30
A message came across Fish around 5:00 on a hopelessly dull Tuesday six weeks after I’d joined the site, from a guy whose profile name was MBAMan. His photo showed him lounging in an outdoor chair with a small dog curled around his shoulders like one of those neck pillows you use on airplanes.
MBA listed the usual testosterone-fueled hobbies: hiking in the rain, snowmobiling on the thin ice of lakes in winter, parasailing, jumping off rocks and snowshoeing uphill, but his profile was different: he was looking for friends, possibly not putting pressure on finding “the one.” Also, he lived about five minutes from my house. Also, it was a Tuesday night.
“Let’s go for a drink, AriesGurl. I think it would be good for both of us,” messaged MBA, aka Michael.
I liked his confidence.
“How’s 7:00?”
“Sounds good,” Michael replied.
I quickly took my second shower of the day, then approached my closet with trepidation.
I knew what I wanted. I wanted to look self-assured, sultry, and maybe even a little sassy.
There was absolutely nothing I owned that would accomplish this.
I tore through my closet, flinging so many outfits on the bed that I buried Penny. Finally, I settled for a black peplum top, leggings with flowers instead of vampires, and Converse sneaks, with my hair in a ponytail, which hopefully didn’t portray me as matronly, lonely, or overly hopeful.
I picked Nick’s Tavern as a meeting place, a pub just out of town, blessedly dim and not known for any particular food specials, so the likelihood of people at the bar tearing into wings and bleu cheese was low. I have a thing about watching people eat wings. It’s a phobia, really. I can’t stand the whole process: the dunking in sauce, the slobbering at the chicken, the inevitable pile of discarded bones, the greasy hands. Yuck. No thanks.
Ian thought I was crazy to be meeting a man I barely knew.
“Did you get his last name?” he asked.
“No, but I’ll text you from the bar’s bathroom,” I told him, checking my teeth for lipstick. “And Nick’s is like six minutes away. You could get there really fast to save me if I need it.”
“Remember, you can run if you want to. Don’t be afraid to run,” Ian said worriedly. “And next time, ask him to take a picture holding the day’s newspaper so you know he’s real.”
“Thanks for the tip, honey,” I said.
“Good luck, Mom,” Ian said, looking just as nervous as I felt.
My palms felt clammy on the steering wheel, and when I got to the pub, I turned off the engine and sat there until my breathing calmed down. Then I realized there were windows overlooking the lot, and it was possible Michael could see me sitting in my car, so I bolted, slamming my door on the seatbelt.
“Shit, shit shit,” I said, reopening the car door and fixing the belt.
I saw Michael at a corner table, watching the door so closely that he looked almost too hopeful, which was strangely comforting. I knew his face immediately—the deep-set gray eyes and strong chin—but since he’d been wearing a baseball cap in his pics, I didn’t recognize the bald head.
Bryan is bald, I told myself. Bald is the new coiffure.
We hugged awkwardly, Michael bending way down in slow motion as I tried to recall if his profile said he was 6 feet or taller. Must be taller.
“What are you drinking tonight?”
Madison had coached me on what to order so there was no risk of getting drunk: Midori, ginger ale and vermouth, or even a wine spritzer with club soda—anything but plain soda, she said, but when I opened my mouth, I blurted out, “Ginger ale, on the rocks.”
Over my childish soda (with ice) and his draft beer, Michael led the conversation.
“What do you do, Jess?”
“Well, I just started a new day job at town hall, but I write at night. Ad copy, actually.”
“For who?”
“Insurance companies, a hardwood floor business, a couple of builders,” I said, wishing it sounded more interesting. “And you?”
“Have my MBA, obviously.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured that out.”
“I’m an accountant for a small family business.”
“Nice,” I said.
“What kind of food do you like?” he asked next.
“American? I mean, Mexican? How about you?”
“I consider myself an adventurous eater,” Michael said, sitting up taller.
“Like, eel, fungus, and bugs?” I asked.
“I’m sure I’ve had all three of them,” Michael smiled. “Fungus would probably be the lowest on that list. What’s your favorite food?”
“Shrimp. Oh, and chocolate.”
“But never chocolate shrimp?”
Just as I was starting to relax, the #1 dreaded question came along, the question I knew I should have prepared for, but hadn’t.
“What do you like to do?”
I knew what I should say, hike, bike, parasail, run uphill in the rain, lift weights, but instead this is what came out of my mouth: “Hang out with my kids and dog, Penny.”
“Ah. What kind of dog?”
“Yorkie.”
“How old?”
“Five.”
“Nice. My pug is just a puppy.”
“Yeah, saw her in the photo—really cute.”
“It’s a him.”
That pretty much covered the topic of pets.
Michael took a deep drink of his beer. I worried he was trying to finish it so he could leave. A man brushed by Michael, jostling his beer a bit, and Michael gave him a dirty look.
“This place is too crowded.”
It was a Tuesday night; the bar was barely half-full.
I had a terrible thought that Michael was going to suggest we go someplace quieter, like his car, or worse, his house, but instead, he went to the bar, coming back with another beer and a glass of red wine.
“Thought you might like an adult beverage,” he said, sliding the wine glass toward me, his eyes glinting in the light over the table.
“Thank you.” I took a sip.
The #2 dreaded question came next: “So what are you looking for?” Michael said, wiping the film off his beer glass, then smoothing the pockets of his camo cargo shorts.
“Oh, you know,” I said.
It was clear from his
