Sometime Soon (2 page)

“What are you having?” he asks.

“Just a Chardonnay,” I answer,
eyeing the exotic drinks being consumed around me. Hard alcohol does not agree
with me, despite my many attempts to convince it otherwise.

Within moments he has flagged down
the bartender and is moving a chilled glass of wine toward me. I reach out and
place some bills on the bar, shaking my head at him, but still smiling when he
tries to pay. This is something of a problem. I don’t like other people paying
for me. It becomes especially difficult in dating situations. Not that this is
a dating situation. But in this case, a nice-looking stranger trying to buy me
a drink could take my refusal as a rejection, even though I’ve tempered it with
a friendly smile.

This whole category of etiquette
confuses me. It seems as though who should pay on a date is an elusive concept
to both sexes. I’m an independent gal making a good living, but I’m under the
impression that the gentleman always pays if he does the asking. I’m not
necessarily comfortable with this, but I can conform to society’s dictates.
Once a relationship forms, expenses can even out a bit more. At least, this was
my thinking until various men I’ve dated complained about the “gold-diggers”
with whom they had previously gone out. When I heard “gold-digger”, I thought
of classless women trying to squeeze jewelry, cars, and other expensive items
out of boyfriends or husbands as payback for intimate favors. Of course, this
impression was mostly formed by watching too much television. But to my amazement,
these men seemed to be referring to women who simply didn’t “go for their
wallets” when the bill came after dinner or at the movies or elsewhere. During
this unsolicited post-mortem on past dating experiences, there was always the
following  “not that I would have let her pay, but she could have at least
given me the wallet-reach!” which, of course, I then gave at the end of dinner.
And that’s how I’ve handled the issue so far. I do the wallet-reach when the
bill comes. Although, I’ve been told more than once what my half of the bill
was.

But the grin I offer tonight must
be working, because Mr. Frameless Glasses doesn’t wander off after I insist on
paying for my own drink.

“I’m Jason,” he says, offering his
hand and stepping away from the noisy crowd. Very smooth, I think. I have to
move with him if I don’t want to leave him hanging on the handshake. “Andrea,”
I reply, putting my hand in his. He has a good handshake, firm and quick but
not too fast on the pull-away. His hand is dry and warm. Unfortunately, mine is
cold and wet from just having handed my wine glass off to my other hand.

Jason holds a tumbler with ice and
some clear liquid soaking at the bottom. “Just coming from work?” he inquires.

“Yes. You?”

“Survived another day in the
trenches,” he answers solemnly.

“I’ve had bad days before, but my
survival is generally a given,” I reply.

He peers down at me through his
floating lenses. “You don’t let them get to you then? Good for you.”

“I try to stay above the fray,” I
agree.

“A very good policy. You can’t be
either a school teacher or a prison guard then.”

I laugh. “Thankfully, no.”  I
take a sip of my wine when my cell phone startles me, buzzing in the front
pocket of my shorts. I promptly start to choke.

I’d transferred the phone from my
purse into my pocket in case Katie called to tell me she was running late,
which she usually was. When my phone is buried in my luggage-sized purse, I can
never get to it in time. I hold a hand up to my mouth and try to cough and
sputter as attractively as possible.

“Are you okay? Do you need me to
pat you on the back?” he jokes, moving closer.

As my phone continues to buzz, I
give a
just one second
hand signal to Jason and yank it out of my
pocket. “I have it on vibrate. It startled me.” I manage to choke this out,
feeling ridiculous as I glance at the caller ID. It’s my sister. I debate not
answering it, but she’s relentless. If I don’t answer this call, several more
will follow on its heels until I finally do pick up.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this,” I
apologize.

He offers me a good-natured shrug
and takes a step back to give me some privacy.

“I just had a big fight with Mom.”
I hear before I even finish saying hello.

“About what?” Although, I know what
it has to be about.

