Is It All About A Phone Call?

He still hadn’t called, and I waited as I lay in bed, staring into the darkness.
The hours slipped by, and before I knew it, my alarm went off, indicating that it was now six in the morning and the end of my sleepless night.
*****
I grimaced and rubbed the muck out of my eyes before I dragged myself groggily into the bathroom to prepare for the day.
With my towel on the toilet and phone on top, I stepped into the shower's hot water.
I gulped in and out, in and out, while I tried to clear the fog in my head.
Big day today.
Forget him.
While I nibbled on a muffin with one hand, the rectangle smartphone was covered by the other.
The second cup of coffee had not alleviated the level of anxiety I was experiencing.
I tossed the hated instrument on the bed and dressed in a flowery shirt in red and purple and a black pencil skirt.
No secret formula existed that would make that phone ring.
He isn’t calling.
*****
Today was one that I dreaded as I waited for the elevator to send me to the second floor.
My office door was open, and my secretary, Anita, handed me five folders, and I ran toward the conference room down the hall, my heels clacking along the floor.
Once inside the room, after saying hello and shaking hands, I poured myself a drink of water with somewhat trembling hands.
Even when I set my phone to vibrate, I knew he would not call.
But just in case —!
Sitting between the two doctors I most admired during lunch, I knew I should be in the midst of the conversation, but — I seemed to be dormant — almost as if I was hibernating.
My cell phone lies in my pocketbook as a constant reminder of a promise he made but has not fulfilled.
Its weight is enough to drag me into silence.

*****
Sitting on the toilet, I can listen to the chatter of the other women before we begin another brainstorming session.
I hear the buzz, buzz of my vibrating phone, and I jump up, skirt hiked to my waist, grab my purse off the hook, and —wrong number.
He still hasn’t called.
*****
The sun dips low, and I leave the office to meet a good friend.
I’m only part way listening to her gossip.
She turns her head and asks what is wrong, and I, as I usually do, make up some ludicrous excuse as to why I'm being so silent.
It’s the grunt work, I tell her.
I dislike reviewing and approving the documentation that I must complete on a regular basis.
That, at least, is partially true.
But the real reason for my chilly demeanor lies with — him.
Why isn’t he calling?
*****
When I turn into my parking spot in the garage, the overhead light flickers on and off.
Have to get the handyman to change the bulb.
I had placed the phone on the opposite seat prepared to take it up as soon as it rang.
The seat that once was warm with his body.
Call me, — I mentally transmit, throwing it into the ether.
Over and over, I chant silently— call me.
But both the physical and mental refuse to respond.
And so I wait.
Call me.
*****
Oh god!
What woke me?
It’s my damn cell phone!
Too loud for the middle of the night.
It rings and rings.
Won’t stop.
Where the hell did I drop it?
I fumble for the switch on my lamp.
“Don’t stop your loud caterwauling until I get to you,”’ I mumble.
I hop out of bed to figure out where I left the stupid object.
Every night I would place it under my pillow so that its intense noise would shake me awake.
But not this time.
All these weeks have passed, and you, my phone, are so silent that I’ve become careless about the whole idea and left the phone wherever, not caring anymore.
You were gone from my life, and that was that.
At least, that’s how I tried to rationalize it!
I run from the bedroom to the kitchen, stumbling on my robe’s hem.
Where is it?
When I finally grab it off the counter, its stillness is just as foreboding as its noise.
And it wasn’t you.
*****
The next day sees a full schedule and a wide range of clients to meet and attend to.
Countless, endless administrative work.
I'm worn out and defeated, and the last place I want to be is in my dull apartment.
I could go to that quaint small café that opened last week.
My associates have all praised the food.
*****
After seated at a window table, I order pork chop, veggies, and white wine.
Do I continue this idiotic wait?
I will not even allow myself to ponder the idea of phoning him.
Particularly considering how much time has passed since we last spoke.
*****
Another lone diner is seated at the table next to mine by the waitress.
After draping his jacket over one of the chairs, he pulls out the chair closest to where I am and sits.
I glimpse him picking up his fork, fiddling with it between his fingers, and — it drops to the floor.
We both dive down to collect it, and our heads come dangerously close to making contact. We laugh nervously at each other.
