Why I Love Singlehood: (7 page)

“Well,” Nick said once we were seated, “you’re even lovelier in person.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking a sip of water and feeling uncharacteristically shy. I’d dressed in black pants and a sleeveless blue top along with Nine West pumps.

“What do you think of
me
?” he asked. His bluntness surprised me.

“You mean, appearance-wise?” I asked.

“Of course. Be honest, now.”

Thinning hair. Close-set eyes. Tweed and khaki, buttons straining.

“As advertised,” I said, willing myself not to blink. “No complaints.”

He seemed satisfied with this answer. Just then, my eyes brightened as our server and I recognized each other.

“Professor Perino!”

“Caleb Collins, as I live and breathe,” I said. He was obviously pleased that I remembered his name. “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

“I’m on the five-year plan at school,” he replied with a chuckle. “I work here on the weekends and during the summer.”

“I see. And what comes after graduation, or are you sick of everyone asking you that?”

“Not at all, ma’am,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m moving back to Virginia to work for my dad’s company. It was too late to change my major and transfer to NC State, but I’ve decided to get into engineering.”

I looked at him, my face frozen with shock. This was the same kid who was hell-bent on moving to New Hampshire to live a bohemian lifestyle and drive a hybrid, who was a Civil War buff and whose first short story in my class was about a Confederate soldier who breaks ranks of his father’s command and defects to the North.

“What changed your mind?” I asked.

“My girlfriend has a Hummer,” he said.

Nick interjected, “Sweet ride!”

Caleb turned to him and nodded. “Dude, you know what I’m talkin’ about. They never shoulda discontinued them.” I thought he was going to high-five him.

I seized the moment to introduce the two, telling Nick, “Caleb was one of the shining stars from my teaching days at NCLA. He took my Introduction to the Short Story class.”

“Professor Perino is a great teacher,” said Caleb.

“You can call me Eva now, you know.”

Caleb laughed politely. “Yes ma’am.”

“So, what’s an outsider got to do to order a drink?” said Nick. Apparently the Hummer-bonding thing had a short lifespan.

Caleb turned his attention to Nick. “I’m sorry, sir. What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have a Coors Light.”

Caleb wrote the order on his pad before looking at me.

“Glass of wine?” I said. “But I think I’ll have it with dinner, and when I figure out what that will be, I’ll let you know what kind of wine.”

“Sure thing, ma’am.” He flipped his pad over and tucked it in the front pocket of his apron. “I’ll get that Coors for you and take your dinner orders in a jiff.”

“Thanks. It’s great to see you, Caleb.”

He smiled widely. “You too, ma’am.”

“
Eva
,” I reminded him.

“Yes ma’am.”

As he walked away, I looked at Nick. “I’ve been living in the South since oh-one and I still can’t get used to guys calling me ‘ma’am.’” I paused for a beat before adding, “He’s a great kid,” thumbing in the direction that Caleb walked away.

“Were you that intimate with
all
your students?”

I sat back, wondering if he was deliberately trying to creep me out. Shaun used to tease me about baking cookies for my classes, but he knew there was a line I wouldn’t cross. Most people thought I was friendly with my students because I wasn’t much older than they were, but they (including Shaun) never understood how personal writing could be regardless of the genre and discipline in which one wrote, or the bond that formed between teacher and student because of it.

“I was fond of my students, but I would never use the word
intimate
,” I said.

“Well, he’s gonna comp those drinks, right?” said Nick.

“Excuse me?”

“The drinks. He’s not gonna charge us for ’em, is he?”

I frowned. “Why would he do that?”

“Seeing as how he knows you…”

I glared at him, trying to stave off the disgust that was seeping in.

“I would never expect such a thing. He’s probably making less an hour than those drinks cost.”

He shrugged as if this fact was inconsequential. I took another sip of water.

“So, Nick from New Bern. Why don’t you tell me the story of your life,” I said in deadpan, Billy Crystal–Harry Burns voice.

