From the lounge piano, lilting, soft music caressed the diners in a posh, busy, lovely restaurant. Beautiful yellow and blue fish swam laps in the aquarium. The appetizers were appeteasers. Dinner, service and the articulate, interesting man across from me made me glad I came. Far from an Adonis, 5 inches shorter than tall and hair as surely darkened by a bottle as mine was lightened, didn’t make Arnie a struck-out-again date. Conversation flowed easily without a single lull. Much of it was about his recent achievement, the publication of his book. That didn’t matter. I was at ease, relaxed and gave some thought to hoping he felt the same way. No, I didn’t FALL in love, or even ‘like’ , but there he was, the first guy who had something going for him. He wanted to take me dancing and I surprised myself by agreeing eagerly. However, when we got to his favorite place, they were closed. Our disappointment was evident to each other. Instead of dancing, we enjoyed ice cold watermelon in my kitchen . What made me feel so at ease? I couldn’t figure it out until much later.
In the meantime, I heard a very tragic tale of his daughter’s death, his divorce, break-up of a one year relationship. Listening was easy as I knew it was all laying inside of him, waiting for release. What wasn’t easy was hearing him apologize several times for being ‘down.’ Time flew quickly as did his gentle goodnite kiss. There were no dreams of him, no over-powering urge to see Arnie again, but I did want to further our relationship. He had given me a copy of his book, asking for my opinion, and that was my ‘in’ if he didn’t call. And that ‘in’ came in handy as my phone was silent until I called him Wednesday, having searched for the right positive words to describe what I felt was not a good book. Not having quite finished it, I suggested he be my guest for golf on Sunday so we could discuss it in its entirety. And so our second date was arranged.
Sunday morning he came a little early. The moment I opened the door I took a deep breath and understood my feeling good with him. Arnie was wearing an exact pair of Sansabelt slax as my husband had owned, a cotton knit shirt of perfect coordination and a little white golf cap. In his change of clothes, he had brought along was another outfit, same pants, different color, an unusual one but a duplicate of Ray’s. On the tee Arnie’s build was so much like my husband’s before cancer shrunk him to almost skeletal size, that I couldn’t watch Arnie’s shot. It was good! I was bad! I was confused but Arnie didn’t sense my mixed feelings. He was soft spoken, funny, encouraging, generous and I was soon able to separate the two.
After golf and a drink we shared a tasty pizza. I laughed at his Myron Cohen jokes and then beat him at Gin. Time to go home was nearing and when at the door, his kiss was not as friendly as the first peck. I returned it emotionlessly, nervously, thinking as our lips touched, IF he calls again, what will he expect that I will not be able to give? I really want him to call me. I want to go out with him again, or just sit home, listen to music, maybe dance a little, play cards. I think with a little persuasion, a little extra attention, I could learn to care about him but it would take time.
Sadly, and rightly, I didn’t think for a moment he would give us that chance and figured he would fade away like all the others—only this time I would have some small regrets.
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