Separate Checks

May Submissions

Full disclosure, I am a SWF, 29.9 years young, and finally of the realization it is time to move beyond Jell-O shooters and Karaoke nights at the nearest college pub.

I want a life of stability. A life with a real man who understands what a real woman needs and wants. I am beyond playing games. I have been a bridesmaid five times (twice for my sisters alone). I am a dog lady (yellow lab) for friendship because I do not want to be a cat lady for pity. I have a two bedroom apartment that all of my friends want to use but not one of my friends wants to share. I can laugh at what’s funny and listen to what’s important. I have cried at both funerals and weddings, but I am always alone when I do.

I know I have a counterpart, a partner, a part of my life, unknown to me, but waiting to be found. However, I want more than that. I want him not to waste time waiting for me. I want him to be actively looking for me.

I am ready to find that man who finds me and all I have to offer when he does. And when he does, I want him to appreciate the Comstock Lode that is me. I learned how to waltz and salsa, how to cook Beef Wellington, and low boil shrimp. I exercise to remain fit and read to remain aware. I expect Mr. Right to be of equally high standard with similar lofty ambitions, which leads me to my recent Gang of Four.

I found Douglas (or rather he found me) one morning in Starbucks at Biscayne Bay. He looked cute and was reading Victor Hugo’s, “Les Miserables”. He drank his coffee with a single sugar. I drank my coffee with a single sugar. He looked my way and I responded with a coy schoolgirl glance where I began to blush, turn my head slightly, but meet his glance and ever-so-slightly bite my lower lip. Even a blind man could read these signals. He rose, took his coffee, and accepted my (not so) subtle invitation to join me.

Introducing himself as Douglas, he offered his favorite book quote, “A breath of Paris preserves the soul.” While not a fan of the forwardness he displayed, I did give him credit for his chutzpah. He sat with me for the next ten minutes until we both finished our coffees. I had to get to work, so I gave him my “dating” email and asked him to contact me if he wanted.

It has been three months and counting on Douglas wanting something other than coffee.

Next came Richard at the Miami Tower. I bumped into him while the both of us were waiting for an elevator and a poor internet connection. He was on Tinder. I was on Tinder. He was left swiping. I was left swiping. He gasped at a few of the profiles he encountered. I gasped at all of the profiles I encountered. He gazed at my progress. I gazed at his progress. Richard chuckled as he turned off his phone before extending his hand and introducing himself.

He allowed me into the elevator first.

Chivalry is not dead.

As the door closed, I needed some time to introduce myself, so I pressed each button for each of the 38 remaining floors.

Then I turned off my phone before introducing myself.

I’ve been told I’ve got some moxie.

By the 20nd floor, I knew his full name, his work location, and his morning work schedule. Doctor Richard DDS could have been my next dentist (I had made an appointment for this morning) or he could have been my next date. Seeing the bevies of beautiful dental hygienists greeting him as the doors opened on the 21st floor sealed the deal, right swipe-able on Tinder.com, left swipe-able in reality.com.

I should not exclude David the banker.

I met David through a friend of a friend of a friend. He did live up to his billing. He was tall (6 feet), slim (college swimmer), polite, charming, and easy on the eyes. I was told he was well off and well spoken. We were introduced while attending an auction of modern art from starving artists. David admitted he did not understand why a canvas with a single blue streak running horizontally represented man’s inhumanity to man, while the same streak running vertically was an obvious postmodernist attempt at a cubism and impressionism fusion. All I heard while gazing into his blue eyes was the word fusion. He understood and soon swept me away to a Thai-Italian fusion bistro he knew about.

Thirty minutes later, he ordered something for the both of us I could not identify, could not pronounce, and would never be able to cook. However, I ate a small portion and felt glad fortune smiled favorably upon me during this night. We talked over coffees and curried cannolis. David had dreams of becoming more anyone ever thought he could be. He wanted a marriage like his grandparents. They were together nearly 60 years with three children, eight grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, and a house rivaling the Biltmore Estate.

I was smitten.

We exchanged phone numbers and called it a night.

Except, that I couldn’t wait, and neither could David.

Just twenty minutes into the cab ride home, just as I exited the taxi, I went bold and called him. I knew he heard his phone because (ironically) his taxi pulled up to the same building as mine, close enough for me to hear his phone. Close enough for the tramp he was with to hear his phone. They ignored my call as they briefly groped each other before walking the stairs up to the second floor to his apartment.

