And a

The white, thirty-seven-year-old man asks the woman beside him, “Is that really your name?” 

She’s a year older and is expecting the question. She works in tech and uses the word "data" five to twenty-five times per day, depending on how many calls she has. The data she’s collected from her dating life thus far shows a trend; all her dates have asked the question.

“Yea. It’s really my name.” She tries her best not to roll her eyes, knowing that doing so this early on would be murder-suicide; plus, she’s made a promise to herself that she’ll make it through the whole date this time. 

“There’s got to be a story there, right?” The man asks. 

She pays attention to how many questions men ask her on dates. A guy that asks questions isn’t guaranteed; she learned that from her mother. Before she can respond, her mind serves up a memory of an evening from her youth, just after her parents divorced; she’s a seventeen-year-old, and her mom, drunk after a bad date, says to her with surprising clarity, “Men are persistent, and you’re lucky as a girl if you find one that asks, most of them just take.”

The memory leaves a sour taste in her mouth, which she uses to spit back, “What an original question.” 

Now the man looks depressed, like colleagues on her sales floor who don’t hit quota. She’s never been pregnant, but the man’s face pulls at her heartstrings, and something maternal flickers inside her soul. His name is Pierce, and he resembles his profile picture, only sloppier like he’s been drinking. He has what she later describes to her friends as an “Ashton Kutcher” haircut, which lays shaggy on the forehead and over the ears. Not many men can have bangs, but the haircut elevates Pierce’s overall appearance and often fools lookers into thinking there is something uniquely handsome about him. She's not fooled, she knows it’s only a haircut, but he still looks cute - in a pitiful way - and so, like a mother to her child, she uses her eyes to guide him to ask again.

He’s timid but says, “I was just gonna ask why your parents named you Sunset.” 

Her parents named her Sunset because her dad was high and thought it would be cool, and her mom, frustrated from arguing about it, no longer cared; she was over taking part in the decision and over being pregnant. Of course, Sunset doesn’t know any of this; her parents told her she was named after a park. 

“I’m named after a park.” She says. Some guys keep the mundane going and ask her where Sunset Park is; Pierce never asks.

They’re sitting side by side on stools at the bar, and Basketball plays on the TV. There are rows of hard liquor bottles in front of her. Behind them is a mirror; she sees herself hunched at the bar and thinks the situation she’s in might be a new low; men no longer care enough to even sit in a proper seat in her presence; she’s not worthy of the space a table provides. Her self-loathing is only a momentary lapse from her better judgment, and soon she’s occupied by something else, a pain in her neck caused by having to turn to look at him. 

Pierce’s eyes follow a three-point shot by Carmelo Anthony, but all he thinks about is how stupid it was to ask Sunset about her name. The shot rims out of the basket. Pierce feels for Carmelo Anthony; he hasn’t been himself in years. Pierce’s friend, Alex, who is the same age as him and is also divorced and has a kid, told Pierce that dating is easier now that they’re older. Pierce reasons something is wrong with him; talking to people shouldn’t be so hard. The insecurity he feels in the silence between them manifests itself as he’s holding his fork; his hand starts to shake. He is such a shell of himself that eating in front of Sunset is nerve-racking. He gives up, places his fork on the plate’s edge, and grabs his beer, the only thing that seems to calm him. 

Sunset’s friends advised her to bring canned questions on her dates to use in moments of awkward silence; moments like this, right after the food is served, when they’ve already commented on how appealing it looks and how hungry they are, and have nothing else to do but consume. She appreciates her friends' suggestions and uses the questions as a crutch to avoid the one thing more awkward than silence; talking about what’s in front of you. She puts in this effort because she’s been on a half dozen dates and has never made it to the “and a” part. For example, it’s never been dinner and a movie; she’s always bailed on the guy after dinner. Sunset is determined to finish this date, and the canned questions, which she’s memorized, save her from dull commentary and allow her to begin the qualification process. 

“I’ve got a couple of random questions I can ask if you’re up for it.” She tells him. 

“Ya, ok, shoot.” He says as he takes a bite of his burger.

She asks, “What’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?” 

Pierce grinds the beef on the left side of his mouth. The most honest answer pops in his head; he could tell her it was when his fiancé left him. Pierce was thirty-one, and his fiancé took their daughter too. They left after months of enduring his downward spiral due to his friend and business partner's death; Pierce had placed his future in his friend’s hands, and then he died. Without him, Pierce was unable to get the business off the ground and was left with a mounting pile of debt, a fiancé who wanted better, and a baby who seemed to cry more often when he was around. Pierce uses his tongue to maneuver the meat to the back of his throat and swallows. The food almost feels like it's going to get stuck; he tells a different story, 

“When I was like thirteen, I was on the high-dive at this pool that we were all at for summer camp, and there was this girl that I liked who was watching me. I was going to do a front flip to impress her, so I got to the top and walked out on the high dive and looked for her. I couldn’t find her, so I’m looking for a while, and I kind of hear something behind me, but then I see her and get distracted. She’s waving at me, and I wave back, and then I got pantsed; this kid pantsed me on the high dive in front of everyone. It was crazy, and before I could react, he pushed me into the water. I landed, and the bathing suit came off, and I was completely naked. Everyone laughed at me.” 