He picks up the fork off the floor, and before I can straighten up, he says, "I see you're alone, and I'm alone. We both haven’t gotten our dinners yet. So why don’t you join me at my table?”
After resuming my seat, I consider his suggestion.
To share a table?
In the company of a complete stranger?
My initial reaction is to adhere to my standard practice.
Never talk to a —.
To be sure, that seems silly right about now.
As if to solidify the invitation, he pulls the vacant chair next to his to make way for me.
I don't see why not!
What do I have to lose?
After all, we are in a public space with people around us.
I slide the chair slightly away to sit opposite him rather than beside him.
As my fingers struggle to choose where to light, I anxiously ponder what will happen next.
*****
I have never experienced anything like this before.
I have never been so bold.
What's the harm in watching this unfold?
After all, my involvement might be as minimal as sharing a meal with him.
I can always claim I’m not feeling well and leave early.
*****
But — when he grins again, it's as if the world stops spinning.
Cannot be happening — not to me, at least!
Even though internally I’m shaking, I attempt to look calm as I reach across the table for my napkin and drape it over my lap.
He is flirting — I think.
Is he?
Because I have never put myself in such a circumstance before, I do not know how to will react.
That is — if he is flirting.
Is he flirting, or am I overestimating the situation?
"Is everything okay? Something seems to be bothering you. Is it me? Am I being too forward?”
He made this clear by pointing his index finger in the direction of his chest.
“Please let me know, and I’ll move right now.”
In an instant, my hand reaches out to grasp hold of him, and the anxiety grows at the thought of him leaving.
“Oh no! It’s not you! And please, please don’t feel obligated to go.”
My shoulders rise and fall, and my mouth opens, and without thinking, I say. “It’s just that my life is a mess, and I’m not sure where to go with it.”
Now, why did I even admit that?
The depth of his dark brown eyes is astounding as they broaden.
In astonishment or sympathy?
Disbelief that I just said that, or perhaps empathy for my misfortune?
“Oh no! I’m so sorry.”
When his hand covers his mouth, I take note of the slimness of his fingers.
I don't want him to feel sorry for me, so I answer him swiftly with a somewhat higher pitch voice, "don't let it upset you. I'll be ok," waving my hands as if trying to shake off a lingering memory.
His right hand, which does not have a ring, slides over to cover mine.
“Let’s enjoy our dinners, and I promise not to probe.”
I squirm in my chair but don’t get up.
Go on, I say to myself while my stomach twists and my heart beats somewhat faster.
Do something with this opportunity and see where it takes you.
Be contrary and interrupt life’s little circle.
Let this encounter play out.
*****
It is pretty simple to become sidetracked by looking at the activities within the restaurant.
That isn't what causes us to avoid eye contact.
It is actually me who is avoiding a confrontation with him.
It’s me that is intimidated by his seemingly easygoing manner.
“You know,” he says,” if you are going to wait for a sudden clap of thunder to change things, it will eventually happen. But why wait?”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
The moment I turn around to look at him, I can’t help but notice his strong jawline, his military cut hair, and most of all, that wide, sparkling grin.
His gentleness extends to his voice when, with a softness, he continues, “I seem to sense that you are doing a bit of foreshadowing. Telling yourself that our little meet up will end badly even before it’s begun.”
A cute little pout curves his mouth, and his head droops like a little child recently reprimanded for doing something wrong.
Oh, his mouth!
Large lips that are easy to —.
Hey, wait!
What are you thinking?
“As it turns out, I like thunder,” I say, more to be obstinate than admit he was voicing everything I was thinking.
“You do realize that you could be throwing away something wonderful?”
His tone is not exactly impertinent, but it still leaves me wondering about his intent.
He begins to stand and says, "Maybe it would be best if I didn't impose on you any longer."
I panic as I leap to my feet and grab his shirt, pulling him down.
“No. No. Sit. There's no reason for you to leave and —.”
I can’t even finish that phrase because I am so overcome with emotion. I’m waging a war inside me. How can I explain that this is not my typical behavior?
He makes me want to get to know him better.
My first instinct when seated is to fold my hands in my lap and scrutinize them rather than to gaze at the person across from me, who has suddenly become the center of my attention.
