Page 65 of Single-Minded
Morley stretches out on the bed and watches me as though he’s considering having me committed for psychiatric evaluation. It occurs to me that I’ve compared myself to a crazy person multiple times in the last hour, and the doctor part of my brain wonders if I somehow equate the feeling of buoyancy and freedom I’m feeling right now to mental illness. What does that say about me? Is the feeling of emotional free-falling really so scary to me? Yes, and for once, I don’t care. Call me crazy.
I pull on a hot coral-pink dress with spaghetti straps. The color is alive with hope, and I decide it’s perfect for my first official I-actually-like-this-guy date in forever. I have some strappy gold wedge sandals that are perfect with the dress, and decide I need a pedicure before my date. My toes are pale blue, which is gorgeous, but it doesn’t really go with my dress and I’m in the mood to pamper myself. I decide I’ll forgo my usual strip mall pedicure for a more luxurious experience if I can get an appointment at the Met, a local day spa. Giving them a call, I’m delighted to learn that not only are they open on Sundays, but they have an appointment available at four, which is perfect. Clearly the Universe wants me to have fabulous toes for my date with Daniel tonight. The Universe is cool like that.
Hanging up my dress, I place it back in my closet, ready for later. I rinse my face, change into a cotton shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and throw my hair up into a loose bun. I’m suddenly hungry, and start rummaging through the refrigerator for some lunch. Morley is instantly at my feet, as though he’s been paged, sputtering and purring, looking for a treat.
Selecting a bowl of chicken salad, I set it down on the island and then go back to grab the pitcher of iced tea and a bowl of grapes. Morley is howling for attention. I pull down a plate for me, and a small bowl for him from the cabinet, grab some silverware, and drop a few scoops of chicken salad in the bowl for Morley, placing it on the floor.
Morley sort of grunts and digs in to the chicken salad. I place a large dollop on my plate along with some grapes, and pour myself a glass of tea. After putting everything back in the refrigerator, I sit down at the breakfast bar and eat my lunch.
Once I’ve finished, I put my dishes and Morley’s in the dishwasher, wipe down the countertops, and head out to the spa on St. Armands Circle for my pedicure.
55
It’s almost six when I return home from my pedicure feeling relaxed and pampered, although I can’t know for sure whether it’s the complimentary spa mimosa or the leg massage that has me feeling so on top of the world. I take a long, steamy shower and add a few extra steps to my usual routine, including deep conditioning my hair, a pore-shrinking masque, and a full-body exfoliation. I accidentally get a little of the pore-shrinking masque in my left eye and it burns like hell. What do they put in that pore-shrinking stuff anyway, hydrochloric acid?
Howling and jumping up and down, I first try rinsing out my eye in the stream of the shower but it’s just making it worse, and then I scramble out of the shower, naked, shivering, and dripping all over the floor, to try to rinse my eye with cool water from the sink.Ohmygod, my eye’s on fire!
I rush to the sink and cup my hand under the water, splashing it on my face over and over again—aiming for my inflamed, squinty eye, but mostly drenching my left shoulder and the bathroom floor instead. After ten minutes of this, the burning begins to subside a bit, but my eye is still red and swollen, and my vision is all blurry. This is terrible. Daniel will be here in an hour, and I look like I’ve just gone two rounds with Laila Ali. Or a rattlesnake that went straight for my eyeball.
Grabbing a towel to wrap around myself, I dig through the medicine cabinet and locate a bottle of saline eyewash, and then try to clean out the rest of the irritant.
Desperate, I lie on the cold tile floor in the kitchen, still wrapped in my towel, with a teabag and a package of frozen tater tots over my left eye, wondering where, at this late hour, am I ever going to find a pirate-style eye patch that matches my coral-pink dress? Morley makes his way over, rests himself on the towel wrapping my hair, and licks the icy bag of potatoes resting on top of my face until I can no longer stand (about thirty seconds) the scratchy sound of his tongue against the plastic and shoo him away.
Twenty minutes later, my eye feels better, my vision has returned, and the swelling has subsided. Disaster averted. I blow my hair dry and apply a little makeup for polish.
Ten minutes before Daniel is due to arrive, I slip on my shoes, which look fabulous with my pale pink pedicure, and select an enameled floral necklace and some drop earrings to complete the look. I dump my wallet, lip stain, keys, and phone into a woven straw clutch and set it, along with a cream-colored pashmina, on top of the breakfast bar. My heart is beating like it’s prom night, and I’m hyper-aware of the fact that this is essentially my first meaningful date ever. I was never this nervous or excited to go out with Michael—I guess because we’d known each other all our lives. There is something really delicious about the unknown, the endless possibilities of where things might go, of what could happen.
Ready five minutes early, I pace around the house looking for something to do. I fluff the throw pillows on the couch, even though they don’t need it. Start a load of towels. Refill Morley’s bowl with cold water and an ice cube, just the way he likes it. Re-puddle the living room window treatments. I go into the guest bathroom to fluff the towels on the rack, and then do the same in the master bathroom. When the doorbell rings at seven-thirty on the dot, I’m in the middle of collecting Morley’s cat toys from the far reaches of the house.
I open the front door and my heart is thumping like a rabbit’s. There stands Daniel, looking dapper in a pale pink button-down shirt and a pair of linen pants.
“We match,” he says. “Actually, as Gabriel would say, we coordinate.”
“Did he pick out your wardrobe for tonight?” I tease.
“No,” he grins, “that was all me.” He leans forward and gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek. I can hardly contain my glee. “You’re not going to let me live that one down, are you?”
“Not a chance. Please come in,” I say, and he obliges.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says. “Great place. Very you.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking my clutch and wrap off the breakfast bar. He looks beautiful too, but I don’t exactly know how to phrase that. He is gorgeous, and he looks completely at home in his perfectly tropical, dressy casual attire. Like he just stepped off a yacht, or out of a Tommy Bahama catalog.
Morley appears from nowhere and starts rubbing against Daniel’s legs. Before I can warn him to beware of flying claws, he leans over and picks up Morley, cradling the cat in his arms while he scratches him behind the ear. Morley starts purring, his odd, broken motorboat purr, and I stand there with my mouth open. Daniel sets him back on the floor, and Morley purrs even louder, figure-eighting Daniel’s legs. I’m dumbfounded.
“Sweet little guy,” he says. “Shall we?” He extends his hand and I allow him to take mine.
“Wow, that’s amazing,” I say. “Morley never likes anyone. Not even me.”
He laughs. “I’m sure he likes you as much as he likes me. What can I say? Morley clearly has good taste.”
“Maybe it’s your modest personality,” I say.
“Or maybe it’s that I handle shrimp a couple of times a day.” He laughs.
Locking my front door, I follow Daniel down the front walkway to his car, a shiny black BMW. He opens the door for me and then once I’m inside, he shuts my door and heads to the driver’s side. I smile to myself; the car seems freshly washed.
“Is there any place special you’d like to go?” he asks as he slides behind the steering wheel. “If not, I was thinking maybe we’d try Sangria on Main Street.”