“Holy shit.” Sunset says. 

“I know.” He says, then takes a couple of gulps from his beer, “I don’t like swimming, FYI.”

“Let’s try a different one. A lighter one, ok?” She asks.

Pierce finishes his beer and grabs another that the waiter has placed in front of him. He doesn’t like how he answered the question.

“Sure. Let’s try again.”

“Ok.” She resets, “What’s your favorite thing to do in your free time?” 

Pierce thinks about pillow fighting with his daughter. He can hear her squealing laughter as if she’s beside him. He thinks about video games too. 

“I don’t know.” He says, too embarrassed to admit either, “Maybe, just hanging out. I like watching movies.” 

Sunset almost repeats the words, “maybe just hanging out,” back to him. She notes it as another low point in her dating experience; men didn’t even care enough to seem interesting. 

“That’s cool.” She says. And with that, she disqualifies Pierce from the running. She decides there won’t be a second date. 

Pierce drinks beer like kids that come from houses that don’t stock soda drink soda. He sees by the questions that Sunset asks, how she asks them, and how she looks at him that the date's not going well. Of course, he blames himself. He believes he’s at fault for everything that’s occurred in his life; he’s not good enough to start a business on his own; he’s not good enough for his fiancé or his daughter; he’s not good enough for the tech girl beside him. 

“Damnit!” Pierce shouts, startling Sunset. 

“Everything ok?” She asks. 

He’s flustered but manages to gesture at the TV and lie, “Sorry, it’s the game.” 

The waiter comes up and takes their plates away. Pierce’s beer is half empty; Sunset’s will be gone with another gulp. The waiter asks if they want another round or if they’d like to closeout. A wave of nerves fire throughout Pierce’s body like a jolt of electricity before Sunset answers, 

“We can closeout. Can we have separate checks?” 

There’s familiarity in the sense of control she has over the situation. All of her dates have ended like this, she’s been able to disqualify them before finishing her meal, and they’ve always split the check. Still, with her eyes watching the same basketball game as Pierce, the end of her evening in sight, she feels anxiously hopeless; her window to have a kid is getting smaller every day. As the third quarter of the game comes to an end, she wonders if she’ll ever find someone to have a child with.

Pierce doesn’t notice how drunk he is until he reaches for his wallet in his right back pocket and almost falls off his barstool. Usually, this would embarrass him; he’s not good enough to handle his booze. But this time, Pierce chuckles. He finds happiness in his stupor and hasn’t felt playful like this in weeks. Some days he enjoys the way booze makes him feel, but this is more than that. He’s found something that was lost, something inside of him. He looks over at Sunset’s check,

“How much of a tip are you leaving?” 

“Twenty percent.” She says. 

“Ok.” Pierce answers before asking, “Do you want to go and do something else?” 

Pierce is looking at her with a childish grin. She's counted and knows he’s had six beers in the hour that they’ve been together and that it’s pointless to continue the evening. The uncertainty of not knowing what they would do next creates instability that she likes to avoid; Men have a way of sweeping you up into their lives. It’s why she avoided dating in her twenties; so she could focus on creating a stable life on her own. Then again, she made a promise that she would get her “and a.” She stares into his expectant eyes.

Pierce understands why she’s hesitant to elongate her time with him. He’s aware of how he acts, which is the most annoying part of his depression; he knows that he’s been behaving poorly and views the possibility of a second half to the date as his chance to make amends. He hopes to show her (and himself) that he can be happy again. 

“What would we do?” She asks. 

He thinks of something honest that he used to like to do in his free time, “Dance Dance Revolution.”

Across the street at the arcade, Pierce explains to Sunset how he does other things than watch TV. She stands in line with him, rubbing her sore neck as he talks her ear off. He’s drunk, and her motherly instinct tells her he needs this, so she humors him. Pierce tells her about the pillow fights with his daughter; he tells her about how he loves to play DDR; he even tells her that he’s been “a little sad” ever since his friend died. For the first time during the date, he believes that she’s interested. He tries to convince her to play DDR with him, but she declines. It doesn’t matter to him; he can’t be offended. 

The plastic dance pad creaks as he steps on it and takes position. Excited is an understatement. At that moment, Pierce feels like he’s finally on the precipice of his new life. On the second half of the date, he’s had no problems talking to Sunset at all. In fact, he’s enjoying himself around her. Also, he knows it’s not the booze. The booze might be hurting him. He’s surprised to see all it took was being open and honest. 

Sunset holds in her laughter as she watches Pierce's arms flail like propellers on an airplane and his feet chaotically stomp the flashing colored arrows on the dance pad. Pierce is making an ass out of himself, but he’s enjoying his game so much he doesn’t even notice. She takes a moment to breathe in the experience. She feels like she’s nurtured him in some way. There’s something childlike about how Pierce is moving just then. Sunset still won’t go on a second date with him, but she appreciates this new data point. She’s not surprised that she’s finally completed a full date; she’s surprised that she's enjoying it. Pierce isn’t the man she’ll have a child with, but he’s part of her experience in getting there.