Thirty-minute Countdown

“Something wrong with your food?”

Ray seemed genuinely concerned, as Willow picked at her dinner, despite the fact that she’d ordered her favorite pasta dish.

This was their third date. There hadn’t been any sex yet, several impassioned kissing sessions, yes, but not “going all the way,” as her older acquaintances liked to phrase it. “To do or not to do,” that was always the question. Too soon was also too easy and they’d think less of you; too slow and “they wouldn’t think of you at all,” according to dating wisdom 101. A girl couldn’t win.

At thirty-five, she should have it all figured out by now, at least that’s what she told herself. Yet, here she was, crazy turned on but trying for the “not too soon” approach. It was risky, but she was thinking that maybe their probation period should end soon. The kids were away for the night…

******

Willow had met Ray when he gathered for breakfast with six other plainclothes cops in the first-floor restaurant in the building where she worked as a receptionist. He was tall and lanky, with a no-nonsense demeanor that she found appealing, combined with his size. She often reproached herself for her preference for large men, felt it unfair, sort of like them requiring all women to have big boobs. Still, however it violated her aversion to stereotypes—big is masculine; small is feminine—she couldn’t rid herself of it, and here was this wiry giant…

Ray had been eyeing her as she walked through to the coffee area, according to the waitress who delivered their breakfasts. “I thought that tall one was going to leap over the table yesterday,” she’d quipped.

She thought the remark amusing, but on the day of the actual face-to-face, the panic of getting her kids outfitted for the school year was occupying her mind. She’d spent her lunch hour, and the remaining money from her paycheck, picking up their fall clothes and had just reached the door of the building when she ran into him—her face smack into his chest. One of the bags she was carrying fell onto the sidewalk.

She muttered, “I’m so sorry,” as he picked up the fallen package and handed it to her. She looked up and recognized him. “You’re one of the policemen from the restaurant.” She announced it as though it was a breakthrough on the six-o’clock news.

He nodded, poker-faced, indicating that she was correct, then broke the awkward silence. “Shopping on your lunch hour?”

“I had to get some things for my kids,” she responded, feeling like a giddy teenager confronted with her favorite cute boy at school.

“Hmm,” he mused, “you have kids.”

“Two,” she answered, suddenly pleased that he was talking to her.

“Ages?” he asked, sort of like interrogating a suspect, she noted.

“Seven and six.”

“Well,” he said, with a thoughtful expression, “you’ve been married a long time.”

“I’m not married anymore. It just seemed like a long time.”

He chuckled. “That bad, huh?”

“Well, it was just a big mistake.”

He studied her for a moment. “You have a nice figure for someone with two kids.”

“Oh,” she said, caught off guard. “I do exercises.”

“Play sports or something?”

“No, I don’t like sports. I do side bends, sit-ups, leg kicks, that sort of stuff.” She shuffled her packages to one side and made minor movements.

He watched her with raised eyebrows. “That’s a good thing.”

After another pregnant pause, “How tall are you?”

He looked surprised. “Six-two.”

She nodded as though approving.

“Is that a good thing?”

“That’s a real good thing.” She was saved from the embarrassment of her spontaneous enthusiasm by an unmarked police car that drove up and stopped.

“There’s my partner,” he indicated. “I gotta go, but first I should get your height.”

“My what?” She knew what he said but feigned confusion.

“I gave you my height, now I need yours.”

“I’m pretty short.”

“How short?” Another quick, stern question.

“With my wedgies?”

He gazed down at her raised foot. “That’s a two-inch advantage, so how tall—minus the wedgies?”

She took a deep breath. “Don’t I have the right to remain silent or something?”

He gave her a blunt no. “I’ll need your name as well.”

“I’m five-two, not very tall.”

“You’re tall enough,” he assured her, his declaration rife with sexual innuendo.

“I am?”

“Mm hmm.” He grinned finally. A horn tooted, which he ignored. “I’m Ray.”

“I’m Willow.’”

“Willow,” he repeated, “like the tree.”

“We had a willow tree in our yard when I was a kid,” she said. “My mother had a flower garden in front of it.”

“So, you’re named after a tree? I would have thought a flower would have been more appropriate—Lily or Petunia.”

“Petunia?” she asked, incredulous, finding his grin such a turn-on but concerned that he hadn’t asked for her number.

She needn’t have worried.

“I’ll need your number, too, so I can invite you to breakfast.”

