The Vanilla Candle

“How difficult would it be to screw all my furniture into the floor?” Samantha contemplated while washing the dishes for the third time. "Maybe glue would be better."

Gawking at the clock, she moved on to fluff each pillow twice. She then lit her eucalyptus-spearmint candle. It was made for stress relief but was probably just a placebo. Rushing into meditation was counterintuitive, but her definition of productivity prioritized quantity over quality. Legs crossed and eyes closed, she repeated, “Have fun. Have fun. Have fun.”

Last week, she met a guy for a walk at a forest preserve. His conspiracy theories dominated the conversation. Five days before that, she met another man for drinks. He refused to tip the waiter. A week earlier, she met a man for coffee. He was not the man in his photos.

Samantha needed a good date. Some would say she was desperate. Others would suggest near hopeless. After watching a self-help documentary, she became infatuated with control. Count the shoes. Reorganize the bookshelf. Measure the portions. Trim the house plants every day. Tape the floor to mark where the furniture goes. Triple check emails. Triple check text messages before sending them. Go to bed at 10:30 p.m. every night. Rise at 7:00 a.m. every morning. No room for error.

Tonight, she had a date scheduled with Brian. She described him to her friends as "a simple man." She scurried around her apartment trying on different shoes, shirts, pants, and skirts. One garment short of her whole wardrobe. She tested her make-up in various lightings and at different angles. Jumping from the family room to the bathroom to the kitchen. Snapping profiles. Approximating his point of view, assuming his dating profile listed the correct height. She counted 100 strokes of the hairbrush and reapplied her deodorant twice. Despite all the effort to get ready, it took her even more to leave, as if she was allergic to the doorknob.

She didn’t have OCD but hopped around every crack in the sidewalk. Better safe than sorry. She got into her car, locked it, double-checked all the windows were shut, and triple-checked the volume sat at 10. Not 9 or 11, 10. Even though she had been to this bar before, she still used her phone for directions, checking her estimated time of arrival every four seconds. She would arrive ten minutes early and get seated first. She needed to be seated first. She needed the seat with a better view of her surroundings. The waitress would not spook her. She would be protected.

She parked further away than she planned, so she hustled a bit. An increased heart rate did not help her nerves. And then she stepped on a crack. Lord. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Have fun. Have fun. Have fun.”

She opened the restaurant door and entered. She tested a smile on the host, warming up for her big event. “Hi, I have a reservation for Samantha.”

“Follow me.”

She flicked her eyes between looking at the floor and the people she walked past. In her pocket, she grazed her thumb along her fingernails, back and forth forever. Within thirty feet of her table, she saw Brian sitting in her seat. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Have fun. Have fun.”

She thanked the host and settled for the second-best position.

“Hi, Samantha,” he started. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She remembered that it was okay to say that at the beginning of the date. If he said it at the end, it meant he wasn’t interested. Samantha didn’t want another bad date, especially one that was caused by her.

“Hi, Brian, nice to meet you as well.”

Under the table, she drummed her fingers on her thighs. She always followed a specific rhythm and pattern, and now was not the time to challenge tradition. Strictly using her middle fingers, she’d hit three times on the left leg, three on the right, six alternating between the two limbs, and two on both legs at the same time. She only stopped to flip through the menu.

He talked for three minutes straight, let her squeeze in five words while he wet his throat, interrupted her, and carried on for another two minutes. He gave her plenty of time to repeat her mantra to herself. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Have fun.”

She learned he worked in banking, had five siblings, enjoyed mountain biking, dabbled in video games, enjoyed medieval literature, dreamed of being a history teacher, talked with his mouth almost full, and that he rambled when he got nervous.

“Breathe in. Breathe out.”

When he started talking about politics, she ordered another drink. He still wasn’t done with his. When she finished her dinner, he had half his plate left. When the waiter asked if they would have dessert, Samantha faked a yawn. She winced in guilt when he insisted on paying for the meal.

“Breathe in.”

They grabbed their things and exited the restaurant. 

“It was nice to meet you, Brian,” she said. As he tried for a hug, she excused herself to get to bed early. “I’m so tired. I don’t know why.”

Walking back to her car, the once all-seeing woman had now become blind. Perhaps, she stepped on each crack on purpose. Like a missile programmed to hit its target every time.

Once home, she kicked off her shoes and let them topple over and fall out of their assigned area. She plopped onto the couch, shifting the furniture out of its taped-off territory, yet she didn’t flinch. For the first time in months, she was steady.

She had no plans to do the dishes. Her pillows would remain unfluffed for weeks. She was done with meditation. She never liked it anyway.

With her coat still on, she made her way over to her collection of candles. She dusted off a vanilla candle her mother gifted her and lit it. Its one-wick flame marked the start of this woman’s new Olympic games. She didn’t give a fuck anymore.