MAGPIE (2 page)

I politely declined Tom’s offer to come over and immediately began avoiding his calls. There was something about his hyper-confident nature, I concluded, that prevented him from accepting my rejection. So he began texting me, friendly notes at first. Then, as he sensed my continued disinterest, he began to toy with me, using flattery and sexuality to…what? Get me in the sack?

Tom’s text this morning was no different. I could have—
should have
—deleted his number, but I was intrigued by his inability to let go; it made me feel less crazy about my own.

Guilt consumed me. How could I go from memories of Jack and Michael to thoughts of Tom, an over-sexed banker who fell for a woman who wasn’t even his type? Hell, it took me three years to begin to go out with girlfriends, four to attend parties that involved drinking, dancing and…men.

Five years after resentfully earning the title of “widow,” I went on a date. Not a real date, like the kind you get all dolled up for. A neighbor—a man who had to be close to seventy—watched me as I worked my ass off in the garden one Sunday afternoon. Around four o’clock, he came over and hollered over the fence, asking if I’d like to join him for a beer and a hamburger on his patio. I agreed and walked over an hour later, wiping my soil covered hands on my cargo shorts—I didn’t even think to shower first.

I poured another cup of coffee and checked my work inbox: fifty-six new emails. Time to get my ass in gear.

***

“So, how’s the dating scene, Mags?” I heard a familiar voice ask as I plopped my computer case on my desk.

Tony, my admin and professional lifesaver, is a tall, olive-skinned man, with piercing blue eyes who could easily be a Calvin Klein underwear model. Tony anticipated my dating details like a child standing in line for ice cream. He knew when and who I dated because he kept my calendar. I gave him the details of my dates because he was my friend and confidant. Tony
got
me, and I trusted him—wholeheartedly.

“None since Tom. It’s completely dried up. Wait, not me! I mean the scene!” We laughed together like teenage girls, which aroused the interest of the rest of my team.

“Come on folks, move on, nothing here to see!” Mimicking an officer directing traffic, I herded people back to work. Though part of a large tech company, my team was close and behaved more like a family than colleagues.

I was curious about my mail, not in Outlook, but my Match.com inbox. The Internet had revolutionized the workplace and created a continuous dialog about personal use vs. business use. The old guard hated it, thought it slowed productivity. Not me. Like a coffee break or a quick walk around the block, surfing the web was a release for many employees (including me), and I permitted it.

A year after sharing burgers and beers with my neighbor, I’d been convinced by a few determined friends and my sister to create an online profile. Grudgingly, I sat down at my breakfast bar, opened my laptop and scratched out a few sentences. After selecting several recent pictures, I uploaded my profile, including an eighty-seven-word blurb that would hopefully attract a good egg…or two,

I am a professional who works in the technology industry. Aside from work, I’m devoted to my family and friends—including my four legged one. I love the outdoors and live and play outside as much as possible. I’m particularly known to pack a bag and hit the road for a few days…or more. When I’m home, I can be found working in my gardens and taking an occasional break in my hammock. I’m looking to meet new friends and, if it works out, a serious relationship. Oh, and please NO “Flirts,” “Likes” or “Favs” – I only respond to original notes.

I scanned it for errors and, accepting that I had no creative-writing ability, I hit “submit,” instantly becoming part of the online-dating community.

Within weeks of joining Match.com, I realized I didn’t have the patience to search for “matches.” Instead, I’d answer penned (so to speak) messages, look at the guys who had viewed me, and ignore the saps who could only muster hitting a “flirt” or “favorite” button. Though I stated clearly in my profile that I didn’t answer flirts, I received more of those than regular messages. Funny, because so many men said they were “old fashioned” and had “traditional values,” yet couldn’t jot a simple note of introduction.
Ugh.

Having successfully logged on to my account, I noticed I had one message. Whoa, he had pictures…and a complete profile—an anomaly in the online-dating world.

I called Tony into my office, “Tony, can you come in here for a quick sec?” I’d developed a terrible habit of having someone else open my Match mail because, quite honestly, it made me nervous. I preferred Tony, but more times than not it was Katie. We’d meet after work, Katie scouring the site for potentials, while I gulped a glass of wine to summon the courage to check them out.

Eyes shut, I asked, “Can you take a look at this one?” He knew to open the profile and vet the candidate before saying anything.

