The Elephant in the Waiting Room

 “I had a very good reason for not answering your lousy email, and you know it! Who in her right mind would want another date with you?” That was the voice of Rona DiFranco over the phone. It sounded angry. But wasn’t it too strained to be dismissive?

“But that was eleven years ago,” I replied, hoping she didn’t hear any desperation. “I was stupid then. And lonely. Okay: not just lonely, needy. Doesn’t some kind of statute of limitations apply?”

I could picture her rolling her big dark eyes--or, the ultimate turn-off, squinching her eyes shut and shaking the black curls on her dark head to clear it. “Bzzt. Time’s up. Thank you for playing our game, Boss.”

“I haven’t been your boss for twelve years, Rona. Remnants of that boss thing made me uncomfortable around you when we met in that diner eleven years ago.  I certainly couldn’t ask for more than friendship when you reported—directly—to me. And I was married. After you left the company, and I got divorced, I still didn’t know if I could count on that wise guy attitude of yours to equalize a relationship between us.”

“I’m not a wise guy. I’m independent—especially of jerks like you.”

“Ow. But—”

“Come on, Boss. Get to it. Why are you calling me now, after eleven long years?”

She was right to be suspicious. I was making an extremely tardy call. It was late in the evening, too, by the time I had worked up the nerve to try her phone number. I swallowed. “After that fiasco in the diner, in the waiting room, I started dating another woman. My divorce attorney, actually. She was wonderful—full of humor, always aglow when she wasn’t in the courtroom, appreciating life and every attempt of mine to please her. She was her own woman, too—never took an unkind word from anyone without standing her ground. She was a lot like you.”

“Was?”

“She died six months ago.” Thank God Rona couldn’t see my teeth gritting or my eyes misting.

“That’s terrible. I’m really sorry for you, but what do you want from me? You want to start up again now that we’re old and gray?”

“Hey! Speak for yourself, DiFranco. I may have weathered some years, but I’m holding up. How about you—still running and biking—and slender?”

“Yeah. And gray. And still repelled by the way you took my greeting in that diner in Southbury.”

“Greeting? Oh, you mean that kiss?”

“You ask me out. It’s clearly a date. You write me a note in advance about how your feelings for me are changing. All this after one of the last stories you told us at work was about meeting that friend of yours from high school at your thirtieth reunion, the pretty one you never had the courage to date. How you dithered about giving her a kiss or not, how you got the courage to do it, and how it blew her away…”

“Yeah, but I didn’t blow myself away. It was too planned, too deliberate. A kiss doesn’t work as an, um, dating kiss unless it grows from what’s come before. You know, the back-and-forth, the words, the feelings, the looks in each other’s eyes—the touches, for Pete’s sake. It spoiled the whole thing for me. And, as usual, I was too slow to figure that out. I even kissed her a couple more times to try to get into it. But I never could. Or follow up with her. And it—well, it kind of broke her heart.”

“Now you tell me!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to turn you off. Or hurt your feelings.”

“Then why did you change the subject so fast? You didn’t melt in my arms. You didn’t even soften. You didn’t say a single word about the kiss. You just blinked and said you wanted to catch up on the news.”

“I wasn’t ready for you. I’m slow that way. For ages—well, for ten years, I respected you and loved the way you dealt so easily with our crazy secretary—and our crazy boss—the way you mocked them. You laughed right in their faces. And you got away with it!”

She chuckled. “Lola and Arlen? Laughing was the only way to cope with those nuts. Didn’t you get that?”

“No. I was too, uh, too reactive, too scared about keeping my job.”

“But not too scared to ask me out.”

“No. Of course not. I wanted to grow a relationship with you.”

“You idiot. Couldn’t you see how I felt about you? I thought Lola would have whispered in your ear. She certainly scolded me about how married you were until a few months before you went away for that class reunion.”

“You liked me?”

“You jerk. How many times do I have to say it?”

“So then, when you kissed me…”

“I thought it was what you were waiting for.”

“So, I blew it?”

“Big time.”

“What if I tried again?”

 “What if it’s too late? What if I’m tied down now? What if I said you were messing with an attached woman? In a long-term relationship?”

A flame grew in my chest. I gripped the phone tightly and held the microphone as near my mouth as I could. My voice tightened so much I had to whisper. “I’d say I don’t care. I’d say life is too short. I’d say I couldn’t stand the thought of blowing it with you again. I’d say I still want you, want all that big-hearted humor and poise and affection, and—"

“The person I’m attached to is my mother.”

“And I want to see your big brown eyes playing with me. Feel your hand on my arm for reassurance. Watch your shapely little caboose when you walk away—wait! The relationship you’ve been talking about is with your mother?” 

She laughed. “Yeah, motormouth. Did that finally sink in? She’s getting frail and she needs me. Anyway, that’s about it for my relationships.  My flat front seems to disappoint every guy I meet.”

“Rona, there’s more to a woman than her front.”

She hmphed. “Tell that to the rest of your half of the human race. They look down from my face to my chest. And lose their smiles. And lose interest. And walk away.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. “So, you’re not attached…to any guys?”

She laughed in spite of herself. “That’s what you take from my huge admission? My total failure to attract a man? I tell you how it turns me off men in general, and you’re glad about it?”

“Of course! Did you think I was deep or something? Haven’t you heard the word on the street? Men are shallow. I’m not claiming an exemption. I’m only claiming that I can learn. Come on, Rona. Let me buy you lunch. I promise not to ask for news.”

She sighed. “Oh, all right. But no kisses. And let’s save the deep stuff for another time. If there is another time.”

“There will be kisses when the eyes tell each other that a kiss is wanted. And not before. I promise.”

“Oh, you think they’ll do that, do you?”

“I do. Oops, wrong phrase to use this early in the game, isn’t it? Sorry.”

“Game?”

“Another wrong term. Sorry.  But isn’t it best to treat life like a game? Give me another chance at bat, Rona. No, give me a whole inning. I’m slow.

“If it’s a game, you have no runs, you have no hits, and I can’t count how many errors you’ve made, buster.”

“Buster is a term I can take. It beats boss any day. How’s Saturday for lunch?”

“Tomorrow’s Friday. How about Friday?”