*****
How many times have I imagined myself in a fairy tale situation?
The man in my life is perfection personified.
But perfection to me is what?
All this time spent clinging to a pipe dream, and where am I today?
This is the time for me to confront reality and become more grounded.
He is never ever, ever going to call — or, for that matter, bother with me anymore.
I raise my head to look at the kind soul giving me the benefit of his time and, let's face it, patience.
Indeed, he has piqued my curiosity.
Usually, this persistence is not my thing, and my typical response is to gather myself and leave.
But now — I want to experience more freedom of movement inside my existence.
Perhaps I just need to relax my guard a bit.
Not to be so stiff and formal.
Even after all this thinking and analysis, which has only taken a few seconds, he has not moved from his position and appears to be waiting.
For me?
“Since we are sitting at the same table, I think it best we introduce ourselves,” but his raised hand prevents me from continuing.
“Why is it necessary? How about if I am who you want me to be?" and then immediately changes the subject by asking, "Would you like a drink of something more than water but not liquor?"
His laughter penetrates the depths of my being, and the self-assurance it exudes makes me envious.
All I can manage is a quick nod.
He raises his hand, catching a waiter's eye, and says, “the lady will have green tea, and I’ll stick with another coffee. Oh, and bring us two pieces of your cheesecake — strawberry topping.”
With a slight bow, the waiter leaves, and I again wonder at this stranger.
How does he know that I do not use alcoholic beverages but prefer drinking green tea?
And cheesecake? With a strawberry topping? My favorite!
Pinch me, please!
Because this is beyond imagining.
His brown eyes flicker, but I keep my gaze on his face with a great effort.
He’s not playing a game.
The game!
I sense his kindness and compassion in every word and action he expresses toward me.
Unfortunately, I am not yet at a place where I can permit myself to become close to him.
I must know more, so I venture into this unknown field by asking, “shouldn’t we know more about each other? I mean, isn’t it polite to at least know each other's name?” half afraid he’ll rebuff me.
“If this is what you really want. But — on the other hand, I can't shake the impression that, for once, it might be better to keep our private lives and our names a mystery. So what do you think, “and he actually winks!
The wink makes me happy, and a chuckle sneaks out of my mouth as I bob my head enthusiastically in return.
Yes. I will go along with him.
Why not?
I have no prior experience with any of this, and it is exciting enough that I cannot and, for the first time in my life, do not want to anticipate where it will go.
*****
Nothing seems to mar the atmosphere, as even the silence now seems good.
My world is tipping and revealing new possibilities.
We don’t have to converse.
Don’t have to put labels on each other.
With that, what conclusions can I draw about him?
His laid-back approach and kind nature lead me to conclude that he engages with people professionally like myself.
He chooses to dress in jeans rather than slacks since comfort is more important to him than fashion, but he is not above wearing a suit.
Most likely while at work.
And — judging by the fact that he folded his napkin and carefully set it on his lap, he likes things orderly and tidy.
His eyes!
Oh, those beautiful dark eyes with a hint of sparkle!
They give out such inviting and enthusiastic energy.
He’s relaxed in his skin.
This is something I wish I could be.
“You’re daydreaming, aren’t you?” his head tilts to one side, delivering that sentence without any pressure, any condemnation.
“I suppose I am. Because this —” swishing my one hand to and fro to include not only us but the outside world.
“This can’t be happening. Can’t be true.”
“What? You mean us?” his fantastic, confident chuckle doesn't scare me but calms me down, "It's true if you want it."
Deep inside, something appears to be changing, and I begin to feel as if my body were melting into my chair.
I find myself saying aloud, "I'd simply like to soak in this moment, To relax into it," then immediately lower my head out of worry that I've revealed too much.
I'm startled out of my thoughts by the nearby server dumping an empty tray with a loud crash, and I jump at the intrusion.
My inner being seems to now sit on top of a place where I never want to leave as reality hits —I like him!
“Dear lady,” His fingers do a brief tap dance across my hand, and I nearly — but not quite —retreat in — fear? —amazement at how this touch feels?
Because it is so uncomplicated and unassuming, it causes an acceleration in the rate of my heartbeat.
And I’m well aware that my cheeks have colored.
