Sometime Soon - By Debra Doxer Page 0,67

me a wide grin when we’re introduced. I smile back, and I can’t help thinking that he seems pleasantly surprised to see me. Maybe his expectations were set pretty low for this blind date.

When the introductions are finished, I settle myself on the couch next to Jonathan with David occupying the chair to my left and Laura fluttering around, filling wine glasses and making sure plates of cheese and crackers are neatly arranged.

“Laura tells me you work in the computer field,” David says, speaking directly to me for the first time. His voice is jarring, and I blink at him for a moment before answering. I recognize his voice from the message he left, but I was hoping a bad connection was the explanation for it. Obviously, that’s not it. David is a grown man with the voice of a teenage boy. It’s completely incongruous. It makes me think of David Beckham. The sound of his voice always surprises me when I hear it on television. He speaks with a high pitched nasal tone that seems utterly disconnected from the reality of the man himself. David Beckham’s voice belongs on one of the skinny, socially-inept engineering geeks that I work with, and not on the biggest soccer superstar on the planet. David Rose’s voice strikes me the same way. I wondered what his clients think when they speak to him on the telephone. I’m sure they don’t want to feel like an eighth grader is representing them.

“That’s right,” I smile politely.

“Andy just got a promotion,” Laura announces proudly.

“Really,” David replies with the appropriate amount of appreciation.

I sip my wine and nod. “And you’re a real estate lawyer, just like Laura,” I say.

“Much bigger than me, actually,” Laura answers for him. “He works for one of the larger firms in town.”

David shrugs. “It sounds better than it is. It mostly means that I work longer hours and get appreciated less.”

I chuckle and it’s real. Self-deprecating humor is nearly my favorite kind, right after dry humor.

“You’re Canadian?” I ask.

“I have dual citizenship. My father is from Canada, but my mother is from Boston. I grew up in Montreal though.”

“Do you speak French?”

David replies in French.

“Guess so,” Jonathan remarks.

“What is it you do in computers?” David asks me.

I think I stare at him a beat too long, as his disembodied adolescent voice puts me in a temporary trance. “I’m in marketing,” I finally reply.

The introductory banal conversation continues this way for another twenty minutes or so before Laura announces that it’s time to leave. David is already out in the hallway waiting when I hear Jonathan whisper to Laura, “What’s up with his voice?”

She shushes him and pushes him toward to the door.

We take Jonathan’s SUV into the city. David and I share the back seat and chat a bit about Boston and how he likes living here. He’s been here for just over a year and is still learning the ins and outs. Currently, he’s renting an apartment west of the city and taking the T into work each day. He complains about Boston drivers and their aggressiveness. “If public transportation is an option, I prefer it,” he states in a serious tone.

“When I commuted to work on Route 128,” I tell him, “I passed at least one accident a day during rush hour. I figured it was only a matter of time before my number came up.”

“And did it?” he asks.

I nod gravely, recalling the cute little hatchback I’d driven back then.

He shudders, eyeing the road in front of us.

Jonathan drops us at the door and goes off in search of parking. Café Blue is bustling. Although I’ve been here twice now, I have not been here on a Saturday night. The sidewalk by the entrance is littered with well-dressed patrons-in-waiting, sparkling and chattering under the glow of the streetlights. Laura pushes her way through the crowd toward the maitre’ d just inside the doorway and then turns back to wave us in. Apparently, those waiting outside do not have reservations.

I’m assaulted by noise when I step into the dimly lit restaurant. The familiar bar area is overflowing its boundaries, and the dining room is a sea of trendy individuals. Laura elbows me and raises her voice to say, “This place is really nice.”

I nod in agreement. With its grey-blue walls and soaring ceiling, the space itself is appealing in a modern, minimalist way. We’re led to a rectangular table for four that’s pushed against the side wall. It’s not a

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