Page 15 of Single-Minded
No, it’s cool. I take all my dates there.
Seriously?
No. But they do have one hell of a Slushee bar.
It’s surreal to me that you can be sitting in your pajamas with a sleep mask dangling from your hair one minute, and semi-flirting with a complete stranger in the middle of the night the next. We text back and forth for an hour or so, and then I beg off and tell him I need to go to bed. He tells me he’s a mathematics professor at New College, and is up late grading papers. I slept all day, but there’s work I need to do, and it feels weird and rude to text a stranger so late. We agree to meet the next day for drinks, which seems like a good idea at two o’clock in the morning. Maybe it isn’t. It is completely pathetic, and honestly, this guy could be a serial killer or something—but is it so wrong to wantsomekind of validation that a man, any man,any straight man,could possibly find me attractive? Everyone else apparently looks up all their exes and old high school boyfriends online after getting their hearts broken. But how pitiful am I? I don’t even have that.
I can’t just sit around letting my ovaries curdle. I’m taking charge of my love life.
13
Closr is a pain in the ass. I meet Markmatics at six for drinks at Marina Jack on the bay, and as I’m walking into the bar, my Closr app dings repeatedly with a slew of potential new matches. Slipping into the ladies’ room, I swipe up (for yes) and down (for no) to clear them from my phone, otherwise the damned thing will keep making that appalling noise—aah-OOH-guh, aah-OOH-guh,like an old-fashioned car horn. The wails of a Richter 7 orgasm would be more subtle, but I can’t figure out a way to change it without turning off my ringer completely, and that’s a nonoption. There are not one buttwodifferent shirtless men wearing furry unicorn masks on my Closr feed, which weirds me out in a way I can’t begin to describe. Is this a thing? Eighteen photos later, mostly no’s, and a fewoh-hell-no’s,I readjust my push-up bra, touch up my lip gloss, and make my way back into the restaurant to meet Markmatics. He’s at the bar, and waves to me as I enter. At least I think it’s him. Otherwise, some stranger is very happy to see me. Okay, he looks nice. A little pudgier than his photo, but nice.
“Hey, Alex, good to meet you in person,” he says, standing as I near the bar. He leans forward like he’s going to kiss me on the cheek, and then turns a bright shade of fuchsia, like he’s thought better of it.
“Nice to meet you too,” I say. He motions to a stool on his right and I sit down. I feel awkward—very, very awkward. And guilty as hell, which I do not understand. My husband is gay. We’re getting a divorce. Why the guilt? The bartender comes by and I order a glass of rosé. Markmatics is already drinking a dark beer of some kind.
“So, Closr…,” he says. I nod. That’s not really a question. “You’re pretty,” he says, and then adds unsubtly, “Why are you single?” Which feels to me like he’s really askingWhat’s wrong with you?
“I have webbed feet,” I crack.
“Really?” he asks.
“No.” I laugh, and he smiles.
So I tell him about Michael cheating on me, leaving out the part about him being gay. I’m not sure why. The cheating is humiliating enough. Besides, Markmatics is clearly already wondering which part of me is defective. I don’t exactly want to drop bread crumbs. The bartender brings Markmatics another beer, and me another glass of wine, and a plate of mini–crab cakes for us to share. He’s a really good listener, and before I can stop myself, I end up spilling the whole wretched story.
“Oh, that guy Michael Miller from ESPN who screwed around with Bobby Cavale? I’ve seen that guy,” he says. “I love basketball.”
Oh goody, a fan. Even as I see the inappropriateness of my oversharing in his eyes, I can’t help it, I just keep talking and talking. And then I’m crying. Right there at the bar in front of a mortified stranger, dabbing my eyes with my used napkin and trying not to get any remoulade in my eyes.
“Uh,” he says
“I’m so sorry, this is the first time I’ve ever been out with anyone.” I sniffle.
“Ever?” he asks. I nod yes and a look of panic flashes in his eyes.
“Really, I’m sorry.” I sniffle again, trying to pull myself together. “I was just thinking about… how much I really love the curly fries here.” Crap, this place is pretty nice; I don’t know if they evenhavecurly fries. But I have bigger problems. I smile fakely and brightly and take a big swig of my wine. “So, Mark, tell me about your five-year plan.” I’m acting crazy,I know I’m acting crazy. And yet I can’t seem to stop myself. Stop! Stop!I can’t stop.What’s wrong with me?
“My what?” he asks.
“Your five-year plan. Where do you see yourself in five years? Married? Having kids? Still teaching at the college? You know, your plan for your future?”
He looks at me like I’ve just told him I have a radioactive STD, and stands up from his bar stool without warning. Quick as a flash, he rummages around in his wallet for some cash and drops a fifty-dollar bill on the bar.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just remembered I have to be somewhere else.”
“Oh, really?” I ask.
“Um, yeah. My pet ferret, his name is Arnold. He’s… um, brown. He had surgery today at the pet hospital and I just remembered that visiting hours are about to end. It’s pretty serious. We’re not sure if he’s going to make it.”
“Oh my goodness,” I say. “I’m so sorry. What happened to him? Do you want me to come with you to the pet hospital for support?” Losing a pet can be very traumatic.
“Oh… Um, no, but thank you,” he stammers.
“I really don’t mind,” I say.
“Well, Iwould,but, um, unfortunately.…” He hesitates. “Uh, the pet hospital is very strict, they won’t allow any visitors who aren’t family…”
