out. When I heard “gold-digger”, I thought of classless women trying to squeeze jewelry, cars, and other expensive items out of boyfriends or husbands as payback for intimate favors. Of course, this impression was mostly formed by watching too much television. But to my amazement, these men seemed to be referring to women who simply didn’t “go for their wallets” when the bill came after dinner or at the movies or elsewhere. During this unsolicited post-mortem on past dating experiences, there was always the following “not that I would have let her pay, but she could have at least given me the wallet-reach!” which, of course, I then gave at the end of dinner. And that’s how I’ve handled the issue so far. I do the wallet-reach when the bill comes. Although, I’ve been told more than once what my half of the bill was.
But the grin I offer tonight must be working, because Mr. Frameless Glasses doesn’t wander off after I insist on paying for my own drink.
“I’m Jason,” he says, offering his hand and stepping away from the noisy crowd. Very smooth, I think. I have to move with him if I don’t want to leave him hanging on the handshake. “Andrea,” I reply, putting my hand in his. He has a good handshake, firm and quick but not too fast on the pull-away. His hand is dry and warm. Unfortunately, mine is cold and wet from just having handed my wine glass off to my other hand.
Jason holds a tumbler with ice and some clear liquid soaking at the bottom. “Just coming from work?” he inquires.
“Yes. You?”
“Survived another day in the trenches,” he answers solemnly.
“I’ve had bad days before, but my survival is generally a given,” I reply.
He peers down at me through his floating lenses. “You don’t let them get to you then? Good for you.”
“I try to stay above the fray,” I agree.
“A very good policy. You can’t be either a school teacher or a prison guard then.”
I laugh. “Thankfully, no.” I take a sip of my wine when my cell phone startles me, buzzing in the front pocket of my shorts. I promptly start to choke.
I’d transferred the phone from my purse into my pocket in case Katie called to tell me she was running late, which she usually was. When my phone is buried in my luggage-sized purse, I can never get to it in time. I hold a hand up to my mouth and try to cough and sputter as attractively as possible.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to pat you on the back?” he jokes, moving closer.
As my phone continues to buzz, I give a just one second hand signal to Jason and yank it out of my pocket. “I have it on vibrate. It startled me.” I manage to choke this out, feeling ridiculous as I glance at the caller ID. It’s my sister. I debate not answering it, but she’s relentless. If I don’t answer this call, several more will follow on its heels until I finally do pick up.
“I’m sorry, I have to take this,” I apologize.
He offers me a good-natured shrug and takes a step back to give me some privacy.
“I just had a big fight with Mom.” I hear before I even finish saying hello.
“About what?” Although, I know what it has to be about.
“The flowers. She wants me to take time off from work next week to go check out the florist. She knows I can’t take any time off right now. But she insists it has to get done next week or else the flowers won’t be ready in time, and we have ten-thousand other things to do once the florist is taken care of. I told her I simply don’t have time right now. She should just go by herself.”
“I assume that didn’t go over well,” I manage to say when Laura finally takes a breath.
“No, it didn’t. I don’t see what the big deal is. Why can’t she just pick out the flowers herself? She doesn’t listen to me anyway.”
“Because it’s your wedding.” I look over to see if Jason is still there. He is, watching the baseball game on the screen above the bar. With this new side view, I notice his strong jaw line. “Laura, can I call you back later?”
“Why? What are you doing? I hear noise in the background.”
“I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”
“Who?”
“Katie.”
“Where?”
I’m in trouble now. Laura is another Café Blue diner wannabe. I can’t think