Nick proceeded to do just that. He began with the hospital in which he was born, moved on to his four-year-old birthday party, then elementary, junior, and senior high school, college, graduate school, first job, second job, marriage, divorce, and finally, Lovematch.com—all in a Southern drawl and pausing only when Caleb returned with the beer and took our dinner orders, not even allowing Caleb and I to resume our small talk. He talked until our dinner orders arrived while I nodded robotically the entire time.

“Why did you divorce?” I asked like a sucker when I finally got a word in.

“Truth?”

“You think lying on the first date is a turn-on?”

He laughed. “Well, if you must know, my ex-wife was a real bitch.”

I put my utensils down (which was probably wise), dabbed my mouth with the corner of my napkin before returning it to my lap, and took a rather forceful drink of wine. He noticed my offense.

“You said to be honest.”

“Yes, I did. Thank you for that. While your wife was busy being a bitch, what were you doing?”

“I was working my ass off trying to keep her happy.”

“So what about her bitchiness was so endearing it made you want to marry her?”

This is probably not the best line of questioning,
said a voice in my head.

“She wasn’t a bitch when we were dating,” Nick replied.

“Someone give it to her as a wedding present?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying that people don’t change that drastically. Either she was always the alleged bitch that you say she was and you were subconsciously blind to it, or you saw and chose to ignore it.”

He took a swig of his beer. “I think it’s time for a subject change, don’t you?”

“Right-o,” I said.

“So why are you still single?” he asked. “What’s wrong with
you
?”

I took another sip of wine. Strike two. Three, if you count him calling me EE-va.

“What’s wrong with me?” I said, looking at my plate of half-eaten grilled salmon. “What’s wrong with me…” I said again, my voice trailing off.

“How’d your last relationship end?” he asked.

“My lover decided that he wasn’t in love with me after all,” I answered, wanting to ask Caleb to bring me another glass of wine and a Taser.

“How come? What, did you pressure him to get married or somethin’?”

Strike four.

“Hardly. Actually, I have no idea why.”

“I guess he just wasn’t that into you.”

“Guess not.”

If I could, I would’ve fired lasers out of my eye sockets and exploded his head. Thankfully, Caleb returned with the check.

“So, where’ve you been, Professor? I never see you around campus anymore.”

“Oh, don’t you know? I left teaching. I own a coffee shop now.”

“Really? How come? Is it near school?”

“Here,” I said as I reached into my purse and pulled out a business card. “That’s good for a free coffee on your first visit.”

“Oh, I know this place. I’ve never been there, though. Cool,” he said, avoiding Nick’s invasive eyes. “I’ll definitely stop by sometime.”

Caleb left the table again, and I wished I could follow him.

“So why’d you leave teaching?” Nick asked me.

“I wasn’t really interested in the academic conversations and all the responsibility that came with tenure—you know, that whole publish-or-perish thing.”

“What’s ‘publish-or-perish’?”

“It’s an expression. If you don’t publish scholarly articles—or for me, another novel—you could lose your chances of getting tenure or grant funding or whatever else they can lord over you. I liked being in the classroom with the students, but I was more interested in telling my stories and reading theirs than I was in grading them.”

“So how long have you been at The Grounds?” asked Nick.

I froze. Never in our communications did I mention my business by name.

“I already Googled you and scoped out your shop,” he said. Then he added, slightly agitated, “Relax—I’m not gonna camp out in front of it or anything like that.”

Google: the stalker’s best friend. Strike five.

Nick picked up the tab while I left a cash tip for Caleb amounting to fifty percent of the bill. Once outside the restaurant, Nick and I looked at each other, paused in the awkward moment.

“So, Eva.” He mispronounced it again.

Please don’t kiss me, please don’t kiss me, please don’t kiss me…

“Yes?” I said.

“Thank you for an enjoyable evening.”