Mr. David, just moved in, lives one floor below me, and has a penchant for fine art, fine food, and cheap women.

Call it serendipity. I was simultaneously crushed and relieved. I debated whether to kill him or just attend his impending funeral resulting from an untreatable diagnosis.

Post-script to the life of David. He also had an eye for married women. One such woman had an overly jealous husband with a sense of commitment and the time for surveillance.

David broke his lease by month’s end and moved to parts unknown.

That leaves Peter.

Peter was shy and nice and kind and oh so gay.

He thought my interest in him stemmed from the latter as a friend.

At least that is what Paul told me. Paul was also interested in Peter and claimed first dibs. I did not put up a fight. Six months later in the RSVP to a gala to celebrate their impending nuptials, I declined the attendance to both the ceremony and the reception. I did, however, purchase a toaster for the two of them.

The card said they were registered at Target.

Nice.

So, tonight, I hold a glass of Merlot, watch my dog watch me, and wonder if I could repurpose any of the five bride’s maid dresses I have (think Sound of Music and curtains) and go sing somewhere at the top of my voice.

June Submissions

I find myself in another carpe noctem moment. Usually, on a first date, I ask that we both meet at the restaurant of choice. Tonight would not be any different. However, tonight I began to feel levels of impending doom I rarely encounter. So, I began to hedge my bets in lieu of disaster.

Tonight, I have a full tank of gas and directions to a quaint taco place that remains open late. My best friend is at her home awaiting an SOS. My dog and his need to be walked is my excuse of last refuge in case tonight’s Mr. Right does not meet my expectations.

I arrive on time with a feeling of trepidation for what might occur.

Apparently, Derrick, my blind date, is just as edgy.

I meet him at the door and shake his slightly sweaty, slightly shaking hand. He does have a wealth of good manners as he opens the door for me and smiles to display a nice set of white teeth. His socks, shoes, and belt match (all black). His coat fits. His shirt is pressed and his burgundy tie is just the right shade to compliment my red dress. I may be able to overlook his hands after all.

We make small talk until the maître d' escorts us to a wonderful table. Derrick pulls out my chair for me allowing for a spectacular view of both the massive fireplace and the river bend at dusk. Derrick takes his seat and motions the waiter over.

I do not speak French, but Derrick does. He is not fluent (his admission), but he knows enough to be functional and asks my preference. I prefer reds and that is all he requires.

“As-tu un bon Merlot?”

“Oui!”

The waiter returned with what turned out to be a vintage Merlot that did double duty paired with an appetizer (freshly made baguette with incredible butter) and our entrée (roast chicken with thyme and onion).

Maybe, just maybe, Derrick could be more than the flavor-of-the-week.

But, I still had that eerie feeling.

Our conversation included the generalities of our employment, a few laughs, more likes and dislikes, a few more laughs, and a nice finishing touch about his parent’s long marriage. Derrick was more of a listener than a speaker. He made eye contact frequently and demonstrated table manners second only to the Queen herself.

But I still had that feeling. Its classification moved from eerie to creepy. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was amiss. Nobody was this good for this long without having another shoe to drop. His hands might have been a false flag to divert my attention or foretell an imminent doom. Smart money is on the latter.

And yet, Derrick still has his attention on my words. He is both charming and clever. His voice is certain and his speech is that of refinement. From a quick visual scan of the room, I am not the only person who notices Derrick’s visible accoutrements. He can have his choice of dinner companion from the many patrons. That he chose me should make me happy.

But it doesn’t.

Now I have to ask myself, why do I have these negative feelings? I see people in movies that meet and fall in love all within a two hour span of time. My parents met on a date and they are still together. Apparently, the same is true for Derrick’s parents. In fact, I can see another couple (mid 60’s) sharing a dinner in each other’s company without reservations. Theirs is an ease that longevity develops. They have it. Derrick has it. I do not. I should. Maybe I will later.

For dessert, the waiter suggests a small gelato to share for the both of us. I vocally encourage this idea and Derrick agrees. When the waiter returns, I take the first taste and will fight a pack of wolves before I share. This gelato is divine! Coyishly, I ask Derrick if he would like some and he tells me it is enough just to watch me enjoy eating the single scoop all by myself.

