Blind Date: Two Perspectives

I suck in my stomach, pull back my shoulders, my reflection in Baldwin's Cheval mirror mimics my wide-eyed expression. This indulgence of silky bra and panties feels cool and caressing on my body. A deep belly breath shoves away my distress, dread, and delight at my impending blind date. On the foot of my bed lay my chosen wardrobe: a long-sleeved, red, comfy dress, a block print scarf to accessory and my neutral flats to finish. Grabbing my crimson shoulder bag my footsteps echo down to the hallway, locking the front door, I enjoy being serenaded by the birds as I stroll to 'The Corner Rooftop,' for brunch with Morgan at eleven. While climbing the stairs to the patio, I replay our many FaceTime conversations, memorizing Morgan's features — his strong chin, wavy sand brown hair, those dazzling green eyes, and his infectious laugh. Just like a meet-cute, we have keys to recognition — Morgan will be wearing a flowered button-up I am the lady in red. 

As I follow the host to our table, I pick out the floral shirt, his hair teasing the collar. 

He stands up, towering over me in my flats, his huge palm smothers my hand. A peck on my cheek, Morgan pulls out my chair then returns his seated posture. I hook my purse over my chair, place a napkin on my lap, then look up at Morgan. My cheeks burn under his gaze. 

Cheeky 

"Well, Emmie, it's a pleasure to meet you face-to-face, in the flesh, so to speak." 

His voice is deeper than it had seemed on FaceTime.

I nod, taking a sip of water, "Hi," I feel as if I am a bug under a microscope, words erase from my mind. A big belly breath then my confidence reflates, "So, how are you connected with Ebony Stuart and Garland Klein?"

"How about we order drinks — it's a bit of a tale. Mimosa?"

"Perfect."

Morgan makes the waiter appear as if by magic, our order placed, he turns with a smile toward me. "Where was I? Ah, yes, the infamous, ' how do you know Ebony and Garland?' Garland I go way back. We both worked at the same publisher — I was a copy editor, Garland a book editor, and in our spare time we cycle together. I'm finishing off my first novel and guess who is my book editor — Garland. He's very tough. I bleed words and he's brutal. It's weird being on the receiving side."

"What's your novel about?"

"I took some time from work, a self-imposed sabbatical following my wife's death two years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Losing your partner is awful. I lost my husband six years ago."

"Mmm, Ebony had mentioned about your late husband. Baldwin, wasn't it?"

"Yes." My eyes blink as tears threaten to topple out. "Your book." 

"The book: it's a bit autobiographical about a man, selling his worldly goods and setting sail across the seas."

"Do you sail? Baldwin adored sailing; me not so much." I grab my abdomen and grimace.

"Yes, love it. Iris, my late wife, and I had a sailboat for years. When our kids were younger we sold the boat but now that's she gone, I thought I'd sail the seas in a literary sense."

"I think I'd like to read your book when it's published."

"You and a whole lot of others I hope. I've been doing all of the talking — sure you're not a journalist — you have a gift for getting people to open up while keeping yourself closed and secret. Tell me about your link to Ebony and Garland."

I smile in relief and with thirst when our mimosas arrive, tall flutes of orange bubbles. A deep draw then I answer. "I've known Ebony and Garland for decades. We, Baldwin and I, were, I am friends with Ebony and Garland. They are just fantastic friends. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Have you been here before?"

"No, I chose it on a recommendation of Ebony's. There's a hot and cold buffet or you can order from the menu."

"Mmm. What do you favour?"

"How about we order from the menu, that way we can keep talking."

"Great. " I feel a flush of heat from my chest to my chin. 

As if on cue, our waiter returns, two menus in hand, refills for our mimosas on his tray. Silence descends as we open our covers and dive into the brunch choices. I snatch a peek under my lashes, noting how his long eye-lashes, his aquiline nose. 

Morgan places his menu on our table, sipping his mimosa. I feel his eyes travel over my face, tracing a line past my throat, to my chest, my eyes meet his on his reverse review.

"Sir, Madam, have you chosen?"

Morgan nods to me, "I'll have the Rooftop brunch, poached medium, gluten-free dry toast, of fruit instead of the potatoes. Thank you." 

"I'll have the Bennie, double crisp bacon, dry marble rye. Please bring some peanut butter."

I smile. "I can't imagine toast without peanut butter."

We clink glasses, sip, our eyes electric. Morgan looks down. I stare at the top of his head, noting its fullness. 

"My daughter would have eaten peanut butter for breakfast and lunch daily, but then came school and all that anaphylaxis protocol."

"I know what you mean. What do you pack for lunches?"

We share a giggle. 

"Tell me about your daughter?"

"Her name is Raven, She's married to her physiotherapy job; her pug is my sole grand-baby. What about your children?"

