Saturday night

http://www.potluckmag.com/december-2016/2016/12/9/saturday-night-sucks

this piece was accepted by Potluck Magazine for November publishing.

“So, tell me, how was the date?” It’s Jett. He must have radar. He calls the second I walk in the door.

I hold the phone in the crook of my neck as I pop a Lean Cuisine into the microwave. “How do you think? It’s 10 pm on Saturday night and I am home about to Netflicks Dark Victory.”

“That bad?”

“No, it wasn’t awful, but pretty typical.”

“Where’d you meet this one?”

“OK Cupid.”

“Ugh.”

“No shit.”

Ok Cupid, as you probably are aware, is another online dating service for us busy singles looking for connections. If you have never taken one of these mate matching quizzes, they are a perplexing series of questions, seemingly unrelated, and all equally weighted:  “Do you believe in God?”; “Do you like cats?” ; “Is fidelity in a relationship important to you?” ;  “Do you enjoy soup?” I don’t know of the validity of these inquiries. You answer these, and about a 100 more, and of course you are careful to use your “best” answers. Why yes, I am conscientious. No, I don’t like people who lie, etc. They take your responses and put them through the hopper, and out comes a list of your matches. Like magic. Personally, I’d take an atheist over a cheating cat lover.
I think they should have more essays. I loved essays in school. You could bullshit your way through pretty much anything. For instance, which Golden Girl are you, and why? If I had known my ex was such a Blanche, it may have saved me a bit of heartache down the road, who knows? Tonight’s date was a Rose, no doubt about it.

“Tell me all about it. Details. Spare nothing.” I can hear Jett settling into his couch, sipping something with ice. Jett is fatally married to Bernard, so my forays into the world of dating provide theater for him. In former days, we all went out on double dates, triple dates, when all of us in the circle were coupled up, but now my canary in the coalmine adventures into the single life are both titillating, and cautionary tale.

The microwave beeps. I burn my hand on the little plastic tray. Peeling back the thin film, the steam rises up with a pungent tang. “They have a lot of nerve calling this Linguine Alfredo.” I lean against the counter and twirl a forkful.

“So?” Jett is getting impatient. “Tell papa everything.”

“Where do I begin?”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“Border Café.”

“Jesus. Why?”

“He said it was his favorite place in Harvard Square.”

“That should have been a red flag right there. No taste. But at least you were close to home.”

“And the magaritas are decent.”

“What did he look like?”

“Not bad, really. Kind of slight, slim, sandy blond. Non threatening.”

“Bland?”

“Pretty much.” I blow on the molten lava glop of pasta.

Paul, my date, was already there, sitting at the bar, even though I was ten minutes early. I like to be the early one, it gives me a chance to settle, check in, check out the place, maybe get a preparatory  drink. “There you are!” he waved. “I was about to send out the bloodhounds!”
“Am  I late?”
“Oh just kidding, can’t you take a joke? Come and give me a great big hug!”
I was groped and enveloped in a cloying scent I eventually recognized as Shalimar, a fragrance more associated with my grandmother, now deceased some years, than an evening of conquest.
“Wow you are so much cuter than your profile picture! I love the beard! Can I touch it? please?”
He was stroking my facial scruff when the bartender came over. “Cocktails?” she asked.
“Yes. Please.” I said.

“So what did you talk about?” Jett swallows a hefty swig of his drink.

“He did most of the talking.”

“Oh, one of those.”

“He talked in exclamation points. He was very emphatic, enthusiastic.”

“Annoying.”

“Pretty much. Oh, he kept calling the waitstaff  ‘Girlfriend’. Like: “OOH Girlfriend I love those shoes! You are all that, Girlfriend!”

“Embarrassing. We don’t say that anymore. No one says that anymore.”

“And twice he told me to ‘Talk to the Hand’.”

“No!”

“I swear.”

About midway through our Cuervo Gold margaritas, while waiting for a chicken quesadilla to arrive (he insisted we split something, “It’s more romantic!”) Paul gave my upper thigh a squeeze. “This is going well, don’t you think? I feel an instant chemistry with you, it’s amazing!”
“Maybe it’s the tequila,” I said, deciding to ignore his hand.
“You are so funny! OMG. Laugh riot! I’m being serious, silly billy. I really think we could have fun!”
“What do you enjoy doing?”
“Oh, you’ll find out!” He licked the salted rim of his glass and gave me a wink.

“Was there anything good about it?” Jett sighs. I think in his heart he wants a happy ending for me. So do I.

“The drinks were strong.”

“Well that’s something. Sounds like you needed a good buzz to get through it.”

“I had three. The first two I sucked down like lemonade.”

“You must be drunk.”

“Little bit.”

“Me too.”

Paul matched me drink for drink. He got loose, and giddy. His face flushed red. He laughed a lot, and loudly. Then suddenly he got quiet. His hand, now on my shoulder, tightened its grip. “I have a serious question for you.” He looked at me, with mouse like gaze, his eyes bright and timid. He looked small in the brightly lit space. On the sound system, Elvis was singing “Viva Las Vegas.”
I nodded for him to go ahead.
“What are you looking for? I mean really. Are you looking for just a hook up? I couldn’t deal with that, no way Jose. That’s two snaps and a bag of chips. Sorry, Charlie. No dice." He finished his drink with one gulp. "I want someone special, someone to love me, really love me! You know?"
“Well, sure,” I said.
“I’m so tired of the game! Aren’t you? Isn’t this lame?”
“You made a rhyme,” I observed, unable to comfort him because I am hurting too, but as usual in an uncomfortable situation, I shrug it off, make a joke.
“What?”
“Nothing.”

Jett is in motion. “I gotta scoot soon Babe, the husband and dogs just came home with Chinese.’

“Ok, I’ll talk to you tomorrow? Tell Bernard and the puppies I said hello.”

“ Ok. So, you going to see him again, Mr Shalimar?”

“What do you think?”

“Guess not,” Jett sighs again, deeply, still hoping for that happy ending.

So am I.

I left Paul on the corner, after a quick hug. It was snowing. “Nice to meet you, handsome,” he said. “Call me?” He made a sad face, and gestured like he was holding a little phone, or a seashell, like he was listening for the sounds of the ocean whispering inside his empty hand.

this story was submitted to publication to Potluck magazine.