Yes, I was selfish and no, I should have let Derrick eat half, but his eyes actually did light up as I devoured this treat. I noticed his hands no longer quivered nor seamed sweaty. Derrick was in the zone and the gelato was not the only treat I had at the table to enjoy.

Similar to a school girl caught eating a small chocolate; I gave Derrick an impish smile as I rested my hand on his. After a four second pause, he asked if he could see me again two nights from now for (possibly) dinner and a movie. I found his demeanor agreeable and offered a supportive “yes” to his suggestion.

Then that other shoe dropped.

By the clamor and disturbance it created, the shoe must have been one of those welder boots with the steel toe, steel soles, and as heavy as medieval armored boots.

What happened?

At the conclusion of a perfect evening, the waiter arrived with the check. Derrick took the check (I assumed he would) with his left hand. From his coat pocket, he removed a pencil and a small pad for calculations.

Using perfect arithmetic skills, Derrick calculated both his portion of the bill and my portion of the bill. My portion included the entire cost of the gelato. Gallantly, Derrick assumed the cost of the after dinner coffees for the both of us.

Note to self, this bistro charges extra for the buttered baguettes. Derrick “prorated” my financial liability by estimating (almost to the millimeter) the length of my partially eaten baguette.

His calculations were correct to three decimal places.

We (I and the other patrons of the establishment) witnessed a seismic shift from creepy to incredible. By the time I went home to speak to my friend, I guessed (not even close to Derrick’s decimal place accuracy) that I had a better chance of being struck by lightning AND winning the lottery than participating in the events unfolding before me again.

Derrick was as serious as a heart attack about separate checks. He even had the exact change for his portion and seemed a bit discombobulated that I didn’t. I, however, did have plastic and could take a shot at how much tip I would have to include preventing the staff from uploading the pictures of the developments at my table.

The maître d' gave me a slight cough to signal that a mere 50% tip would need to be filed in triplicate to avert such a catastrophe. It cost me nearly $150 to learn one French word that means disaster.

It also cost me nearly 3 hours of my life to learn my instincts are always correct.

I called my best friend to tell the story to her four times to prove to her it actually happened.

Over the next two days, I did not call Derrick (or return his four calls) to guarantee it never happens again.

I did manage to call the restaurant to disclose the name of the gelato they serve.

I picked up a small container the next day.

Somehow, I do feel a bit better.

July Submissions

Sunday morning is my time. I have the local paper delivered. I scour the stories over a pot of coffee and a bowl of diced fruit (the store bought, prepackaged type, my guilty pleasure). Next comes a pair of leggings, my hair in a ponytail, and a brisk walk with my dog. This is my “see and be seen” tour of the neighborhood. I make contact with the elderly sisters in the next apartment complex, gossip with the local gossip, and check in with my sister to cat-call the construction workers on their never ending drive to destroy (and then repair) the same section of roadway in perpetuity, all while on double time.

On average, I cover almost two miles on my circuitous route. Today, I added nearly forty feet more.

Coming toward me was a nice looking young man with an equally nice looking black lab. I caught his eye before he caught mine, but caught it he did. It does sound cliché, but I permitted my dog on his leash to be entangled on his dog on his leash as a thinly veiled pretense for the inevitable introduction the two of us would have.

He didn’t seem to mind.

I do believe if I had not taken the initiative that morning, he would have.

He told me his name was Josh and immediately inquired as to my itinerary for the remainder of the day (i.e. for the next 10 hours). Taken somewhat back by his forwardness, I found my yellow lab becoming enamored with his black lab. The tension in the leashes matched the tension of the situation. The dogs pulled us closer into a Gordian knot encounter. Not wanting to dislodge myself via the sword, I hemmed and hawed with polite conversation about his directness.

Usually, I am a much better dancer than I lead on to be.

The leashes became so restrictive, I found myself standing only inches away from Josh making his best elevator pitch for lunch and window shopping downtown. He said he could come by at noon and I could pick the restaurant.

I acquiesced to the delight of the proposal and the upcoming disentanglement scenario which lay ahead.

Upon hearing my affirmative, Josh ordered his lab to sit and then unhooked the leash.

From such a level of directness, the dog obeyed immediately.

It was only a matter of time until Josh (using an unrestricted leash) shed all bonds of physical contact between our canines.

