to be declared problem- and neurosis-free, to be told by her shrink that she was wonderfully sane, amusing, talented, and well adjusted. She realizes that’s how Kurt is approaching FirstDate, with the goal of being declared a perfect date.
“How about we just try to figure out some new romantic approaches for you?” she says and tries to come up with an appropriate war metaphor that will bring him around, but all that comes to mind is
Damn the torpedos! Full speed ahead,
which seems more like advice for herself. She opts for a sports cliché instead: “Kurt, we’re on the same team here.”
It turns out that Kurt speaks Sports as well as War. “All’s forgiven,” he says, smiling. “Ready for dinner?”
Forgiven?
thinks Martha, slightly rankled.
Kurt signals the tuxedoed maître d’ and they’re escorted from the bar to a lovely table, secluded in a corner. Kurt gently pulls the chair out for Martha. “Just because this isn’t a real date doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t make you feel as special as I would any woman.”
Martha wonders if he’s aware of exactly how unspecial saying that would make
any
woman feel.
A waiter rushes over and places a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses on the table, another brings a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and yet another sets up a bucket of ice. “The world has been very kind to me,” Kurt says, elaborating on his trust fund, his Nantucket home, his racing schooner.
When menus don’t arrive after twenty minutes, Kurt is compelled to explain that he’s taken the liberty of ordering them both the chef’s carte du jour.
Mental note: Even if your compulsive list-making has successfully
weeded out 95 percent of the female population, you never, ever presume to
order for a woman on a first date.
Over their six-course meal, Kurt tells stories in which he quotes people quoting him, makes elaborate displays of wine tasting, and sends back his filet mignon for being overcooked to medium. “When you spend this much on a meal, you expect perfection,” he explains smugly.
And throughout all of it, Martha does what Martha does best: She watches. She studies her date’s behavior and tries to enjoy herself. After dessert, she excuses herself, goes to the bathroom, and scribbles notes in a tiny notebook:
Don’t brag about
being rich, just spare no expense at dinner. Don’t boast about your fitness, let
me admire your physique. Don’t list your academic credentials, dazzle me
with your wit.
She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, noting that she’s over thirty-five, has happy eyes, and might even be good for a man like Kurt. She opens her notebook again.
Your
list of requirements for a mate is a recipe for staying single: It rules people
out. A better way to find the right woman is to be open to her, whoever
she is.
TUESDAY NIGHT — CHARLES FRINGER
Charles leaves a message on Martha’s voice mail canceling their dinner date just a few hours before they’re supposed to meet. He tells her machine that his weekly meeting has been switched to Tuesdays and he never misses them. Can they reschedule?
Weekly meeting? What could it be?
Martha wonders.
His parole
officer? Anger management? Dinner with mom? Group therapy?
WEDNESDAY NIGHT — WALTER SHERMAN
Martha is her usual ten minutes late, but Walter Sherman arrives even later, pecking away at the buttons on his BlackBerry. When he finally looks up, he’s unable to find his date among all the leggy starlets who hang out at Bellisima, the Soho hot spot where he suggested they meet. Models and models-in-the-making lean against columns and drape themselves over the stools, crossing and uncrossing their long legs, wrapping and unwrapping their willowy arms around their slender selves. Walter’s eyes move from one woman to the next, lingering over their lithe bodies, until at last they land on someone who is actually looking back at him.
Martha?
he mouths.
She nods,
yes.
Despite being dwarfed by two statuesque beauties,
“How about we just try to figure out some new romantic approaches for you?” she says and tries to come up with an appropriate war metaphor that will bring him around, but all that comes to mind is
Damn the torpedos! Full speed ahead,
which seems more like advice for herself. She opts for a sports cliché instead: “Kurt, we’re on the same team here.”
It turns out that Kurt speaks Sports as well as War. “All’s forgiven,” he says, smiling. “Ready for dinner?”
Forgiven?
thinks Martha, slightly rankled.
Kurt signals the tuxedoed maître d’ and they’re escorted from the bar to a lovely table, secluded in a corner. Kurt gently pulls the chair out for Martha. “Just because this isn’t a real date doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t make you feel as special as I would any woman.”
Martha wonders if he’s aware of exactly how unspecial saying that would make
any
woman feel.
A waiter rushes over and places a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses on the table, another brings a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and yet another sets up a bucket of ice. “The world has been very kind to me,” Kurt says, elaborating on his trust fund, his Nantucket home, his racing schooner.
When menus don’t arrive after twenty minutes, Kurt is compelled to explain that he’s taken the liberty of ordering them both the chef’s carte du jour.
Mental note: Even if your compulsive list-making has successfully
weeded out 95 percent of the female population, you never, ever presume to
order for a woman on a first date.
Over their six-course meal, Kurt tells stories in which he quotes people quoting him, makes elaborate displays of wine tasting, and sends back his filet mignon for being overcooked to medium. “When you spend this much on a meal, you expect perfection,” he explains smugly.
And throughout all of it, Martha does what Martha does best: She watches. She studies her date’s behavior and tries to enjoy herself. After dessert, she excuses herself, goes to the bathroom, and scribbles notes in a tiny notebook:
Don’t brag about
being rich, just spare no expense at dinner. Don’t boast about your fitness, let
me admire your physique. Don’t list your academic credentials, dazzle me
with your wit.
She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, noting that she’s over thirty-five, has happy eyes, and might even be good for a man like Kurt. She opens her notebook again.
Your
list of requirements for a mate is a recipe for staying single: It rules people
out. A better way to find the right woman is to be open to her, whoever
she is.
TUESDAY NIGHT — CHARLES FRINGER
Charles leaves a message on Martha’s voice mail canceling their dinner date just a few hours before they’re supposed to meet. He tells her machine that his weekly meeting has been switched to Tuesdays and he never misses them. Can they reschedule?
Weekly meeting? What could it be?
Martha wonders.
His parole
officer? Anger management? Dinner with mom? Group therapy?
WEDNESDAY NIGHT — WALTER SHERMAN
Martha is her usual ten minutes late, but Walter Sherman arrives even later, pecking away at the buttons on his BlackBerry. When he finally looks up, he’s unable to find his date among all the leggy starlets who hang out at Bellisima, the Soho hot spot where he suggested they meet. Models and models-in-the-making lean against columns and drape themselves over the stools, crossing and uncrossing their long legs, wrapping and unwrapping their willowy arms around their slender selves. Walter’s eyes move from one woman to the next, lingering over their lithe bodies, until at last they land on someone who is actually looking back at him.
Martha?
he mouths.
She nods,
yes.
Despite being dwarfed by two statuesque beauties,
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