go....
Help.
“My favorite is my maidenhair tree, or Gingko biloba, known as the ‘Fountain of Youth’ plant....”
I hope I don’t go on and on like this once I get started talking about acting, musicals or romance novels. My attention wanders, either from copious consumption of wine (hope I don’t pay later for mixing wine and beer) or from burial in a quagmire of bonsai trivia. I drain my glass and reach for the bottle.
Jeff stops mid-sentence. “I’m sorry. Am I boring you? I guess I have been going on about my trees.”
Yes. For eighteen minutes.
“It’s just that right now they’re the most important thing in my life. Since Maggie left me...I’m sorry,” he repeats.
Jeff’s bonsai garden is a living shrine to his ex. As he tends his trees with utmost care, does he wonder how he could’ve made their relationship thrive like his trident maple, aka Acer bugarianum?
“Marla, you’re a very good listener. And a good friend.”
The friend zone is worse than a woman calling a guy “nice.” I doubt good listeners and friends inspire sensuous thoughts and kisses. So much for my low-cut shirt and efforts to make myself look hot.
When will a guy think I’m sexy?
I think he’s sexy.
He takes my hand as we leave the restaurant. Better, but as he said upfront he’s heartbroken over his bonsai nursery maven Maggie...but there’s the enticing warmth and pressure of his hand in mine, the way his finger strokes the back of my hand. Is something better than nothing?
We Uber back to my place. Here we go again with that awkward do-you-want-to-come-up moment, and in front of the driver, to boot. One step at a time, right?
Though we’ve already shared a bottle of wine, more than enough alcohol for me, I ask, “Would you like to come up for a drink?”
“Sure, I’d love to see your place.”
The first man to enter my new home, unless you count the building handyman and relatives. I give him the brief tour of my condo, then open a bottle of white. I’ve had it so long I’m afraid it might have turned, but it tastes fine. I like the sight of him on my blue chenille couch. Jeff is definitely attractive.
He smiles. Finally, his look says, “I want to kiss you,” not, “I want to tell you about bonsai tree seventy-one.”
In the bonsai vein, I put on an Enya CD, The Memory of Trees. I sit next to him, so close our thighs almost touch. I’m nervous and cold. I want him to kiss me, but desirous anticipation morphs into thoughts of where his kisses might lead. To bed.
It’s been awhile since any man has seen my naked body, much less a man who isn’t my husband. I run my hand over my abdomen.
Am I even good in bed? I haven’t had many partners or conversations about proficiency. Jeff could be nervous, too. But what if he compares me to Maggie? Or whoever else he’s seeing now? Banish the thought.
How wonderful would it be to feel Jeff’s skin against mine, to be held through the night, legs entwined? To feel cherished, special, even for a few hours?
I hope he has a condom. I don’t, though I should.
Enya’s song flows into my veins, easing my concerns. I can do this. It’ll be great. Hot. So hot, we’ll flop back onto the pillows with a whoosh like they do in the movies. Who needs exclusive?
I’m learning. Instead of giving into negative thoughts about my stomach and capabilities in bed, I release them and overturn them with positive thoughts. The next, and clearly harder step, is to skip self-defeating thoughts altogether and have VIH go straight to positive commentary.
Jeff puts his glass on my coffee table and takes mine, too. He doesn’t use a coaster….
Like I should care about table rings right now?
He leans forward and kisses me, tasting of wine and need. His kiss makes me burn. I’d forgotten how truly amazing a man’s mouth can feel. I slide closer to deepen the embrace until our bodies touch, his chest firm against me. His arms slide up my back as he eases me down onto the softness of the couch.
We kiss and kiss to the whispery sounds of Enya. Jeff smells enticing and fresh. He shifts between my legs as our tongues meet. He presses against me, his erection brushing my thigh. Again. My body tingles. I want more.
Yes. Divine. I am a sensual, desirable woman awash in lust. I’m every heroine in every movie melting into her hero’s loving embrace.
More. I reach for his hand to move to my breast. His fingers close over the softness for an instant. Suddenly he leaps off of me.
I sit up, hair aflutter, embarrassed for no reason.
Jeff’s face is red. He stares at my fluffy off-white rug and catches his breath. “I’d better go. I, um, have a busy day tomorrow.”
Watering his bonsai trees? Remembering Maggie? I’ll bet he thinks he’s betrayed her by being attracted to me. By touching me.
“Will I see you again?” Thankfully I don’t sound desperate. But should I have asked in the first place?
“Um. Yes. Sure. We’ll do this again.”
I don’t ask when.
Jeff leaves before I can walk him to the door.
My body thrums in his absence. Maybe he meant it, maybe he’ll call.
Or not.
I’m joining a health club. At ninety-eight dollars per month, this place had better be good. If I work out enough, I tell myself, the per visit cost will be reasonable.
Northside Sports Club features an après exercise café in the center of the action. The better to see and be seen in all your sweaty glory. The gym has the usual machines and hand weights and offers a full slate of classes like hip hop blast, body sculpting and yoga.
Maybe yoga will help me relax. Plus, Linda recently started scheduling her days around her yoga classes. Here’s my chance to have something in common with her. Here’s my chance to buy cute workout gear and meet a toned guy.
My first class is in a hot room crammed with dozens of barefooted, tight Lycra-wearing, flat-stomached twenty and thirty-somethings. None of the handful of men appears to be a dating prospect.
I twist and bend like pretzel dough. The mats are packed so close t
ogether I practically kick the woman behind me in the head when I move into Downward Facing Dog. After the instructor demonstrates the Warrior Pose, I duck, afraid I’ll get bashed in the face as students on either side fling already-toned arms. Soothing new age music is the only pleasant aspect.
When Quiet Time, or whatever the proper yoga term is, comes at the end, and we’re all flat on our backs on our mats, motionless, eyes closed while the instructor paces around and speaks mellifluously, we must look like victims of a massacre. The untoward, uncomfortable thought makes me giggle. Though my eyes remain closed, I can feel glares directed at me.
I do like body sculpting, where we use hand weights to do reps to music that’s only semi-unpleasant and loud. However, this class is also overcrowded. I know it’s time to move on after I almost take a swinging five-pounder in the head.
Though many of us wear headphones, both loud music and CNN resound in the main workout areas. The din gives me an instant headache, and stresses me out instead of motivating me to push harder. I can’t hear my own tunes.
The cute café with its colorful tables and nutritious salad and juice bars is more like a holding area for spoiled children than a DM meet and greet locale.
“Johnny, don’t touch that. That’s my smoothie,” an adorable girl around four wearing a Gymboree outfit cries. I recognize Gymboree because I’ve bought so many baby gifts there for friends’ kids and PG.
Said smoothie spills across the table in a lumpy mess. Both kids burst into rambunctious tears. Mom, or Nanny, or au pair, she’s that young, glances around sheepishly.
Nobody talks, and hardly anyone makes eye contact. Everyone is in his own little world.
I cancel my health club membership.
Divorce tinges everything that came before and after, until you get over it. Where did we go wrong? Why didn’t I see it coming? It’s hard not to assess blame. What was my fault? His?
This sad situation reminds me of beer. You fetch a nice cold one from the fridge. Drops of condensation tempt you as you twist off the cap and hear that satisfying puff of air, smell that hop scent. Aaaah. There’s nothing like that first sip. Cool and refreshing, really hits the spot. You sip as you talk or watch TV. Eventually only an inch or two of beer at the bottom remains, now warm and flat. This beer’s in the past. You’re ready for another. And you set the first beer aside and replace it without a second thought.