“The flowers. She wants me to take
time off from work next week to go check out the florist. She knows I can’t
take any time off right now. But she insists it has to get done next week or
else the flowers won’t be ready in time, and we have ten-thousand other things
to do once the florist is taken care of. I told her I simply don’t have time
right now. She should just go by herself.”

“I assume that didn’t go over
well,” I manage to say when Laura finally takes a breath.

“No, it didn’t. I don’t see what
the big deal is. Why can’t she just pick out the flowers herself? She doesn’t
listen to me anyway.”

“Because it’s your wedding.” I look
over to see if Jason is still there. He is, watching the baseball game on the
screen above the bar. With this new side view, I notice his strong jaw line.
“Laura, can I call you back later?”

“Why? What are you doing? I hear
noise in the background.”

“I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”

“Who?”

“Katie.”

“Where?”

 I’m in trouble now. Laura is
another Café Blue diner wannabe. I can’t think fast enough to lie, and I don’t
really want to anyway. “Café Blue,” I sigh.

“Café Blue! I told you I wanted to
try that place. Why didn’t you tell me you were going there tonight? I could
have met you.”

“I’m sorry. It came up last minute,
and you’ve been so busy.”

“Not too busy to eat dinner.”

“Have Jonathan take you sometime,”
I suggest.

“He’s working so late these days. I
don’t want to eat dinner at ten o’clock.”

I glance up and see Katie entering
the restaurant. “Look, I’m sorry. We can come here another time. I really have
to run.”

“Wait. Tell me how your date with
Derek went?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told
you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Derek is done. But I don’t have
time to explain right now. I’ll call you later, okay? What’s a good time?”

“There are no good times anymore,”
she says.

“I’ll call you when I get home,” I
tell her before ending the call.

I put the phone away in my pocket.
I am now roped into another overpriced dinner at Café Blue. I wave to Katie and
turn back to Jason, who isn’t there. I swivel around, but I cannot spot the
grey shirt and the perfect hair. I sigh in defeat. Once again, forces beyond my
control are conspiring against me.

“This place is so cute.” Katie beams
as she grabs my arm and looks around. “Let’s get a table by the front window so
we can people watch.”

I scan the bar once more, wondering
how he has completely disappeared, and then I follow Katie toward the maitre
d’. Katie, as always, is perfectly put together. Her tall slender form is
covered in a silky daisy print dress that flutters just above her knees. Her
curtain of dark blonde hair neatly surrounds her face and shoulders.

Katie was a psychology major in
college where we met freshman year. She now uses her great insight into the
human mind as a human resources manager for a large bank in town. That’s also
where she met her fiancé. Because she was the one who hired him, she felt it
would be a conflict of interest to date him and turned him down for over a year
before he moved on to another big banking firm in town. They still talk about
that tortured year of furtive glances and repressed feelings. I’m happy for
Katie, although I have my doubts about Mike. Katie got married young and then
suffered through a terrible divorce about three years ago, and now she seems
ready to jump back into the pool again. I have to give her credit for that.

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

“Chardonnay,” I reply, taking a
careful sip this time. “And I was talking to a cute guy at the bar until my
sister called and he disappeared.”

Her eyes widen and she glances back
at the bar. “Really?”

“Yeah, but he probably moved on to
a girl who could drink and talk at the same time.”

Katie turns back to me. “What do
you mean?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and open
the menu.

The company is enjoyable even if
the dinner isn’t. Katie is a beautiful girl and she really has no idea. She is
good-natured and optimistic to a fault. In fact, her only real fault is the way
she is constantly trying to fix me up--with anyone. Finally a few months ago, I
put my foot down. She’s been very good ever since, but I can feel her chomping
at the bit. This is the same issue over which Katie and Bryn had their falling
out. At least, that’s what Bryn claims.

I’m a fairly picky eater, and I
typically agonize over restaurant menus and drive waiters crazy by making
special requests once I finally do decide. But tonight, without much thought, I
simply order the same salad and roasted chicken I had last time. It is the
cheapest and safest item on the menu. Katie eyes me with surprise at my
definitive and speedy decision. She orders a pinot grigio and the salmon. I’m
tempted to warn her off the salmon, but I can’t come up with a good excuse
quickly enough. Fish can be iffy at good restaurants. At this one, it’s a
definite risk.

