really took to living on our side of the pond. I suppose we’d been growing apart for some time, but it still smarted. Anyway, I came home early from a business trip to London, to surprise her for our anniversary, and the housekeeper told me my wife had gone out. She wouldn’t look at me when she said it, and I knew something wasn’t right. When she came home the next morning and saw me there, she didn’t even try to deny it. She just went to her lingerie drawer and pulled out divorce papers.”
He pauses and looks directly in my eyes. I have no idea what to say. If Angela told me some guy shared all that on a first date, I’d say, way too much information. The little voice in the rational side of my brain is yowling “red flag!” at the top of her little imaginary lungs, but I’m blinded by Oscar’s looks. Every woman in this restaurant wants my date. I can’t toss him aside because he might be on the rebound like me. Or sensitive. Which, if I recall correctly, used to be considered a good thing in a man, at least until the early 1990’s or so. I take a huge gulp of my second pomegranate martini and mumble, “I’m sorry.”
He brightens. “I believe everything in life happens for a reason, and I don’t believe in looking back. But I do want to be upfront about my history. What about you, have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“Ever come close?”
“You could say that.”
The waiter reappears and provides me with a temporary stay, which is good, because I’m not eager to tell Oscar about Brendan. To an outsider, it might seem weird—no, not weird, unfathomable —that I knew a man for fourteen years and didn’t surmise he was gay. I still feel like the biggest fool ever. In my defense, Brendan went to great lengths to hide the truth. I found a bottle of Viagra after he moved out. It had fallen behind the bathroom vanity, and in hindsight, explained a lot.
Oscar asks if he can order for us, which catches me off guard because no guy has ever asked me this before. He rattles off a list of requests, and selects a bottle of wine, which the waiter calls a highly discriminating choice. Any thoughts I had previously entertained about offering to pay my share vanish. The rent is more pressing than this stranger’s opinion on my post-feminist manners.
The wine, on top of the cocktails, gives me the courage to ask Oscar if he ever asked out a complete stranger before.
“You’re the first. And don’t get creeped out. I just moved into that office a couple of weeks ago. Everyone’s telling me it’s time to get back in the saddle, but I spend so much time at work, and I can’t bring myself to do Internet dating. So when I noticed you, you seemed so beautiful, and fresh, and approachable , that I decided to dip my toe in the water. I figured the worst that could happen would be for you to ignore me.”
The little voice in my head squeals, “Line! Line!” but I silence it and smile back at him. The wine feels warm in my otherwise empty stomach and I’m getting lost in his gaze. The sushi arrives, not a moment too soon, and the wine keeps flowing. Another bottle appears and lubricates the conversation.
We actually have quite a bit of those first-date things in common. We both prefer dogs to cats, but neither of us has time for one.
It turns out Oscar’s ex-wife now lives with his two ex-Labradoodles in Paris. In addition to both being dog-less dog lovers, we both like to ski, but neither of us gets to go very often. We’re annoyed by SUV’s, reality television, and clueless people who don’t care what’s happening in the world. By the time the waiter clears the plates, my first date jitters have developed into a full-blown crush. And he’s getting cuter by the minute. Or maybe that’s the wine.
We leave the restaurant a full four hours after we arrived. When he steers me out the door, his hand lingers on the small of my back. I expect him to hail a cab, but a black sedan pulls up. “Your
He pauses and looks directly in my eyes. I have no idea what to say. If Angela told me some guy shared all that on a first date, I’d say, way too much information. The little voice in the rational side of my brain is yowling “red flag!” at the top of her little imaginary lungs, but I’m blinded by Oscar’s looks. Every woman in this restaurant wants my date. I can’t toss him aside because he might be on the rebound like me. Or sensitive. Which, if I recall correctly, used to be considered a good thing in a man, at least until the early 1990’s or so. I take a huge gulp of my second pomegranate martini and mumble, “I’m sorry.”
He brightens. “I believe everything in life happens for a reason, and I don’t believe in looking back. But I do want to be upfront about my history. What about you, have you ever been married?”
“No.”
“Ever come close?”
“You could say that.”
The waiter reappears and provides me with a temporary stay, which is good, because I’m not eager to tell Oscar about Brendan. To an outsider, it might seem weird—no, not weird, unfathomable —that I knew a man for fourteen years and didn’t surmise he was gay. I still feel like the biggest fool ever. In my defense, Brendan went to great lengths to hide the truth. I found a bottle of Viagra after he moved out. It had fallen behind the bathroom vanity, and in hindsight, explained a lot.
Oscar asks if he can order for us, which catches me off guard because no guy has ever asked me this before. He rattles off a list of requests, and selects a bottle of wine, which the waiter calls a highly discriminating choice. Any thoughts I had previously entertained about offering to pay my share vanish. The rent is more pressing than this stranger’s opinion on my post-feminist manners.
The wine, on top of the cocktails, gives me the courage to ask Oscar if he ever asked out a complete stranger before.
“You’re the first. And don’t get creeped out. I just moved into that office a couple of weeks ago. Everyone’s telling me it’s time to get back in the saddle, but I spend so much time at work, and I can’t bring myself to do Internet dating. So when I noticed you, you seemed so beautiful, and fresh, and approachable , that I decided to dip my toe in the water. I figured the worst that could happen would be for you to ignore me.”
The little voice in my head squeals, “Line! Line!” but I silence it and smile back at him. The wine feels warm in my otherwise empty stomach and I’m getting lost in his gaze. The sushi arrives, not a moment too soon, and the wine keeps flowing. Another bottle appears and lubricates the conversation.
We actually have quite a bit of those first-date things in common. We both prefer dogs to cats, but neither of us has time for one.
It turns out Oscar’s ex-wife now lives with his two ex-Labradoodles in Paris. In addition to both being dog-less dog lovers, we both like to ski, but neither of us gets to go very often. We’re annoyed by SUV’s, reality television, and clueless people who don’t care what’s happening in the world. By the time the waiter clears the plates, my first date jitters have developed into a full-blown crush. And he’s getting cuter by the minute. Or maybe that’s the wine.
We leave the restaurant a full four hours after we arrived. When he steers me out the door, his hand lingers on the small of my back. I expect him to hail a cab, but a black sedan pulls up. “Your
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