Page 1 of Taking A Chance

1

Cora

I wishI could say exactly how I got here, how I arrived at this moment. Where did I go wrong? What god or goddess did I piss off? What sin from a former life followed me to this one? And the answer is: I don’t fucking know. I don’t know why I’m sitting across from Frank, a junior accountant at some-white-man’s-name accounting firm. I know he said the name, I just don’t remember it. Of course, that’s not my fault. You remember that FRIENDS episode where Ross and Charlie are with professor what’s his face and he’s listing off all his allergies in a monotone monologue? Yeah, I’m pretty sure Frank is that guy’s slightly better looking brother. This is the price I pay for Internet dating.

“So, Frank,” I say, interrupting his ramblings about accounting and how tedious the job can be. “What do you like to do for fun?”

I don’t take my eyes from my menu as I interrupt him, or as he begins to answer. I chew on my top lip as he describes a game called frisbee golf and I want to stab myself with the butter knife next to my plate. In fact, the only thing that stops me is the thought of Frank possibly crying. He looks like a crier.

I peek up over my menu, assessing him. The photo he used on his profile must be old. Possibly filtered. Frank’s not…ugly. He’s not overweight or balding. His face is okay, plain, unimpressive. Frank is a giant scoop of cheap vanilla ice cream. Not even specks from the real vanilla bean. He’s wearing a lavender polo shirt. It feels like something you’d wear while golfing, or maybe frisbee golfing if the rules are the same. Or maybe you’d wear it in a business casual office setting. A lavender polo shirt doesn’t say “first date” to me, but who am I to judge? Oh, right. You’ve been on fifty-seven first dates in the past two years, Cora. Judge all you fucking want!

The waitress takes our menus from us and I take several gulps from my glass of red wine. Frank ordered sparkling water, if that tells you anything.

“So, Cora. That’s an interesting name,” he says. “Feels very exotic.”

“I guess when you compare it to Frank, it is.”

“Well, I’m German, and my mother’s side has a little French. I studied French in college, you know? I like to woo the ladies with it,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me.

I swear if this guy starts trying to speak French, I’m out of here.

“I’ve been to France. Didn’t really like it,” I say, keeping my tone flat.

“Oh,” he says.

I let the silence fall over us after that, choosing instead to focus my efforts on the basket of bread in the center of the table. I love bread. I don’t care if I do have a few extra pounds in the rear, I will not give up bread. All bread. Any bread.

Frank clears his throat uncomfortably loud as I slather butter onto a freshly baked chunk of Italian loaf.

“Did you want some?” I ask, licking butter from my thumb and making a smacking noise in the process.

“No, I’m okay,” he says, studying me with his head tilted slightly. “So, why online dating? And have you had any luck?”

“Well, Frank,” I say, leaning back into my seat and ripping a bite of bread off with my teeth, “if I’d had any luck, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

“Oh,” he says again—apparently his favorite one-word answer.

“No offense, Frank,” I offer, “I’ve just done a lot of online dating. Like, a lot.”

I don’t know why I’m being so cold to Frank. It’s not his fault. Actually, I take that back. His vanilla-ness is putting me in a sour mood, so it is his fault.

“Well, maybe I’m the right guy for you,” Frank quips.

Before I can stop it, a snort escapes me. I actually fucking snort at the guy. I make eye contact with him and he looks hurt. Now I feel bad, though only a bit.

Our food arrives, and I welcome the silence while we eat. Lucky for me, he’s not a talk-with-your-mouth-half-full type of dude. I swear, the next first date I go on better take me to pole dancing lessons or to pick fruit in an orchard. Or maybe kayaking. I realize none of those things are similar, but I need some fucking spice in my life.

I think there’s a potential candidate for something like that in my dating profile inbox. What’s his name? Ian? Aaron? Something like that. I’ll check when I get home.

I know if I told anyone I was planning my next date while still on my current date, I might face a little judgment. But honestly, I know what I’m looking for, and I know Frank isn’t it. Why waste time? Precious time I could lose withthe one. And when I put it that way, people don’t tend to argue. I figure I’ve earned the right to be picky, to treat these damn first dates like an interview. Frank is the fifty-eighth man I’ve gone on a first date with in two years. That gives me the right to be a little angsty, right?

Frank walks me to my car, after paying the bill—which he was very proud of paying for. As he cupped it on the table and slid it in front of him, he said, “Don’t worry, I got it.” I found it very odd, because I didn’t reach for it or offer to pay. He was just very adamant for no reason. Fine, Frank. Go ahead and pay. You should since I feel like I just sat through one of Ross’s paleontology conferences.

I push the button on my key to unlock my car and Frank is right on my heels, an eagerness to him I haven’t seen all night. Where was this excitement all night, Frank? Where? I turn and extend my hand. “Well, thank you so much for a lovely evening.”

“Oh,” he says, grabbing my hand and giving it a limp shake.

Surely he didn’t think we’d kiss after…that.

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