Leaning in close, he murmurs, "I don't know why I feel this way, but if you ask, I will follow any route you choose for the two of us. The issue is —what do you want?" as he waits for my response without moving away.
Now that's a loaded question.
I close my eyes tight and imagine the solution flashing and blinking in neon letters on the inside of my eyelids.
But — nothing.
Opening my eyes —his question lingers in front of us in the air as if held by an invisible thread.
I know one thing and definitely one thing above all.
I desire his warmth and his hand to remain on mine, shielding me from —-.
Wait!
Why am I relying on someone else to keep me safe?
He has given me the reins to control where this relationship will go, and I will use this newfound freedom.
I reach out with trembling confidence and place my palm on his as it rests next to his coffee mug.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking. But I guess another evening like this would do,” my gaze lies someplace between the couple at the next table and the door.
Anyplace but his face.
“Good,” he says in a voice with no inflection.
He has no idea the effort that it took to take the lead and give him, no myself, permission to want more.
“What say we meet next week right here at the same time?” while his free hand captures the one lying on his and makes me realize I can’t pull comfortably away.
How easy he makes it all seem when he doesn’t ask for a phone number or address.
“Okay,” and I know in my head that I'm an idiot for agreeing to this, but my heart can't stop racing.
Is it the feeling of his hand on mine that gives me a little bit of an anxiety attack, or is it the anticipation of seeing him face to face again that does it?
Either way, I’m skittish about all of this.
I'm too shocked to react when he pulls his hands away, pushes his chair back, and bends over to plant the lightest of kisses on my forehead.
“See you then,” and without his saying so, I know he will be paying the bill.
I observe his back and the muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he goes.
Stop that!
Why?
*****
At least a dozen times, I flat-out tell myself that I am not attending and as quickly change my mind.
I do not doubt that he will be in the restaurant, at a table, waiting.
The doubt is totally in me as I shift to a yes and then a no.
Only when I am home from work does it dawn on me that I am sure, without a doubt, going to the restaurant.
Because of the circumstances, all of my nerve endings are on high alert, so my primary concern is not how I appear but what makes me comfortable.
A glass of something more substantial than tea would be ideal, but that’s a lot of bunk.
I want to be aware of everything.
The ambiance of the location, the evening's weather, the scents carried on the wind, and most significantly, how I personally feel.
Right now, my hands tremble as I try to decide what I’m going to wear.
He is the type of person who is more interested in who I am than in what I am wearing.
I am unable to explain how I came to that conclusion.
Call it intuition.
A hot cup of tea has been set on my dresser, and to highlight my need for comfort, I slip on my all-time favorite pair of charcoal gray wide-leg pants and a rose-colored cotton blouse with a v-neck.
I throw my soft black vinyl purse studded with fake spherical gold pellets over my shoulder and exit the door with a tremendous shrug of my shoulders.
*****
My stomach sinks as I walk into the restaurant and fail to see him at any of the tables.
Of course, I’m disappointed!
I position myself off to the side and wait until twenty minutes go by before I nod to the maitre-d and exit, very deflated.
Who would want to be in a relationship with me, anyway??
What to do now?
I’m hungry and decide to treat myself to a good juicy steak and a glass of wine, my steps taking me across the street to the steakhouse.
I keep jerking my head around, expecting — no hoping — to see him amid the crowd of people.
The door swings open to let out former customers, and as I walk in, I have to take a few big breaths because there he is!
Firmly established at a table!
Alone!
I give the waiter an indication that I am aware of where I am heading and walk toward the person who is meant to be my date.
Am I furious?
You better believe it!
I am concentrating all of my focus on him while simultaneously gripping my bag with a fist that is so tightly closed that I can imagine the whiteness of my knuckles.
Sincere astonishment is evident on his face as he gestures for me to join him.
He stands up and, in a very gentlemanly manner, gestures for me to sit in the empty chair.
The tightness of my lips makes it quite plain I’m not happy with this turn of events, as I carefully lower myself into the seat and try my darndest not to touch him in any way.
Why am I even doing this?
Honestly, I should have left, but my curiosity compels me to wonder why he is here instead of across the street, where we were meant to meet.
But — still and all this is all so —what is that word that begins with seri–something?
Serendipitous?
That’s it!
