I study my face in the mirror.
I'm not ugly, I think, but my face screams my age. A little sagging under the eyes, a few marked wrinkles, leathery skin, a few white hair. Too many white hair.
Forty three years old.
Sounds like a sentence. I here thereby condemn you to forty three years of age! SINGLE!
My female friends, all three of them, say I'm handsome, that if they would have been single they'd go out with me. Then again they are my friends. What are they supposed to say? That I look like I need two face lifts, a nose job, and a set of veneers?
Also, they are not single.
My work buddies tell me I'm fine. That I keep myself in great shape, work out six days a week, play squash and basketball. I have a successful career and I look great in shorts or in a suit. I drive a BMW, they say that says it all. Worst car I've ever owned, but it's the car to drive these days. I got nothing to worry, they say, nothing to fret about.
But again, they are not the ones out on the dating scene. Nor are they about to go out and risk having a twenty years old kid call you grandpa. What should I do then? Hit him? Run? Laugh it off? Make a snappy comeback? "Go home, kid. Your mother is calling." That will show him. Or not.
"ENOUGH!!"
Yes, yelling at myself in the mirror is just what I need. But it's true. I got to snap out of this negativity, or I'll make a fool out of myself for real.
The phone rings and it's Martha. She's giddy with excitement and had to call me one last time before our first real date. She laughs at herself, and her voice sounds like angels ought to sound.
"Yeah, don't worry. I'm just about ready. Got reservations for two, the Palomino. Yeah, downtown. Six forty five. Just look for the frail old man with a cane."
She laughs, but I gotta stop these stupid put down jokes. I'm not old, frail, nothing. Just terrified she'll be disappointed seeing me for real, and then she'll sneer and I'll tell her "I told you so!" as she walks out.
We say our I love you's and our goodbye's, and I go back to the bathroom. If I keep talking to myself this way, it will go bad for sure. Just fucking shave and get ready, dammit.
Ten minutes to seven. She should've been here five minutes ago.
Maybe she changed her mind. I know I nearly did that half way here. Then again when parking. And again when telling the pretty hostess my name.
Why am I even meeting her? It's not like we really know each other. We just chatted online, on one of those dating sites. For two months and three days. And had a few conversations over the phone.
They say that time spent with someone online is only worth a quarter of "real" time spent together. I was married for six years before my ex-wife ran off with a used car dealer. Does it mean I spent twenty four years online with her? Jesus what a nightmare! I still feel sorry for the car dealer.
Five to seven. Maybe she came in, saw me, saw how old and gray I really am, and then turned around.
I always used a good recent picture of myself on the profile, and I did send her real pictures of me. Not like Martin from sales. But you can't escape the fact that even the best of intentions can lead to false impressions. I look thinner in those shots, and more muscular. And you can't see the white hair. I think my teeth are crooked.
Maybe she ran into one of her ex-boyfriends. One of those guys who keeps calling her three months after they are through. Was it Ramon, the flamenco dance instructor? Maurice, the lawyer? Joseph, the jet setting man of mystery?? Or Gus, the salesman from Danny's Auto Monster Deals. No one is refused at Danny's.
Seven PM. Second whiskey sour. She's not going to show up. What was I thinking?! Martha is twenty years younger than me! She's a gorgeous, tall, young, toned twenty three years old woman. I could be her father! Literally. My first time was at, what, seventeen? Eighteen? That memorable.
I bet she's in a hot tub, drinking some wine cooler, surrounded by her young hot friends, laughing at the old fart who is waiting for her downtown. I even got her flowers.
I knew I was too old for her. I tried to hack this off before it turned into trouble. I told her as much when we first started talking; but she kept writing, and I responding, because, after all, I liked the attention. I should've known it was all in my head. But she did say she loved me. She said it first. On our very first phone call. My heart both sunk and leaped in joy. Part of me knew it was a cruel prank, but I was too happy to listen to my head. I just couldn't believe it. I told her I loved her too, and then we spent hours on the phone every day. Two, four, six hours on the phone, laughing, talking, like teenagers. Until today, our first real date. But now it's time face the truth. This is just a joke. The punch line has landed, the public laughs, they all point the finger at the old dunce on stage who got caught with his pants down and his heart broken. Time to let the curtains fall on the final act of this pathetic charade.
I should just go home.
"Frank?"
I wake up from my sorrows and look up to a goddess in a tight black dress.
"Martha," is all I can say. I stand up and move to shake her hand, but she throws herself in my arms. We kiss.
"Sorry I'm late." She says. "Traffic is murder this evening."
"It's all right," I say, but all I'm interested in is looking at her and holding her.
"When I came in I recognized you immediately, but you had such a face. What were you thinking?"
"Me? Oh. Uh, just work, things I forgot to do today at the office, bills. Carl from accounting got himself locked in after hours."
"Baby, shut up. You think too much."