"Iris and I had two — one of each — Glenys and Eugein — named after Iris's Welsh grandparents. Glenys is a teacher married to Bernard, also a teacher. They have two children — twins — identical — Alvin and Atwater now in their terrible twos. Eugein is single, happy being single for now."

"Does Raven live nearby?"

"No, I need to fly to see her, but thank goodness for technology or I wouldn't get my weekly chit=chat. Are your children close by? I bet you want to spend as much time with your grandchildren."

"Eugein lives across the continent and Glenys and Bernard live in Europe. Before children, I saw them more frequently, but now, as you likely remember, little ones are not necessarily good travellers. Enough about our family, tell me more about you — your interests, what gives you pizazz."

And it was going so well, now back to me -agh!

"After Baldwin died, I took some online writing courses, got a certificate of creative writing and have been on a creativity kick. I do aspire to get published in paper one day and have a goal to write a novel one day. Other than that, I enjoy yoga, gardening, hiking, theatre, and music with friends. I'm a passionate reader always with my nose in a book."

"Oh, so not so much into e-books?"

"Not at all! Give me a book to hold, pages to turn."

"I'm a zealous e-book reader. I find you can't beat the portability, chockablock with choices."

A techie. Yuk!

"You didn't mention that you've been published. Ebony proudly told me about your short story and sent me the link."

"Yes, I was, am proud — a baby beginning, but a start none-the-less."

"I read your piece."

"Mmm."

"Don't you want to know what I thought?"

No! How am I supposed to answer this?

"Sure. What'd you think? Don't sugar-coat your critique."

Why did I say that?

"Okay. Is this the first draft by chance?"

"Yes. You could tell?"

Duh. He is a former editor. 

"Well," he swallowed, looking in the distance, "the dialogue is sometimes inauthentic. The number of run-on sentences and comma errors pulled me away from your plot. I'm sure you've heard similar feedback from others."

Just not from a date.

My teeth grind together, I force my eyes upward and stare at him. "I can say in honesty not phrased precisely as you have. Pardon me, I need to use the washroom."

I push my chair back, speed to standing, sticking my purse on my shoulder, striding into the ladies. The room is empty, quiet, leaving my mind the freedom to push review on Morgan's musings. I stare at the woman in the glass — at her pink complexion, at her glistening eyes, at her clenched fists. Inside a cubicle, I sit, stewing, seething.

Hands washed, hair fluffed, lipstick freshened, I meander back, sliding onto my chair, cradling my purse on my lap. "Morgan, I just noticed the time and I really have to go, It's been memorable." With a smile, a tap on his hand, I turn seeking the door.

As I exit onto the street, merging with the late afternoon strollers, I breathe, listen to snippets of sociability surrounding me. Passing the park, shaded by the elm tree boughs, a warm hand cups my upper arm. I jerk away, more speed in my step. 

"Emmie. Please! stop"

*****************************************

As I shave, I study my reflection, wondering what Iris would say, as I prepare for today's date with Emmie. Buttoning up a floral shirt, a present from Iris, cinching my belt, the man in the mirror looks confident in his casual attire. The sunlight sparkles as I stride down the sidewalk to our rendezvous for brunch. I relax alone at our table enjoying the view across the city-scape.

A waft of lavender announces her arrival. I stand up, towering over Emmie, my huge palm smothering her hand. I buss her cheek, pull out her chair then return to my seat. She hooks her purse over the chair-back, places a napkin on her lap, then looks up at me. My eyes travel over her face, enjoying her cat-like eyes, pert nose, arched brows.

"Well, Emmie, it's a pleasure to meet you face-to-face, in the flesh, so to speak." 

She nods, takes a sip of water, "Hi." 

Silence.

It's like drawing water from a stone. Throw me a crumb, lady!

"So, how are you connected with Ebony Stuart and Garland Klein?"

"How about we order drinks — it's a bit of a tale. Mimosa?"

"Perfect."

I signal the waiter, place our order, then turn with a smile, "Where was I? Ah, yes, the infamous, 'how do you know Ebony and Garland?' Garland I go way back. We both worked at the same publisher — I was a copy editor, Garland a book editor, and in our spare time we cycle together. I'm finishing off my first novel and guess who is my book editor — Garland. He's very tough. I bleed words and he's brutal. It's weird being on the receiving side."

"What's your novel about?"

"I took some time from work, a self-imposed sabbatical following my wife's death two years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Losing your partner is awful. I lost my husband six years ago."

"Mmm, Ebony had mentioned about your late husband. Baldwin, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Her eyes blink back a glisten of tears. "Your book." 

Clearly, she's not over Baldwin. Why are you here Emmie? Free brunch!?

"The book: it's a bit autobiographical about a man, selling his worldly goods and setting sail across the seas."

"Do you sail? Baldwin adored sailing; me not so much." She grabs her abdomen with a theatrical grimace.

