An Awward First Date

An Awkward First Date

Kathryn M. Burke

Joelle Wallace didn't like to go on dates—well, not very much. She could never summon up the enthusiasm for meeting someone new, since she regarded the likelihood of such a meeting leading to anything long-lasting or permanent to be little short of minuscule. She was unusually reserved for a woman—maybe for anyone. She had a great distaste for laying bare her emotions to all and sundry, and she hadn't cried since she was a little girl. She was now twenty-six years old—hardly an old maid!—and not especially inclined to link her fortunes to any man that came along. And although she was doing well at a nonprofit in Seattle, her well-meaning friends seemed determined to match her up with one or the other of the lonely young men of their acquaintance.

She had to admit that her experiences in dating hadn't been all that successful lately. She had parted ways with her last steady boyfriend more than two years ago. Then, about ten months ago, feeling the need to satisfy an undeniable sexual urge, she'd allowed herself to get picked up by a guy in a bar who'd made her do such degrading things in bed that she'd bolted from his swank apartment in Belltown and never seen him again. That had put her off dating—and men—ever since, until her friend Nancy had begged her to meet a guy she knew who "would be just perfect for you!"

Yeah, right.

He was named Harry Preston, was twenty-eight years old, and he worked in the tech field (what else?) downtown. She had images of some stoop-shouldered, bespectacled geek with zero experience with women—and she wasn't at all reassured when Nancy had been unable to find any kind of snapshot of him. "But he's really cute!" she'd affirmed.

Joelle had rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, all right, I'll meet him."

She was dreading the encounter—and prudently resolved to meet him on a Saturday afternoon in a downtown coffee shop, so she could flee from the scene after an hour or so if the guy proved to be utterly impossible.

But she was pleasantly surprised.

In the first place, Harry proved to be tall (at least five foot ten—she was five foot seven), well filled out in the shoulders and chest, and dressed in casual elegance on this warm day in August. He had a shock of sandy hair surrounding a face that was open, honest, and quite nice to look at. His eyes even twinkled, and there were small dimples in his cheeks when he smiled.

The only trouble was that, at the outset, he didn't seem to smile very much.

Not that he scowled or frowned or anything like that—he certainly wasn't trying to be some tough guy out of a 1940s film noir. It's that he seemed shy to the point of being petrified.

As she sat down at the small table at a Starbucks and gazed frankly at him—she prided herself on looking everyone, especially men, right in the eye—she saw at once that he was so uncomfortable around women that he hardly knew where to direct his gaze. In a certain way she found this charming: who could credit that there still were such guys left in the world? But after a while it just became irritating.

I'm only a human being of the female gender, my man!

she wanted to shout.

But then, all of a sudden, the ice broke unexpectedly when they began discussing their musical tastes.

To her astonishment he had muttered "I kind of like classical," saying it as if it was something to be ashamed of. She'd burst out, "Omigod! You do? That's fabulous!" At once they discovered that they had both played musical instruments in their youth (she had tried the flute, he the French horn), and that they were quite passionately devoted to instrumental music of the Baroque, Rococo, and early Romantic eras—Bach, Handel, Vivaldi, Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, and plenty of others. And, even more incredibly, both were proud of the extensive collection of LPs (not CDs) that they owned.

They now began talking about music so volubly that they last track of time. After two hours Joelle had said casually, "Harry, would you like to continue this conversation over dinner?"

Harry had actually blushed.

Imagine a guy blushing in this day and age!

"Um, sure, that would be great," he had whispered into his hands.

She at once took him, her arm linked in his, to a Thai place nearby that she especially liked. They had both found the food quite tasty—but had found each other's company even more pleasant.

The meal had gone on for several hours, with each of them revealing all manner of things about their childhood and family and many other things that neither of them had probably told anyone for years and years. Joelle began sensing that there were possibilities in this impressive-looking man (not quite a "gentle giant," but something close to it), and she couldn't help noticing him taking covert glances at her chest when he thought she wasn't looking. That too charmed her: it was such a schoolboy thing to do. But at least it indicated that his heart—or some other part of his anatomy—was in the right place!

