Page 71 of Friendshipped
Joe puts his hand on the small of Laura’s back and guides her toward the restaurant entrance. Obviously, he’s the touchy-feely type. Eddie looks at me and splays his hands out in front of himself and examines them as if considering what to do with them.
Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “After you.”
I haven’t thought the ramifications of this date through well enough. I’m trying to purge the desire for romance with Trevor from my heart and mind. I didn’t think through what it would mean if this man wanted to touch me all night, or actually kiss me. I don’t even know him.
I take a deep breath and walk ahead of Eddie. Once we’re seated, we all order. The meal moves forward with the group of us conversing mostly like four adults trying to get to know one another. That is with the exception of one not so minor detail.
It turns out Eddieisa director. Only he’s a funeral director … actually he’s a mortician. Which is fine. The world needs morticians. When we die. I just never pictured a mortician having a life outside the little concrete building where he does all his mortician things. And I write obituaries for a living. The irony.
I find myself looking at Eddie’s hands repeatedly throughout the meal and thinking about embalming or putting makeup on cadavers. Also, is that black hair on his head a toupee? It looks fake, but maybe I’m simply imagining things.
It doesn’t help when Eddie mentions details of his actual work over dinner. It’s not conducive to the whole aim of warming up to one another on a first date. I actually feel for Eddie. I imagine it’s hard to get a date being in his line of work. But, then again, he’s not doing himself any favors by virtually reenacting a visit to the Addams Family Mansion.
We order our desserts and Joe says, “So, Lexi. I was wondering if you would mind if Eddie drove you home. I would love to take a private tour of Bordeaux with Laura. And she said she’s fine driving me home if it’s okay with you.”
She did? When did this happen? Maybe when I was in a trance looking at Eddie’s hands, or studying his hair. Still. The whole point of Laura driving was so I wouldn’t end up stuck with a man I don’t know and not have an out.
All eyes are on me, and Laura keeps mouthingpleasewhenever Joe turns his head toward me. I guess she’s feeling better about Joe after this date than she did after the first. I try to be subtle as I appraise Eddie to try to determine if he shows signs of being a serial killer. I don’t exactly know what those signs could be, but I’m still checking.
I mentally review the night. He pocketed his hands when he could tell I didn’t want him to touch my back outside the restaurant. He hasn’t tried to touch me or even put his arm across the back of my chair like Joe has with Laura all night long.
“Is that okay with you, Eddie?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
Laura mouthsthank youwith a big smile on her face.
After my consent, Laura and Joe act like kids forced to stay seated at their desks on the last day of school before the final bell rings. They fidget and keep trying to make eye contact with the waitress while Eddie and I sit awkwardly across from them.
The check finally comes. Joe and Eddie pay, and then Laura and Joe make a mad dash for her car.
Then it begins.
Evidently, Eddie was playing things low key in the group setting. Once Laura and Joe are gone, he looks at me and says, “Well, Lexi. You know I wasdyingto meet you all week.”
I look at him, uncertain if he knows he just made a pun on his profession.
Then he says, “Get it,dying?”
“I do,” I say. Dying in my own small way. What is it with me and dates?
He makes a few more attempts at mortuary humor and also mentions that I write about dead people as a way to try to build some sort of love connection.
The thing is, I write about life. Granted those lives are completed by the time I write about them, but I’m not handling dead bodies or writing about deaths, per se, outside of cause of death which I try to mention quickly and move on to the commemoration.
After a few more minutes of Eddie carrying on about his work, I start to feel like I’m in the scene in Star Wars where the walls of the trash compactor room start closing in on Luke, Han Solo, Chewbacca, and Princess Leia. I look around to make sure the walls of U. S. Grant aren’t compressing right now. They aren’t, but I still need air.
“Will you excuse me?” I ask Eddie. “I think I need to use the restroom.”
“Sure,” he says. “Go ahead. I’ll just be here waiting. I’m used to keeping myself company, you know, at the mortuary.”
I nod as I pull myself from my chair and walk at a not-freaked-out pace to the bathroom.
I need to talk to Trevor. Not hot Trevor. Just my best friend. I put myself in this situation. And probably, Eddie will drive me home, wish me a good night and leave me alone to hopefully not have nightmares of corpses wearing toupees and eating artichoke dip.
Once I’m in the restroom, I enter a stall and dial Trevor.