I put on an act of digging through my purse while racking my brain for anything to say to him.
As he sat, he adjusted his position many times, his eyes roaming the room, and he kept scratching the back of his neck, unsure of where to lay his hands.
I’m a coward, I confess! I had every intention of honoring our date. But when I got there, waving his hand in the direction of the other restaurant, “I chickened out. More because I was afraid you wouldn’t show. But correct me if I’m wrong, I bet you thought you thought the same.
I am unable to reply because of how upset I am that what he spoke was the truth, and the only thing that came out of my mouth was, “I'm starving, and I'm thinking that a steak would be a nice choice for dinner."
Too terse, young lady, as I spread my napkin, which helps me to calm down and stop my heart from pounding in my ears, I
We both ordered steaks, medium rare, and baked potatoes with all the fixings.
The only difference between our meals is that I order asparagus and wine while he goes for green beans and lager.
I think it so strangely wonderful that I don’t have to make idle chatter.
It’s always a sticking point with me because finding things to say off the top of my head is not natural like it is with other people.
I am acutely aware that he is giving me the opportunity to determine our course of action.
And that alone is causing me difficulty since I cannot think of a way to initiate a conversation.
As a result, when we are eating, I get the distinct sensation that he wants to say something but ultimately ends up choking down his thoughts along with his mouthful of food.
Throughout the dinner, there is no conversation, and there is just minimal eye contact.
I have had the thought twice that I should say something, but each time I choked it back since it seemed so pointless.
Things like ‘how has your day been’ or ‘have you watched any good tv shows.’
My utensils rest on my plate, which is currently empty, and the focus of my attention is drawn to them as though they are the most crucial thing in my life.
Okay, I've had enough of this, so I square my shoulders, look him in the eye, and say, “I’m a psychiatrist at Hayden on the second floor.”
His face breaks into a broad grin, and a shocked chuckle emanates from the center of his chest, “holy cow! I can’t believe this! I’m a neuroscientist, and I work, also, at the Hayden building–but on the sixth floor!”
Serendipitous?
Maybe.
But there's no question that it rocks my world!
Another silence ensues between us, but then our laughing takes over, and the tension of our unspoken thoughts melts away.
*****
Outside on the sidewalk, I waver because I can’t decide what to do, but the fact that he is also there waiting makes the circumstance increasingly awkward.
I pause when I hear his voice, "I believe it would be amazing if we continued moving this forward. Don’t you think so?"
His hand gently takes hold of my elbow, guiding us away from the cluster of people and toward the wooden bench by the curb.
It’s a bus stop, but no one is waiting, so we have the bench to ourselves.
Oh oh! Here it comes!
What's next?
What are you expecting?
A statement along the lines of "come over to my house, and we'll have sex?"
Doesn't that seem to be a little bit out of character for him?
So stop imagining the worst and wait to see what his intentions are.
He lowers himself and swishes his palm around the vacant area to clean it off for me.
I do as he suggests, but I ensure there is at least some distance between us.
Let's find out where ‘moving this forward’ takes us, I say to myself, as I cross my legs and run my manicured nails across my skirt.
“If you think that we can–that this might be more than —” he’s skittish as an untrained horse.
I am aware of the fact that this is the first time I have noticed a tremor in his voice, and it is at this very moment that I understand that he, like myself, is going through a period of uncertainty.
He is not the conventional "since I'm a man, I know what I'm doing" kind.
What feels like the length of time it takes the world to spin twice on its rounds is broken by my confession, "I recently ended a relationship that wasn't even worth my time. But this is such a strange and new thing that — well — I’d be willing to continue.”
Saying what I just said was a big step out of my comfort zone.
Typically, I would wait for him to take the initiative — as the male.
“Dave. My name is David,” as his massive masculine hand covers both of mine, which are gripped tightly in their own grasp.
“Since we’re trading stories, I’m three years out of a divorce. A marriage that, in hindsight, wasn’t meant to occur. But it did,” and the way he exhaled told me it was a difficult admission to make.
“Hi, David,” while switching the positions of our hands. “Madge. Madeline. I’ve never been formally attached but lived with someone. He took off with another woman— I think. But, no! I shouldn’t guess at that because, in reality, I don’t know why he left.”