“Same here.” I extended my hand, and he took it and folded it into his own for a brief, damp-palmed minute before returning it to me.

“I won’t be seeing you again, will I.”

“No, you won’t.”

“How come?” he asked.

The words of Louis Armstrong in response to a reporter’s question “What is jazz?” came to me:
Man, if ya hassta ask…

“I don’t like when women are referred to as ‘bitches,’” I said. “Regardless of how your wife treated you, she doesn’t deserve that, even if her behavior was reprehensible.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “May I walk you to your car?”

“I’m all set, thanks.”

When I got home, I flung off my heels, slipped out of my outfit, threw on a T-shirt, and flopped into my reading chair in my bedroom, taking in a deep breath and exhaling deliberately.

I
love
my reading chair. I had purchased it from a furniture showroom in Port Jefferson on Long Island years ago. I maxed out a credit card for it. Its cream-colored suede is soft as butter. Its firm wood legs don’t make a sound when you sit in it. Its cushion is like sitting on a cloud. It’s roomy enough to either sit upright or curled up. I can fall asleep in that chair for a full eight hours and wake up without a crick in my neck or stiffness in my lower back. Reading has always been my reward after a long day, even after grading drafts of short stories or freshman compositions. I’ve escaped to many worlds of books in that chair. I’ve written my dreams in that chair. I sat on Shaun’s lap, and later missed it, all in that perfect chair.

Sitting in the stillness, a thought came to me:
Tonight was my first date in almost two years.
I’d never gone so long without even one date. And certainly I’d never experienced anything as contrived as this. Even blind dates had the element of surprise going for them.

I stood up and padded over to my writing desk, turned on my laptop, and stared at the screen for a moment. First I checked e-mails. Lovematch.com alerted me to two new messages. A wave of disgust came over me after perusing them. More promises of happily ever after. More photos of strangers trying to impress me.

“Damn catalog shopping,” I muttered aloud.

I hopped on and off Facebook, then skimmed The Grounds’s bloglist hastily, in a daze, before looking at the clock; it was getting late. I didn’t want to call Minerva or Olivia or anyone else and start going through the play-by-play of the date. But I felt the need to say
something
.

The WILS Dating Rules

I love singlehood like I love vanilla chai lattes and cookies. But that doesn’t mean I don’t date from time to time. For fun, you know? Anyway, it has come to my attention that there are some things that cannot be excused, some things that should never have happened in the first place. And should you decide to leave your single lair to enter dating territory, you should be aware of them. So here, dear reader, are a few simple rules for the dater.

Rule #1: Get her name right.

Know it, use it, and for God’s sake, say it correctly. Especially if she makes a point to say it for you, and particularly if she insists that no one ever gets it right. It’s her name, for crying out loud. It’s part of her. Show some respect. However, should you find yourself tripping over your own tongue, cursing the day you decided to try to become un-single and wishing that all girls were Jills and all guys were Larrys, do not blame her parents. Do not ask what they were thinking. Ask what her name means, ask where it’s from, ask her to repeat it or spell it, but please, please, please, I am begging you, don’t ask what possessed her parents.

Rule #2: Don’t monopolize the conversation.

If you’re in the middle of your life story and you feel the need to come up for air, stop. If her eyes are glazed over and she’s past the point of fidgeting, stop. If the waiter comes to take your order and you’re still going strong by the time he returns with your meals, stop, Stop, STOP.

Please.

Rule #3: Never admit to having Googled your date.

That one is self-explanatory, yes?

Rule #4: Don’t call women “bitches.”

Even if you’re sure she is one, it’s just not right. In fact, let’s try to steer clear of foul language in general when one is in a classy location and out to impress. Think about what you’re saying. Think etymology. Think sexism. Think, for crying out loud! I understand that vernacular language is strewn with things you’d never say in front of your grandmother, but the slurs relegated to degrading humans by calling them womanly? Frankly, I think they could be erased from the English language altogether.