First Dates

I could never remember where the utensils go. Do the forks go on the right or the left? Big then little or little then big? And what about the knife? She would have known. This was her thing. But it didn’t matter, right? The effort is what counts. Hopefully, that’s still the case. I put the forks on the right, spoons on the left, the knife above and stepped back to admire my handiwork.

The table looked nice, I thought. I had set it for two, a white tablecloth, napkins on the plates—paper not cloth, I’m not that insecure—and a candle in the middle. The perfect setting for a date, or at least I hoped it was. Maybe it was too intimate. Would a restaurant have been the better choice? My stomach was tied in knots, and every few seconds kept checking my phone. I might not have felt like this if I’d chosen a restaurant. That’s a lie. I felt the same way on our first date.

She picked the restaurant and said she would be the blonde in a blue dress. At the time, I thought it was a little vague. Shouldn’t she have worn a golden broach on her left breast or, I could have worn a red carnation in my lapel, something that would stand out in a crowd? I found her anyway. She was the blonde in the red dress—the blue one had been stolen by her roommate for her date— sitting at the bar, sipping a glass of wine.

Even in the beginning, there was never any awkwardness, which was not for lack of trying. I will be the first to admit my conversation skills aren’t going to dazzle anyone but, her bubbly personality more than made up for my deficits. We talked and talked. I learned about her family, the cousin who was in jail, the great aunt who raised alpacas, and her uncle that could burp Yellow Submarine. She wanted two kids since one would be lonely, and she thought three would be too much for her. It felt like we had been dating for months, and yet I had known her all of an hour.

Blind dates are not supposed to be like that. Blind dates are supposed to start out feeling ambiguous. Your date is your buddy’s friend’s roommate’s friend, who they set you up with because you both are the weirdest people they know. You meet for the first time, awkwardly exchange greetings, laugh at the awkwardness, and then engage in the timeless banter of a first date. When the check comes, you pay and say, “This was nice. We should do it again sometime. I’ll call you.” But you won’t, and she doesn’t want you to. And just like that, you’re on to the next one.

The smoke detector screeched and jarred me out of my reverie. Shit. Shit. Shit. I knew this was a bad idea. I rushed over to the oven expecting to see a burnt log where my pork tenderloin was supposed to be. It looked fine delicious even. The flesh had turned a beautiful golden brown, and the bacon was crisping up nicely. Bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin. It was my mom’s recipe, about the only thing I could semi-reliably cook myself. She used to say, “Every man should be able to cook at least one dish that looked like his wife made it.” She was a little old school, but I took her suggestion to heart.

Smoke still laced the air. Something had fallen on the bottom of the oven and was trying to smoke me out of the apartment. Despite the chill, I opened all the windows, grabbed the tabletop fan, and aimed it right at the smoke detector, hoping it would dissipate the smoky smell a little faster. Nothing would kill the mood more than eating dinner in the middle of a smokehouse.

My phone buzzed on the countertop.

“On my way!” She texted.

“See you soon! :)” I responded, hoping the smiley wasn’t too juvenile.

I dug out a serving platter for the pork and set it on the island. A coating of dust clung to its surface, not good. I rushed over to the sink to scrub it clean in time. Had it been that long since I last used it?

It was right before her diagnosis, her dad’s birthday, I think. She made chicken cordon bleu, his favorite, and made sure to serve it on the platter. It had been a wedding gift from her parents, so she thought they’d appreciate seeing it get put to use, but I’m not sure they noticed. That was one of the last truly happy nights we had together. I still remember her mom trying to dance on top of the coffee table after having a few too many. Ikea’s cheapest coffee table wasn’t capable of handling the energy she was trying to unleash. We laughed so hard it hurt.

Everything changed after she got diagnosed. Sure, everyone put on a smile and tried to force a belly laugh when the situation required, but there was a cloud hanging over us. A voice inside our head whispering, “this is the last time” every chance it got as if we needed the reminder. Our watercolor world became a monochrome silent movie of someone else’s life. This couldn’t be happening to us, could it? But it was, and it did.

There was a knock at the door. I lit the candle, hurried over to the mirror for one last check, and ran a comb through my hair. Oh no, the windows! “One second!” I called to her, frantically flying around the apartment slamming them shut, and chucking the fan in a closet. Crisis averted.

I was halfway to the door when I saw the picture frame on the coffee table. Our wedding photo. We had our eyes shut; our foreheads pressed together. Her lips had a slight uptick in the corners as if she was about to burst out laughing. We felt so dumb posing like that, but the photographer insisted it would look good. It turned out to be our favorite shot of the day and the only one we took the time to get framed. She looked so beautiful.

I opened a drawer and slid the frame carefully inside before going to open the door. No one could replace her, but there may be someone who could add the same amount of joy into my life as she did. And maybe, just maybe, that person was standing behind the door.