We instantly start laughing uncontrollably as we turn around to face one other.
*****
“Careful,” Dave says between our laughter,” we are on shaky ground. Maybe we should still go slow. What do you think?”
Suddenly, I feel the need to put even more space between us, moving to the very edge of the bench, dropping his hand as I go.
“Why don't you...?” I reply, "maybe it's better that we're cautious about—."
“Shush. Let’s not begin by mistrusting each other. We’re sitting here trying to decide our fates, and I think our pasts are haunting us,” not calling my action into question.
I heave a sigh, then take a moment for some reflection before continuing.
Dave finally breaks the uncomfortable silence. "How about we forget about everything that's unknown for the time being and go across the street to that bar?"
He makes total sense, but just as I am getting ready to respond, the alarm on my phone goes off, and it brings to my attention that I was meant to meet Franny for a drink tonight.
“As much as I'd like to, I just can't," swiveling the screen to face him, "I can't believe I forgot I had an appointment. How about tomorrow? That is — if you are good with it,” leaving it up to him to decide.
"I am free tomorrow afternoon. Are you available at around two o'clock in the afternoon? What do you think about a late meal at — our place?" indicating the place where we met.
“Yes.” That’s great,” and we both rise and start to turn away, but then for some reason, I find myself leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek.
I am so confused by my behavior I turn and run.
I require some space and time to contemplate my emotions.
Tomorrow will come around as swiftly as a jet flying overhead, and with it will come a whole new set of challenges.
*****
The weeks pass slowly, like a meandering brook between the rocks.
It leaves behind light and easy recollections for us to talk about.
We move from one moment to the next without considering how long this will last or if it's good.
His relaxed laugh, my reserved responses.
No push from eager, thrusting fingers but taps of light caresses.
I sometimes linger along the way, and, in my doubt, I continue to question the ability of it to endure.
But with little obstruction of this life flow — all is fine— so far.
*****
What kind of dynamic do I want to have with this person?
This forces me to question everything I was taught when I was a girl.
Because they were not born in the United States, my parents had a very rigid set of regulations that I was supposed to obey.
It is always the man who takes the lead.
It is he who is the driving force behind all that happens in the world.
This piece of advice repeatedly pounded into my head has stopped me from venturing out under my parent's protection like a timid cat.
Often reminding me, "You do not call, you do not ask him any questions that may be personal," my mother would never let me forget.
*****
I sit at my kitchen table, my tea cup between my hands while my elbows rest on the white tablecloth.
Another throwback to the ‘old days’ is the pristine linen that mom always used to cover the kitchen table.
Why do I need that cloth at all?
I shrug my shoulders in exasperation at my inability to undo some of the life lessons instilled in me by my parents, who were too possessive and authoritarian.
But little by little, I am starting to break out of my shell and do things on my own, although I constantly hear their criticism in my head.
*****
On the table sits the center of my attention.
My phone.
I can't stop looking at the photo Dave took of us before we went into the museum last week.
Both of us were having a good time, and the photograph brought back fond memories of that joyous day.
I mutter to the space around me, "today changes everything. Ask him. Make the call and ask.”
Call him.
It can’t hurt.
*****
My lower face contorts in ways that defy explanation as I study myself in the mirror while simultaneously thinking, "Let it alone," as the razor brushes over my chin.
It is a breath of fresh air, although it does leave me a bit bewildered since she is so unlike other women I’m used to.
It is difficult for her to look straight into my eyes without becoming uncomfortable.
She is so reticent that she almost always goes back into her shell whenever she shows indications of emerging.
I sneakingly suspect she was reared in a very strict environment.
Even still, there are times when I would wish I could give her a nice shock to wake her up.
The amusing thing is that every time I think of her, the first word that comes into my thoughts is "waif," even though she does not have the impression of being feeble in any way.
My natural inclination, then, has been to take no initiative but rather to relax and allow things to ‘just happen.’
And so far, it’s been working fine.
I give myself a satisfied grin in the mirror, wipe my face with a towel, and decide to let it play out her way.
I desire for her to feel at ease around me.
I like her.
*****
This couldn't be more pleasant as I contemplate nothing in particular while gazing out the living room window.
With some guilt, I arrived at my parent's home Saturday morning.