But the date ended unfortunately.

By the time they had finished their dinner, it was dark outside. They had continued to talk as they made their way back to their respective cars. As they were about to cross an intersection—where Joelle was convinced she had seen the "Walk" sign lit up—Harry had grabbed her right arm and violently pulled her back to the curb. She was about to protest, only to have a speeding car whiz by, missing her by inches as it screeched around the corner and took off.

He'd saved her life! But Joelle didn't emerge unscathed. The tugging on her arm had caused her to stumble, and she twisted her left ankle painfully and had fallen even more painfully on her left wrist.

As she lay writhing on the hard concrete of the sidewalk, with several other pedestrians staring open-mouthed at her, she vowed to herself not to cry. But the pain was intense, almost overwhelming. Harry was appalled at what had happened: it was obvious he blamed himself.

"Oh, God, Joelle!" he cried, bending down to her, his hands fluttering uselessly. "I'm so sorry!"

He tried to pull her up to a standing position, but she said through gritted teeth, "Harry, no. I'm hurt. I don't think I can stand, and my wrist is killing me. It may be broken."

"Jesus God," he muttered, immediately whipping out his smartphone and calling 911.

As others continued to stand around staring in unabashed curiosity, Harry remained on his knees hovering around Joelle, who was now flat on her back, holding her left wrist in her right hand while she tried to straighten out her left leg, which she already saw was swelling at the ankle.

The ambulance came, and the EMTs bundled Joelle into it on a stretcher. That was a first for her—and something she wasn't keen on repeating. Harry followed the vehicle in his car to the nearest hospital. After a short delay as they checked her in at the emergency room, she was taken to a room where her ankle was wrapped in ice and her wrist—which the doctor soberly announced was indeed broken—was set in a soft cast.

All this took several hours, and through it all Harry stood by like a mother hen worrying about the fate of her little chick. Then the doctor, finished with his labors, said to Joelle:

"Is there anyone who can look after you for the next few days, maybe the next week? You're going to have to keep off that leg for a while."

Before she could answer, Harry said, "I can!"

Both Joelle and the doctor looked at him, and then the doctor looked at Joelle, frowning a bit.

"Is this man a relative?" he said dubiously.

"Harry," Joelle said, addressing her date, "that's very kind of you, but I couldn't trouble you to—"

"I want to!" Harry said to both Joelle and the medic. "It's really my fault!"

"It's

not

your fault, Harry. In fact, you probably saved me from an even worse injury."

Maybe death.

"So," the doctor said, getting impatient, "what's it going to be?"

Joelle sighed. "Well, if this man really wants to tend to me, that would be fine."

The doctor shrugged. "Okay, you're free to go. I can give you a crutch, although it's not going to be much use: you can't use it with your left hand, since the wrist is broken."

"I can carry her!" Harry said a bit frantically.

"You are not going to carry me," Joelle said emphatically. "I'm not a child. Anyway, it's a long way to your car. I can manage if you just help me."

Sulking a little, Harry allowed Joelle to drape her right arm over his shoulder as he held her by the waist and guided her carefully to his car. She had to hop on her right leg, keeping her left leg bent and off the ground as much as possible. Once she inadvertently put it on the ground and winced painfully—something that almost impelled Harry to sweep her off her feet and carry her whether she liked it or not. But her baleful glare made him think better of the idea.

Ensconced in his car (Joelle taking up the entire back seat), Harry followed her instructions to her place. She had a smallish house in the Wedgwood district of Seattle, a placid neighborhood full of manicured gardens and towering evergreens. It was now close to midnight, and as they entered the house—which consisted of a main floor and half-finished basement—they finally allowed themselves to unwind.

It was only in his anticipatory dreams that Harry imagined ending up here this evening after their first date—and he certainly never envisioned doing so in this manner. As he stood irresolutely in the modest living room, Joelle leaned against an easy chair and said:

"Harry, I think I just want to go to bed. I'm so tired."

"So am I," he said, his eyes darting toward what was obviously Joelle's bedroom, off the living room and to the right.