And she doesn't sail. Why did I let Ebony hoodwink me into this?

"Yes, love it. Iris, my late wife, and I had a sailboat for years. When our kids were younger we sold the boat but now that's she gone, I thought I'd sail the seas in a literary sense."

"I think I'd like to read your book when it's published."

"You and a whole lot of others I hope. I've been doing all of the talking — sure you're not a journalist — you have a gift for getting people to open up while keeping yourself closed and secret. Tell me about your link to Ebony and Garland."

Her smile shines when our mimosas arrive. 

Is she going to float through on alcohol?

"I've known Ebony and Garland for decades. We, Baldwin and I, were, I am friends with Ebony and Garland. They are just fantastic friends. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Have you been here before?"

"No, I chose it on a recommendation of Ebony's. There's a hot and cold buffet or you can order from the menu."

"Mmm. What do you favour?"

"How about we order from the menu, that way we can keep talking."

"Great. " Emmie's complexion glistens and glows. 

There's our waiter with menus with mimosa refills. In silence, menus open, choices swim before my eyes. Emmie's focus is trained on the paper as if she's about to write an exam. 

I close my menu, placing it on our table, sip my mimosa, then trail my eyes across her face, down to her throat, her breasts, back to her eyes. She catches my eyes. 

Oops.

"Sir, Madam, have you chosen?"

I nod at Emmie to go first.

"I'll have the Rooftop brunch, poached medium, gluten-free dry toast, of fruit instead of the potatoes. Thank you." 

"I'll have the Bennie, double crisp bacon, dry marble rye. Please bring some peanut butter."

Her smile brightens, "I can't image toast without peanut butter."

Ah, something we share finally.

After clinking glasses, mid-sip, our eyes merge. I look away, feeling her gaze. 

"My daughter would have eaten peanut butter for breakfast and lunch daily, but then came school and all that anaphylaxis protocol."

"I know what you mean. What do you pack for lunches?"

We share a giggle. 

"Tell me about your daughter?:

"Her name is Raven, She's married to her physiotherapy job; her pug is my sole grand-baby. What about your children?"

"Iris and I had two — one of each — Glenys and Eugein — named after Iris's Welsh grandparents. Glenys is a teacher married to Bernard, also a teacher. They have two children — twins — identical — Alvin and Atwater now in their terrible twos. Eugein is single, happy being single for now."

"Does Raven live nearby?"

"No, I need to fly to see her, but thank goodness for technology or I wouldn't get my weekly chit=chat. Are your children close by? I bet you want to spend as much time with your grandchildren."

"Eugein lives across the continent and Glenys and Bernard live in Europe. Before children, I saw them more frequently, but now, as you likely remember, little ones are not necessarily good travellers. Enough about our family, tell me more about you — your interests, what gives you pizazz."

"After Baldwin died, I took some online writing courses, got a certificate of creative writing and have been on a creativity kick. I do aspire to get published in paper one day and have a goal to write a novel one day. Other than that, I enjoy yoga, gardening, hiking, theatre, and music with friends. I'm a passionate reader always with my nose in a book."

"Oh, so not so much into e-books?"

"Not at all! Give me a book to hold, pages to turn."

"I'm a zealous e-book reader. I find you can't beat the portability, chockablock with choices."

"You didn't mention that you've been published. Ebony proudly told me about your short story and sent me the link."

"Yes, I was, am proud — a baby beginning, but a start none-the-less."

"I read your piece."

"Mmm."

"Don't you want to know what I thought?"

Now, why did I say that? 

"Sure. What'd you think? Don't sugar-coat your critique."

Beware of what you wish for lady.

"Okay. Is this the first draft by chance?"

"Yes; you could tell?"

Naive.

"Well," I swallow, looking above her head, "the dialogue is sometimes inauthentic. The number of run-on sentences and comma errors pulled me away from your plot. I'm sure you've heard similar feedback from others."

Emmie's face seems mask-like — wide-eyed, frozen.

At least she's not crying. She's got more spunk. I like that.

"I can say in honesty not phrased precisely as you have. Pardon me, I need to use the washroom." 

Idiot! She's off to the washroom for a cry. 

She pushes back her chair, stands and I enjoy the shimmy of her rump. Silent as a cat, she slips onto her chair, clutching her purse to her breasts. Her lips beckon in crimson, I want to tangle my fingers in her tresses, tease those lips. 

"Morgan, I just noticed the time and I really have to go, It's been memorable." With a smirk, she's gone.

I've got to make this better. 

Signalling for the bill, my fingers tap, my foot jiggles until, at last, the bill arrives. I shove the receipt in my pants' pocket, speed walking to catch up. By the park, beneath the elm trees, I am able to cup her upper arm. She jerks out of my grasp, her feet moving faster. 

"Emmie. Please stop!"