Our waiter this evening looks more
like a gawky teenager than a grown-up trying to earn a living. His face is
pocked with acne, and he seems far too young to be working, especially in the
evening.

Katie’s wine appears quickly
enough, then the waiter either disappears or ignores us for nearly forty
minutes. This place is all about the bar profits. We can’t even get his
attention for a bread basket to hold us over or to inquire as to where our
salads are. When the waiter finally approaches, tray in hand, we see that he
has brought our salads and our meals together, but we’re too hungry to
complain. My chicken is rubbery, and Katie makes a face when she bites into her
salmon, but insists it’s fine. It’s another less-than-spectacular meal at Café
Blue. Perhaps the place would go out of business before I had to come back with
my sister.

We are waiting and waiting for the
check as Katie begins explaining how much trouble they’re having setting the
wedding date. This works well for me because I’m hoping to get through my
sister’s harried wedding plans before moving right into another frenzy of
wedding to-do lists. “Laura and Jonathan are getting married in May. That seems
like a nice time to do it.”

“I know,” she says, sounding
uncharacteristically defeated. “Mike says he doesn’t care, but every time we
try to work out the date, he’s too busy or he has some excuse for why a date I
suggest won’t work for him.”

“Excuse me, miss?” the waiter says
from above. He places the bill on the table and then hands me a business card.
“A gentleman asked me to give this to you. He had to leave, and he says he’s
sorry for not being able to wait for you earlier.”

I take the card, and the waiter
winks at me before walking away. I’m taken aback, not sure if I really saw the
wink or not. Then I hear Katie stifling a giggle.

The business card reads “Jason
Randall, Financial Analyst, Prime Investments”.

“There’s something written on the
back,” Katie says.

I flip the card over and see a neat
blue scrawl with small block letters that read, “Sorry we couldn’t talk more. I
would like to. If you would, too, call me.” He’s written down a telephone
number that’s different from the business numbers on the front.

“Let me see,” Katie says, reaching
for the card. “You must have made an impression.”

“I barely said two
words to him.” I grab the card and reread the back.
“That must have been enough.”

You take your life in your hands
when you drive in and around Boston. Bostonians drive offensively rather than
defensively. The local joke is that using your turn signal is giving
information to the enemy. In the past year I’ve been sideswiped by a car taking
a right hand turn from the wrong lane, and I’ve been driven into, albeit slowly
and therefore without much of a jolt, by a newly licensed teenage girl who was
not supposed to be driving her parents’ BMW. I wasn’t at fault in either case,
but I was hassled by the paperwork and the loss of my car while the repairs
were made. But at this time of night, just after eleven on a weeknight, there
are very few cars on the dimly lit roads. I cruise easily out of the city, and
I am back at home in less than half an hour.

I love my townhouse. I bought it
last year with down-payment money I’d been saving since I started working.
Thirty is simply too old to be paying an extravagant rent in Boston. I miss
being in the city, but most of my friends have migrated west, so remaining
there just didn’t make much sense anymore. I now live about twenty minutes west
of Boston, but within walking distance to a small town center and the local
commuter rail stop, preventing me from feeling completely isolated inside
suburbia. When I first moved, I thought I might even walk to the train and
commute into the office that way. But I’m still ruminating on it as I drive my
car into the heated office garage each morning. I don’t want to rush a decision
like that. My townhouse is also closer to my folks and to my sister, which has
its pluses and minuses.

Once I bought my own place, I
donated to charity all the shabby college furniture I’d been dragging around
with me. I bought a brand new couch and bed and decorated the place in warm
shades of cream and mauve. I now have a dedicated home office and a separate
kitchen that is not part of a kitchen/dining room/living room combination as
all my apartments had been. I also have an upstairs. I really am a grownup now.