Breaking that rule, however, Tony said, “Hey, I like this guy, Mags.”

I couldn’t open my eyes, “What does it
say
?”

“Hold on, wait
just
a minute,” Tony’s voice lowered an octave. “Mags, he lives in Georgia. Why the hell is he writing you?”

Tony was clearly annoyed—at himself and the suitor—and scrolled to close the tab, when I stopped him and said, “Hang on, let me see.” Why did a guy from Georgia reach out to me, a Colorado native?

I skimmed the message,

Looking for a great friendship first, that leads to a long-term relationship with someone special, someone to share my interests as I will share hers. Looking for a relationship where we both make each other better versions of ourselves.

Intrigued, I leaned back in my chair and glanced at the few pictures of “setpnt58.” He had nice eyes, great legs (guys always seemed to include close-ups in shorts if they had nice legs) and a genuine smile. I liked setpnt58.

Tony saw what was happening, “Mags, come on. It’s never going to happen. You’re going to get hurt.” He’d become the brother I never had, overly protective and doting.

“I’ll just read his note and respond politely with a ‘No, thank you.’” Before I finished my sentence, I opened setpnt58’s message,

Dear MGroadie,

We live approximately sixteen-hundred miles apart. It’s ridiculous to think that anything would come of us. But I had to write and tell you how beautiful your eyes are. I wish you all the best in your search for Mr. Right. BTW, what does MGroadie mean?

I thanked Tony for his guidance, but explained that I’d take it from there. He huffed out of my office, clearly irritated. Ignoring his silent outburst, I settled into my chair and began drafting a response in my head. What could I say to a man who lived sixteen-hundred miles away?

Dear setpnt58,

You are kind, thank you. Yes, it seems sixteen-hundred miles is too much to overcome. I, too, wish you well on your search. Re: my profile name—the “MG” are my initials, and “roadie” is a reference to my addiction to road trips. Never saw the other meaning until someone asked if I was really grody…May I ask about your profile name?

Leaving the site open, I switched to Outlook. Damn, one hundred and twelve new emails and I hadn’t opened one.

I didn’t leave the office until seven o’clock. I spent a good deal of time deflecting pranks and avoiding conversations about who did what to whom and how terribly funny it was. My stealthy avoidance drained every last ounce of cerebral muscle, forcing me to shut my door at three o’clock to get a few things done. I made a mental note to work from home on the first of April next year.

It was raining and dark when I got into my car, Jack’s ratty 2001 hunter green Toyota 4Runner; a relic I refused to sell or worse, drop off at a bleak junkyard. After starting it, I patted its dash, a practice I’d picked up from Jack. I wanted the jalopy to last forever, filling the void.

Once, driving to Boulder to visit a friend, it died. I managed to steer it onto the shoulder as it chugged to a slow, pitiful stop. I felt almost breathless as it came to a standstill, as if something inside me had ground to a halt, too. Not wanting to experience that again, I had my temperamental sidekick overhauled at a neighborhood shop. Watching the guys work on it brought about an almost maternal sense.
It needed a name
, I thought. Thereafter, my mechanical companion was known as “Beater” because, well, he was one.

Turning out of the parking lot, my stomach growled and I realized how famished I was. Thanks to my co-worker Sarah, who Saran-wrapped the refrigerator closed, I hadn’t eaten lunch that day. I heard only playful guffaws over the April Fools’ stunt while I moped about, missing my heat-and-serve low cal slop. I opted to stop by a local joint that served pretty good noodle dishes. My phone buzzed with a text while waiting for my food,

Today, 7:32 PM

TOM: Horny yet?

MAGS: I can’t do this anymore

TOM: What?

MAGS: This horny stuff

TOM: Come on, having some fun is all

MAGS: It’s not fun, more like childish - Let’s just say we had a good run and call it quits ok?

TOM: Serious?

MAGS: Ya

Tom didn’t respond. Thank God. Easiest break-up ever.

The disinterested and freakishly pierced youth at the counter called my name and handed me my food. “Thanks,” I responded automatically, to no one in particular and walked out the door.

The food smelled wonderful, and I couldn’t wait to get home. One more stop for a half bottle of Prosecco, and I’d be set. I’d learned that, during a particularly bad spell, I could blow through a full bottle in no time. Since then, restraint and I had become friends…sort of.