"Can you manage to sleep on the sofa here?" she said, gesturing to a long couch that could just barely accommodate his body. "Or do you want an air mattress?"

"I—I think the sofa will be fine."

"Okay. You can find a sheet and a blanket in the linen closet over there." Then, in a tight voice, she said: "You're going to have to help me get into my nightgown. Can you do that?"

Harry looked as if he might faint. "H-how?"

"I'll show you."

She hobbled into her bedroom, expecting Harry to follow. He did so after an initial hesitation, somehow feeling that crossing the threshold into that room represented a huge step forward in his intimacy with Joelle. She didn't seem to notice; instead, she pointed to a closet and said, "Can you pick out a nightgown in there?"

With a trembling hand Harry opened the closet door and saw at least half a dozen nightgowns of varying lengths. He chose one, clutching the hanger it was on.

When she saw which one he had selected, Joelle closed her eyes and sighed. "No, Harry. That's too short—that's what's called a baby-doll nightgown."

"But—but it might help if your leg was, um, uncovered."

"I'd prefer a nightgown that went all the way down to my ankles, please." Her point was clear:

You're not going to see me in a sexy nightgown that goes only down to my thighs.

He chose another one of the proper length.

By this time, Joelle had sat on a corner of the bed. She looked up at him.

"You're going to have to undress me," she said—and for once it was she who seemed flustered, turning crimson and looking away from him.

Harry wasn't in much better shape. He'd only known this woman for a few hours—and now she was ordering him to remove her clothes! Of course, there was nothing sexual here: but how could there not be at least a hint of impropriety?

"How do I do that?" he whined.

"First, unbutton my blouse."

Harry knelt down in front of her. His fingers were clumsy as he undid the buttons of her thin white blouse one by one. He tried to keep the sides of it close together so that he wouldn't see much of her bra (and the objects that bra was encasing), but he wasn't entirely successful.

"Now get behind me."

Harry scooted around so that he faced Joelle's back.

"Take the blouse off, please."

He did so, taking extra care not to hurt her injured left wrist.

"Okay, take the bra off. And I'd be grateful if you didn't look over my shoulder."

And get a good look at my naked breasts.

Harry had never been good at unclasping a bra. This one had three hooks, and it took more than a minute for him to get them undone. Joelle restrained her impatience, and when the job was done she used her right hand to take the bra off and toss it away. As a precaution, she used that same hand to cover her breasts—but Harry still saw a bit of the round, pink flesh from the side. The sight made him a little dizzy.

"Okay, now put the nightgown over my head."

He rolled up the nightgown so that the neck was open. Placing it over Joelle's head, he let the rest of it fall down to her waist.

"Okay, now get back in front of me."

As he did so, she went on: "Now you're going to have to take my skirt off."

Harry was totally flummoxed as to how to do that.

"There's a button on the left side," Joelle said with some annoyance. "Then a zipper. Undo the button and pull the zipper down."

Harry did as ordered.

"Now slide the skirt down—and please be careful of my ankle."

Harry worked with painful slowness to move the skirt down—first to her thighs, and then to her calves. As he did so, Joelle did her best to pull the nightgown down over her legs so that as little of her bare flesh would be revealed. Even so, Harry couldn't help catching a glimpse of pink panties tightly enclosing her abdomen.

When the skirt was off without any further injury to Joelle's left ankle, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He figured the job was done, and he sought to gather up the discarded clothes—still warm from Joelle's body—and place them neatly on a low sideboard next to the bed. He resisted the temptation to feel the inside of the cups of her bra. She would no doubt think him a pervert if she caught him doing that!

He stood up, saying, "Is there anything else you want?"

She peered up at him. "Harry, the job's not done."

Again he had a brief dizzy spell. "Wh-what do you mean?"

She continued to look right at him. "I don't care to have my underwear on when I'm sleeping. So you're going to have to take that off."

Harry's jaw dropped.

You can't be serious!

He looked down at her, wondering if by any stretch of the imagination she was engaged in some form of covert teasing or even a bizarre kind of come-on. But she seemed entirely sincere.

