He reached out. His hand was warm. His profile said “retired attorney.” Did that mean he hadn’t made partner? Was I a bad person because I wondered?
“I cannot tell a lie.”
But actually, I could, and had arranged for Darlene to call me at 7:15 so I could bail. Like last time.
Adam led me to the table he had chosen. Is this where he takes all his first dates? I wondered and felt the corners of my mouth drop.
As he pulled my chair out, I glanced at his shoes. They were good. Guys in their seventies don’t always get the shoes right. That’s usually a wife thing. He had been divorced for a long time. Or so he said. I remembered the video and smiled.
He smiled back.
We had dry martinis. We agreed that Fareed Zakaria was a god. We found out we both loved Emily Dickinson. When my phone buzzed as we ordered, I let Darlene go to voicemail.
During dinner, he asked questions and waited for answers. He didn’t talk about his ex. I didn’t talk about Jerry’s chemo. We did not discuss our children. He mentioned grandchildren. I wanted grandchildren. We shared a piece of key lime pie – and lingered.
When we headed out, I felt his hand alight on my shoulder, just above the strap of the $150 bra I had bought for the date. I realized I wanted him to kiss me and undo it. I let myself feel the tiniest bit of hope that he might.
Which is when he said, “So, do you want to go get tattoos? There’s a place around the corner.”
Too shocked to consider that he might be kidding, I smiled and said, “What kind?”
An hour later, I had an outline of a tiny bird under a bloody Band-Aid on the inside of my left wrist. He had one on his right wrist. As he walked me to my car, he reached to hold my hand. I pulled back.
“If we hold hands, the birds will touch.”
“I forgot it would hurt.”
“Come on. You knew I was joking. I only went with it because you did.”
“Good to know. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
We reached my car. He put his hand on my shoulder again.
“Lydia, I am just as afraid as you are. But what exactly do we have to lose?”
I had a list. But before I could get started, he kissed me. I may have been a crazy sixty-eight-year-old widow who just got a tattoo on a date with a guy she didn’t know, but I knew what I liked. Then my wrist throbbed.
“I have to go.”
I drove home, took the half of a Xanax that had been at the back of my makeup drawer in a baggie for three years, and slept until Darlene called the next morning. I didn’t mention the tattoo.
“He’s a good kisser.”
“Call me after he calls.”
When he hadn’t called by lunch, I was thoroughly humiliated, sobbing uncontrollably, and sure my wrist was infected. I proceeded to eat all the cheese and crackers, google “tattoo removal,” leave a message with my therapist, and send Darlene to voice mail three times. By the time Rachel Maddow came on, I was icing, alternating between my swollen eyes and my aching wrist. My phone pinged. A text? Really! “Sorry I was too scared to call. Dinner tomorrow?
It was signed with an emoji of a bird. I smiled without thinking.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad to get a tattoo on a first date. Okay, it was ridiculous. But what if the Bard of Amherst got it right? What if hope was a thing with feathers?
I took a breath and took off the Band-Aid.
My tiny bird was red around the edges. Inside the outline of her body, my pulse beat wildly. It looked like her heart was pounding. Like she was ready to fly but wanted to stay. I took a photo and hit reply.