dates have made me awkward and ungraceful, and I look away.
The stranger is handsome, but he doesn’t belong in this restaurant. I know he doesn’t understand the French terms on the menu because when the server comes to recite the specials, he requests the first dish he hears and doesn’t try to repeat the name.
His shoulders are too broad for the jacket, which means he borrowed or bought it last minute, probably to adhere to the restaurant dress code. It’s been at least a day since he shaved, and his wavy brown hair is thick and unruly, like it’s never seen product or a high-end haircut. If he cares about any of this, it doesn’t show, and I wonder briefly why he would choose to come here if he had to go to the effort.
He pulls a battered old paperback Western out of his pocket and begins to read, and I do my very best to focus on Doug, who’s now telling a story about a recent humanitarian trip. I missed learning whatever was in the box and I’m annoyed. I swear I can feel the stranger watching me, but every time I risk a glance his way his eyes are dutifully trained on the book. He turns a page, sips his beer, and ignores me.
I vow to pay attention to Doug, but not before noting that the stranger’s fingernails are clean but not buffed, and his knuckles are cracked, like he works outdoors. I doubt even the chef here has cracked knuckles.
“...walking across this field,” Doug is saying, the faintest traces of his North Carolina accent coming through, “and I see we’re approaching a dry streambed with a log laying across so people can get to the other side. It’s not so deep you’d die if you fell, but it’s deep enough that you’d have trouble getting out. Anyway, we’re about fifteen feet away when suddenly the villagers in my group start to run. I check over my shoulder to see if there’s a lion or something, but there’s nothing there. When I turn back around, they’ve all crossed the log and are waiting to watch me attempt it. They wanted front row seats.”
I sip my wine, the second of the two drinks I allow myself on these dates. “Did you fall?”
He’s quiet for a second. “Yeah.”
A laugh slips out.
I know it’s mean, but I can’t stifle it. Maybe it’s nervous energy. Maybe it’s five weeks of limited human contact, tension searching for a natural outlet. I don’t know the last time I laughed. I’m not very funny.
Doug blushes, then offers a sheepish grin as he pushes a piece of fish around his plate.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, trying to shut up. “Did you... Were you hurt?”
“I sprained my ankle.”
My shoulders shudder as I fail to suppress one last guilty laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. You’re pretty when you smile, Denise.”
I’d heard that a lot growing up. My father spent a small fortune on dental care, beating my snaggle tooth into submission and closing the gap between my front teeth. Back then, I had a lot to smile about. Or so I’d thought.
“Thanks.”
I know he meant it as a compliment, an effort to get this date on track, and I vow again to try harder. I need this. I need a couple of hours every once in a while, just to keep going. To feel something. Before my father’s arrest, I’d been the life of the party; after the arrest, a pariah. Now, a hermit. Doug is the second person I’ve spoken to in three weeks, and it will be at least that long before I speak to someone else.
The stranger’s food comes and Doug talks and I listen and occasionally the stranger glances up, turns a page, and meets my eye. The connection is palpable and terrifying. I can’t have it but I want it. I want it but I don’t need it. Those are distinctions I’d never had to make before my world fell apart.
I tell myself I’m only feeling this way because it’s been so long since I felt anything at all. That the stranger only interests me because I didn’t already read his too-long biography on the Fantasy Friends website and scroll through his profile and study his photos. He’s only appealing because he’s unknown, and he finds me appealing for the same reason.
If only he knew.
Doug asks if I’d like coffee or dessert, and I decline. We didn’t come here for coffee or dessert. Dinner is