as the sunlight started beaming in from my window. I felt rested and renewed, as if the earth and I were in perfect agreement about when the sun should rise.
When I showed up at the bar, Sam was wearing a dark denim button-down shirt and flat-front gray chinos. He looked like he might have put pomade in his hair, and when I leaned in to hug him hello, I noticed that he was wearing cologne.
I’d known it was a date. I’d wanted it to be a date.
But the cologne, the smell of wood and citrus, made it all crystal clear.
Sam liked me.
And I liked him.
And maybe it was that simple.
I knew it wasn’t. But maybe it could be.
“You look great,” Sam said.
When I got ready that evening, I’d put on a tight black skirt and a long-sleeved black-and-white-striped T-shirt that clung to the better parts of me. I took more care applying my mascara than I had in years. When it clumped, I used a safety pin to straighten my lashes, the way I’d seen my mom do when I was a child.
And then I put on pale pink ballet flats and headed toward the door.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror just as I was leaving the house.
Something wasn’t right. This wouldn’t do. I turned around and exchanged my flats for black heels. Suddenly, my legs looked longer than they had any right to be.
Feeling confident, I went back into the bathroom and outlined the edges of my lips in a perfect crimson line, filling it in with a lipstick that was called Russian Red. I’d only worn it once a few months ago when I took Marie out for a fancy dinner in Back Bay. But I’d liked it then. And I liked it now.
When I made my way back to the front door and once again caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I felt borderline indestructible.
I looked good.
I knew I looked good.
This was my good look.
“Thank you,” I said to Sam there at the bar. I pressed my lips together and I sat down on the stool next to his. “You’re no slouch yourself.”
The bartender, a tall, formidable woman with long, dark hair, came over and asked me what I wanted to drink. I quickly perused their signature cocktails list and nothing struck a chord. It all just looked like various ways to mix fruit juice and vodka.
“Gimlet?” I said.
She nodded and turned away, starting to mix.
“What are you having?” I asked him. He was sitting in front of a pale draft beer. “I hope you haven’t paid for that yet. It’s supposed to be on me.”
Sam looked over at me and smiled a sorrowful smile. “They made me pay when they handed over the beer,” he said. “But that just means you’ll have to buy my second.”
“Fair enough.”
The bartender put my drink in front of me and I handed her my credit card. She disappeared.
“I mean, you say that, but for my second beer, I plan on ordering the most expensive one on the menu.”
We were both sitting facing forward, looking at each other with glances and side eyes.
“That’s OK,” I said. “It’s the least I can do since you took the time to teach me this.”
I started playing “Chopsticks” on the bar with my right hand as if the keys were underneath it. Sam angled his body toward me to watch.
“Very good!” he said when I was done.
“A plus?” I asked.
He thought about it while sipping his beer. “A-minus,” he said as he put his beer down. “You just missed it by a hair.”
“What?” I said. “Where did I go wrong?”
“You missed a note.”
“No, I didn’t!” I said.
“Yes, you did. You did this,” he said, hitting the bar with the same fingers I’d hit it with just a few moments ago. “And it’s this.” He hit the bar again. It looked exactly like the first one.
“That’s the same thing.”
Sam laughed and shook his head. “Nope. It’s not.”
“Do it again.”
“Which one?”
“Do what I did and then do what the real thing is.”
He started to repeat mine.
“No, no,” I said. “Slower. So I can spot the difference.”
He started over and slowed it down.
He did mine.
And then he did his.
And there it was. Right toward the end. I’d skipped a key.
I smiled, knowing I was wrong. “Aw, man!” I said. “I did mess it up.”
“That’s OK. You’re still very good for a beginner.”