Not wishing to be awkward, I gave him the address to my building (not my apartment) and told him I would wait outside at noon as planned. He folded his leash, told his dog to heal, and walked away. I did the same (walk away).

He did catch me turning back to take another look at him (mortified and giddy as a result).

By the time I returned home, it was almost 11 and I had no time to spare.

If a young man should have the courage to read the next lines, please memorize them, learn them, and divulge them to as many of your friends as possible.

It takes far more than an hour, even under the auspices of the word “casual” to get ready for a first date. The regime includes a shower, shampoo, conditioner, brush, floss, brush again, mouthwash, shave, moisturizing, plucking, tweezing, nail polish touch up, hair (this alone could take hours), choosing what to wear, accessorizing, re-choosing what to wear, taking a photo and emailing it to a friend (or two) to get their opinion, tell my story to each of the aforementioned friends, get their advice, rethink everything, try on an outfit, try on another outfit that has shoes I can find that actually match the outfit, debate which makeup and how much, go with my instinct, question my instinct, and settle on a nice sundress, wedge sandals, and a floppy hat to keep the sun contact to a minimum. All of this CANNOT be accomplished in a mere hour. However, by channeling my inner goddess, I pulled it off and sent a photo to all of my friends to prove I have the right stuff.

The clock read 11:59 and I was walking down my steps in my carpe diem mode.

By 12:00, I should have been in my caveat emptor mode.

My mood change was not precipitated by Josh. He was two minutes early and had the time of his life watching me walk the red carpet of the building’s stairs. True confession time, there was no red carpet to walk. However, if there was one, I would work it until it bled.

My mood changed when I saw Josh.

He was wearing the exact same clothing he wore an hour ago. His hair was uncombed. His shoes weren’t tied. His smile was perfect (bonus points for pearly white, perfect teeth), but his tee shirt was wrinkled and not tucked into his sweatpants. Note to self, is there etiquette for tee shirts and sweatpants?

This was not fair.

I just spent an hour performing Herculean feats to asymptotically approach “appearance perfection”. He (maybe) washed his face. I trained for Olympic gold and he auditioned for “Pig Pen”.

It isn’t fair.

Josh senses a level of bewilderment (obviously not the cause of my bewilderment) and snaps his fingers in front of my face to bring me back to reality.

It still isn’t fair.

He reached for my hand and escorted me to the sidewalk to begin our walk to find a nice place to eat.

If he pitches any place with the word “Burger” in the title, I will jump out into traffic.

Thinking about that, no I will not. Can you imagine me in an open casket, dressed perfectly, and Josh appears wearing that tee shirt?

That tee shirt is the one he currently sports today. The collar looks like fried bacon and is stretched to the point that someone with twice the size of a human skull could easily pull it over.

That tee shirt with enough wrinkles to mimic a spring map of the Amazon River floodplain.

I wanted to scream as we walked. I wanted him to know how angry I was.

I turned to Josh and inhaled. He was going to get it.

Unfortunately, maybe in retrospect, fortunately, I never got the chance.

The minute I turned to face him, he turned to face me.

That’s when he kissed me.

He took my breath away, right there on the avenue I live on, in full display of God and country, ignorant of all PDA protocols developed in middle school and published in Cosmopolitan covering this very contingency.

Josh just laid it on thick.

Not in a sloppy tee shirt way; more of a Rhett Butler “you need to be kissed” sort of way.

I am sure Cosmo covered this, but I don’t have that issue.

Yet.

If I had the chance to rethink the events of the day, I wouldn’t. It would have all played out wrong. My luck, Josh would be a dapper dresser, but a fish face kisser.

The day was still young and I had a solution.

This time, I took the lead.

His lab follows orders, maybe Josh will also.

I told him (not asked) to follow me to a second hand clothing store. Thirty minutes later, he wore a nice shirt and pressed jeans. I will work on the shoes later. The lady behind the counter tossed in a new comb for free.

Twenty minutes later, I ordered salads for the both of us at a little place I know that does not serve Neanderthals.

By 2pm, Josh passed for civilized.

By 7pm, Josh walked me home and passed for “better than average” kisser.

Before he departed, I told him my phone number and ordered him to memorize it.

By 7:15, he called me to prove he did.

I now have a boyfriend and a project.

Both are worthy of my attention. Both are worthy of my intentions. Of this I am sure.