Placing the to-go container next to the stove, I took Cody for a quick walk around the block. The smell of the mouth-watering pasta lined our nostrils as soon as we stepped through the doorway, reminding me that I’d forgotten Cody’s food. I felt terrible, so I pulled out a single portion Angus-beef patty and defrosted it while I ate. Poor guy just stared at me in disbelief. I couldn’t help it; I was starving. In between bites, I fried the patty, leaving it mostly pink. I let it cool for a few minutes and placed it before the slobbering jowls that framed Cody’s sweet face.

“Hope this makes up for it, buddy.” Cody, like most Labs, had no capacity for grudges.

My phone buzzed, and I glanced to see who was texting,

Today, 8:51 PM

KATIE: Got the promotion!

MAGS: Great Katie, really

KATIE: Still grumpy?

MAGS: No, just ate so I’m good

KATIE: Mags, it’s going to be so amazing!

MAGS: Then dinner thurs is a must, am thrilled for u!

KATIE: What r u up to?

MAGS: Gunna chk email then bed – u?

KATIE: Out with friends to celebrate!

MAGS: Ok, be safe

KATIE: Thx MOM!

MAGS: :) Nite

That wasn’t so bad. Katie and I had finally figured out how to resolve our silly spats. Jack’s calm nature had an influence, I’m sure. He had a sixth sense about things, especially people. Gently inserting a comment or two (often one of his terrible jokes), he’d extinguish the heat between my baby sis and me, leaving us laughing at ourselves. I acknowledged him occasionally for his spot-on insights, but not enough. I didn’t do or say lots of things nearly enough. About two years ago, I quit asking God to give me five more minutes with him; now I just talk directly to Jack and leave God completely out of it.

After being woken up so early, I was tired. Normally, I’d read for a bit, curled on my comfy sofa with Cody at my feet, a nice cup of chamomile tea and light jazz leavening the mood. That night, however, I skipped all that. A quick face wash and tooth brushing and I’d be ready to fall into bed, which I did with relish.

Nearly asleep, I sat straight up, remembering the guy from Georgia. I never checked back to see if he responded to my message. I grabbed my iPad off the nightstand and turned it on. I’d downloaded the Match.com app on my phone but not this device, so I did it the old-fashioned way and entered the URL.

“What the hell is my password?” I said out loud and rubbed my eyes as if that might help me recall the information I so desperately needed.

“Why can’t this autofill like my fucking phone?” A funny thing happens when you live alone for a long time: Profanity flows like rain in spring.

Finally, I entered the correct sequence of characters and noticed a red circle above “Messages,” which showed the number “1.” Tony and Katie were not available to open the message for me, and I fumbled for a few seconds wondering why it was so damn difficult to do it myself.

“Okay, Maggie, just do it,” I whispered as though there were people in the house sleeping. The message was from setpnt58. I didn’t know when he sent it; Match doesn’t timestamp messages. I wondered if he waited to write it until he got home from work.

No time like the present, as the notable “they” say,

Dear MGroadie,

It is clear to me from your gorgeous pictures that you are NOT grody. Only a fool would ask such a question. (So now you know one thing about me: I’m no fool.) My profile name is a reference to tennis, a sport I’ve played since college. I love it and attempt a game or two every week, weather permitting. Do you know what a “set point” is, MGroadie? (Will I ever know your real name?) You know my age from my profile, so you know I was born in 1958. Pretty simple. What if sixteen-hundred miles were 16? Would you care to meet?

Have a splendid evening,

Daniel

Daniel. Nice name. “Evening” meant he wrote it earlier, especially since he was two hours ahead of me. Hmm…a tennis player. I dated one in high school. Nice legs, too. I tried tennis myself once—a complete disaster. I possess the coordination of a slug, making sports uninteresting. Jack played hockey, something I could watch because it was fast, which complimented my self-diagnosed ADD. And, of course, because he loved it.

I felt like I needed Tony to help me respond, but it wouldn’t be very professional to contact my employee at ten o’clock at night with a dating question. Propping myself against a stack of pillows, I reread Daniel’s message. I smiled with delight at his playfulness. Daniel was sweet, a word that most men hate, but a “must have” quality for me.