“Are you married?” she asked, looking up suspiciously as she dug in her purse, finding a pen but no paper.

Responding to an impatient toot of his partner’s horn, he raised a clenched fist. “You can write it on here.”

He studied the number for a second. “I’ll text you tonight, so we can set up a time for breakfast,” and holding up his marked hand, “and I can make sure this number’s not to Dial-a-Prayer.” Then, heading for the waiting police car, he called over his shoulder, “And, no, I’m not married.”

She stood transfixed, as he climbed inside and rode away.

******

Breakfast went well, and by their third date, she was totally smitten.

She didn’t dare feel joy. It would be the same old story: He’d be attentive, take her out on a few dates, and after what deemed the appropriate waiting period, she would capitulate to his kisses and caresses. By that time, the way he walked, the way he smiled, mannerisms as inconsequential as arching an eyebrow or rubbing his chin would enthrall her. It would be a struggle to think of anything else as she went through her days, kidding herself all the while that what he felt matched what she felt. Usually, it didn’t. Evenings and weekends she would stare longingly at the phone, willing it to ring, totally shrouded in gloom when the coveted musical alert pierced the air, only to find the identifying name on the screen yielding that of a girlfriend or a doctor’s appointment confirmation.

If she dared ask, he would tell her she was wonderful, but, let’s see—he didn’t want to get involved, didn’t want a ready-made family, or already had someone but hadn’t said so. “I know you’ll find the right person,” he might say, words just slightly more shattering than, “I hope we’ll always be friends,” prompting the abysmal despair to roll into her system like a spring fog. She would attend to the endless needs of her offspring, drying their tears, while her own gathered just beneath the surface of her sunny facade, waiting to spill over once the kids were finally asleep and she was alone in her bed. It was from this rumination and with great surprise to herself that, on their third date, after picking at her food, she blurted, “Are you going to disappear after I go to bed with you?”

He showed no reaction. He held the stare of her pleading blue eyes for a moment, then asked quietly, “What makes you think I want to go to bed with you?” Her face fell.

“You know I’m kidding,” he said quickly, as though he realized his little joke had hurt her. “Listen,” he was momentarily serious. “Since the first time I saw you, I wanted you.” His tone lightened. “Who knows, maybe you’ll disappear. You might not like what I’m putting down.” He leaned forward on his elbows and held one index finger an inch from its companion thumb. “Maybe I have an itty-bitty one.”

She broke into a laugh. “You don’t.”

“How do you know?” he asked, his inquiry a challenge to which she promptly arose.

“Because you’d never say that if you did.” His wide-eyed nod acknowledged the wisdom of her statement.

“Besides,” she continued, “I can tell by your hands.”

“My hands,” he repeated slowly, turning them and looking them over as though they were alien appendages that had sprouted there overnight. “You mean because they’re big?”

“That’s right,” she said with great authority.

“Hmmmm…” he pondered, “I thought it was the feet.”

“I think it’s more the hands,” she said, “but maybe the feet, too.”

“Well, just in case it is the feet,” he said, “I wear a twelve.”

She laughed again but quickly resurrected her original question. “So, will you?”

“Will I what?” he asked, then remembered. “Oh, that.” He suddenly looked annoyed. “How am I supposed to know where this is going?”

“I didn’t mean you should know where it’s going,” she repeated, near tears and wishing she could take it all back. “I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

“It’s okay,” he said in a comforting tone. “I get it: ‘If I hit a home run, will the game be over?’”

She nodded.

“The answer is, ‘I don’t know.’” He spoke hesitantly, as though to choose his words carefully. “What I do know is that sex by itself won’t make me disappear, and I’m spending time with you because I want to. Beyond that, I don’t think either one of us can say. I don’t expect you to know that now.” He reached over and brushed his hand against her cheek. “Fair enough?”

“I guess so…well, yes,” she conceded. It was at that moment that she decided.

He withdrew his hand and studied the check. “So, now that we have that settled,” he said as he counted money from his pocket and placed it on the table, “how much longer are you going to torture me?”

“Thirty minutes,” she announced.

He stood, motioned for her to do likewise, and turned to leave. He held her hand as she accompanied him to the door and into the parking lot. He said nothing—not a word—until they arrived at her apartment, walked inside, and she locked the door and turned toward him. She felt good about her decision.

He looked at his watch, just before she melted into his arms.

“Your thirty minutes are up.”

♥♥♥