shopping.”
Samantha groaned.
“I’m sorry, but I really just need a few more things from the maternity place”
I knew that Samantha was trying to be a good sport about shopping with me. But I could tell it wasn’t easy. For one thing, unlike any other woman I’d ever known, she loathed shopping. For another, I was pretty sure she was getting sick of everybody assuming we were lesbian lovers.
While Samantha was extolling the virtues of mail-order catalogues and Internet shopping, a guy jogged by us. Tall, lean, shorts and a ratty-looking sweatshirt advertising some college or another. Typical jogger on Kelly Drive on a Saturday. Except that this one stopped.
“Hi, Cannie!”
I stopped and squinted, my hands resting protectively on my belly. Samantha stopped, too, gaping. The Mystery Jogger pulled off his baseball cap. It was Dr. K…
“Hey!” I said, smiling. Wow. Outside of that horrible fluorescent-lit building, outside of his white lab coat and glasses, he was kind of cute… for an older guy.
“Introduce me to your friend,” Samantha practically purred.
“This is Dr. Krushelevansky.” I pronounced it slowly and correctly, I think, because he smiled at me. “From the University of Philadelphia program I was doing.”
“Peter. Please,” he said.
Handshakes all around, as two rollerbladers almost crashed into us.
“We’d better get moving,” I said.
“I’ll walk with you,” he said, “if that’s okay. I need to cool down”
“Oh, sure! Absolutely!” said Samantha. She gave me a short but significant look, which I took to mean, “Is he single, and is he Jewish, and if he is, what possible excuse could you have for not mentioning him to me?”
I gave her a brief shrug and raised eyebrows, which I was certain she would understand as, “I have no idea if he’s single, and aren’t you supposed to be taken?” Samantha seemed to have broken her bad-luck streak of third-date lunacy and was still with her yoga instructor. Many of our non-Bruce discussions revolved around whether he was too Zen to consider marrying.
Meanwhile, completely oblivious to our eyebrow-encrypted messages, Dr. K. was introducing himself to Nifkin, who’d been the object of several discussions during Fat Class.
“So you’re the famous little guy,” he said, as Nifkin demonstrated his vertical leap, bouncing higher and higher each time. “He should be in the circus,” Dr. K. told me, rubbing Nifkin vigorously behind his ears as Nifkin preened.
“Yeah, well, a few more pounds and I’ll go, too. They still hire fat ladies, right?”
Samantha glared at me.
“You look very healthy,” Dr. K. pronounced. “How’s work?”
“Good, actually.”
“I read your piece on The View,” he said. “I thought you were absolutely right… it does remind me of Thunderdome.”
“Five girls enter, one girl leaves,” I intoned. He laughed. Samantha looked at him, looked at me, did a few quick equations in her head, and grabbed Nifkin’s leash.
“Well!” she said cheerfully. “Thanks for walking with me, Cannie, but I really need to get going.” Nifkin whined as she started dragging him toward where she’d parked her car. “I’ll see you later,” she said. “Have fun shopping!”
“You’re going shopping?” asked Dr. K.
“Yeah, I need some…” What I actually needed was new underwear, as my Jockey For Her briefs were no longer covering the waterfront, but I was damned if I was going to tell him that. “Groceries,” I said weakly. “I was heading over to Fresh Fields”
“Would you mind if I came?” he asked. “I actually need to pick up a few things. I could drive you,” he offered.
I squinted up at him in the sunshine. “Tell you what. If you can meet me in an hour, we can get breakfast, then shop,” I said.
He told me that he’d lived in Philadelphia for seven years but had never been to the Morning Glory Diner, my absolute favorite breakfast spot. If there’s one thing I love, it’s introducing people to my food finds. I walked home, took a quick shower, pulled on a variation on my standard outfit (black velvet leggings, giant tunic top, lace-up Chuck Taylor low-tops in a subtle shade of periwinkle that I’d bought for $10), then met him at the diner, where, blessedly, there wasn’t even a line – a total fluke on a weekend. I was feeling pretty good about things as we slid into a booth. He looked nice, too – he’d showered, I thought, and changed into khakis and a button-down plaid shirt.
“I’ll bet it’s weird for you, going out to eat with people,” I said. “They probably feel very self-conscious about ordering what they really want.”
“Yes,” he said, “I have noticed some of that.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat,” I told him, and flagged down a dread- locked waitress in a halter top with a tattoo that snaked across her exposed belly. “I’ll have the neighborhood fritatta with provolone cheese and roasted peppers, a side of turkey bacon, a biscuit, and would it be possible to get potatoes and grits instead of just one or the other?”
“Sure thing,” she said, and wiggled her pen toward the doctor.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said
“Good boy,” she said, and twitched off toward the kitchen.
“It’s brunch,” I said, by way of explanation. He shrugged a little bit.
“You’re eating for two,” he said. “How have… things… been?”
“If by ‘things’ you mean my situation, it’s going fine. I’m actually feeling a lot better now. Still kind of tired, but that’s about it. No more dizzy, no more barfing, no being so exhausted that I fall asleep on the toilet at work”
He was laughing. “Did that happen?”
“Just once,” I said. “But it’s better now. Even though I realize that my life has turned into one of the lesser songs in the Madonna catalogue, I limp along.” I passed a hand dramatically across my brow. “Eh-lone.”
He squinted at me. “Was that supposed to be Garbo?”
“Hey, don’t hassle the pregnant lady.”
“That was the worst Garbo imitation I have ever heard.”
“Yeah, well, I do it better if I’ve been drinking.” I sighed. “God, do I miss tequila.”
“Tell me about it,” said our waitress, as she deposited our heaping plates on the table. We tucked in.
“This is really good,” he said between mouthfuls.
“Isn’t it?” I said. “They make the best biscuits. The secret is lard.”
He looked at me. “Homer Simpson.”
“Very good.”
“You do Homer much better than you do Garbo.”
“Yeah. Wonder what that says about me?” I changed the topic before he could answer. “Do you ever think about cheese?”
“Constantly,” he said. “I’m tormented, really. I lie awake at night, just thinking… about cheese.”
“No, seriously,” I said, and poked at my fritatta. “Like, who invented