I hadn’t seen them in months, and despite my numerous phone calls, mom would always say, “when will we see you?”
*****
“You’ve been quite pensive since you’ve been here,” his father comes up and places his hand on my back.
“Yea, I know. Sorry but I’ve got something —.”
“A woman, is it?” as he is trying to comfort his son by caressing the back of my neck and shoulders, he lets out a sound that is a cross between a chuckle and a sigh.
The raised corners of my lips indicate to my father that he’s guessed right, “Yes. And I’m treading carefully. Oh, don’t get me wrong, dad. I mean, the fact that I’m going slow has nothing to do with my divorce. I’m totally over that. But this girl, well, she’s timid, and to be honest, I like that.”
I twist around halfway, confronting my dad, and my brow furrows, “she's well — she's hard to read. Keeps herself locked up internally, so to speak.”
“Hmm,” between his closed lips, and he crushed me closer, our sides touching.
“Mom was that way.”
I pull his attention away from the scenery outside and fix my wide eyes on the older man.
My father makes use of his free hand to tap on the window pane, “see this, son?” rhythmically rapping, “this shields us from the elements of the outer world. And that’s exactly what she is probably doing.”
It comes as no surprise to me to hear my father confirm what I always had a sneaking notion about.
“Your mom kept a hypothetical window pane between us. It prevented the world from taking advantage of her. It took a gentle hand to prod it open to see us as a possibility. If you take your time and be gentle in your ways, you might win her over.”
The conversation ended as soon as my mom walked out of the kitchen to say that dinner was ready.
*****
After I found this new information about my mom, I couldn't help but steal interested glances at her.
It was so hard to believe because Mom was not, at least now, noted for being shy.
She was a joiner. Joined the PTA, a woman's club at the church, and was an active member in both.
Was she really once like Madge?
The talk in the evening, both at dinner and after that, was light, and neither inquired further into the details of my personal life.

*****
Since I was approximately eight years old, it has been a family custom for each of us to prepare a basic Sunday morning meal.
There would be lots of laughing and pushing as a consequence.
As an adult, my father and I now like to spend time together, sitting on the couch and watching the most recent baseball game.
Mom usually goes across the street to stay with the next door neighbor who recently lost her husband.
Since the day my parents moved in, which was somewhere about twenty years ago, they have been great friends.
*****
Because Dave had already let me know that he planned to see his parents over the weekend, I was prepared for the fact that I would not be able to get in touch with him.
On Monday morning, as I was getting ready to get out of bed and head to the bathroom, I sent a text message only saying, ‘hi.’
Nothing happened right away. No text back.
While I went about my everyday morning ritual of "getting ready for work," my heart raced with the anxiety that this was the end.
My diary for the day is jam-packed with appointments, so I dash into the reception area to remove my coat before meeting my first client, who follows me into the consultation room.

*****
There are barely twenty minutes left for me to get a sandwich from the shopping bag I brought along and eat it before the next client.
My hand goes back into the bag without conscious thought to fetch my phone.
It’s not there!
Oh hell!
I left it in the pocket of my coat.
I run into the reception area, startle my assistant, and grab my coat from the rack where it is hanging.
“There is no reason for anxiety on your part. I was hunting for my phone and couldn't find it. And here it is,” waving it at her.
When I rush inside my office, the blasted phone lights up, and I see the notification.
After slamming the door, I lean against it and exhale violently.
A text.
lets get together tomorrow night. You decide where.
My legs start to buckle, and it seems as if all of the breath in my lungs has left my body, leaving me with nothing but empty space.
This is it, Madge!
The 'someday’ I have been waiting for is happening tomorrow.
Yet if I believed that playing out this scenario in my imagination would make it less daunting, I was wrong.
Even though my hands are trembling and my heart is pounding, I will not let any of this convince me to stop what I have planned for the last few days.
my place at six. Address is 435 Tailgate Road, apt 6. I’ll make dinner. You bring dessert. PS: anything chocolate soothes my soul
Off into the ether it went.
After a minute of stillness, the screen displays a reaction in the shape of a smiley face followed by a heart.
Tomorrow night, Madge.
It will determine the course of my life.
It will not be a someday but a ‘now’ day.