"Let me explain to you how you're going to do that," she went on. "Get down on your knees, please."

He did so.

She took the hem of the nightgown, which was now at her ankles, and pulled it up so that it was bunched up around her knees.

"Place your hands on either side of my legs. That's right. Now close your eyes. Keep sliding them up my legs. Okay, now you've reached my panties. Can you feel them? Good. Just take both sides of them in your hands and pull them down. I'll raise myself up so that they'll come off me."

In a dream Harry followed her orders. When the panties were off—and Harry again exercised great care in pulling them off that bad left ankle—he felt covered in sweat. His right hand was still clutching that pair of panties, which were much warmer than the rest of her clothes, and also emitted a slight but pungent aroma.

"Harry, just place the panties with my other clothes. I'll take care of them later."

"I can wash them!" Harry said in a burst of frantic enthusiasm.

She was taken aback. "Well, okay, maybe. We don't need to think about that right now. You'd best get ready for bed yourself."

He stood up and was about to leave the room when she said:

"Harry, you're awfully sweet to take care of me. I'm really grateful."

He looked into his hands. "It's the least I can do, after what I did."

"What

you

did? Harry, please stop blaming yourself. I'm sure you saved me from a lot worse injury. Now just run along to bed. I hope you sleep well."

He trudged out of the room, closing the door partly but not all the way. If she needed his help during the night, he wanted to make sure he could rush to her aid as effortlessly as possible.

As he undressed and got ready to lie down on the sofa, he reflected:

I don't think I've ever been on a more peculiar first date—maybe no one has.

*

Next morning, Harry got up early—mostly because he didn't sleep very well on the sofa, which was just long enough for his frame but quite narrow, so he couldn't move around much. But he was also keyed up by being in this woman's house under such strange circumstances. Seeing Joelle still asleep, he padded to the kitchen and noticed plenty of fixings for a hearty breakfast. In under fifteen minutes he'd prepared bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee—and found a tray that he could put Joelle's serving on, and brought it into her bedroom.

She was overwhelmed by his effort. "I—I can't remember the last time anyone cooked breakfast for me," she said, her eyes bleary and her hair charmingly tousled. She hated people seeing her in this condition, but it was evident Harry was devouring her with his eyes.

He stayed in the room, placing his plate on the sideboard and eating standing up. They didn't say much, but there were plenty of blushes to go around.

After breakfast, Harry took charge of things. He told Joelle he wanted to go back to his house and pick up some things for the week. He also arranged with a friend to pick up Joelle's car from downtown and bring it back to her place.

He felt pretty awkward lugging a big suitcase into the house, as if he was moving in. During his absence, Joelle told him she'd cleared out space in her dresser for his things. But she didn't do it in the way he expected. The top drawer of the dresser contained her underwear. She'd simply shoved it over to the right, expecting Harry to put his underwear in the vacated space. In the second drawer, there was space for socks and some polo shirts. Other things, like dress shirts and pants, he hung in her closet.

The next two days passed quickly. Harry had taken his laptop from home, saying he could work pretty easily from her house during the week. Joelle slept a lot on Sunday and Monday, but in her waking moments she was charmed by the musical selections Harry made from her LP collection—ranging from John Dowland's lute songs to Vivaldi's concerti for viola d'amore to Mozart's late symphonies. she of course made sure to get up for dinner—especially since Harry had gone to the effort of preparing it. She'd expected him just to pick up some takeout.

"Since I live alone," Harry explained, "if I couldn't cook I wouldn't be eating very much."

But the real problem began on Tuesday morning.

Harry had again prepared a big breakfast, but he noticed that Joelle seemed preoccupied while eating it. She managed to finish, but clearly something was troubling her.

"Anything wrong?" he said. He'd bitten his tongue so he wouldn't add "dear" to the end of the question.

Joelle said nothing, but gave him a plangent look.

"Tell me what's the matter, Joelle," he said earnestly.

Again she remained silent, then cried:

"I need a shower!"

Harry felt a constriction in his chest.

"Oh, God, Harry, it's been three days since I've bathed! I haven't gone that long since—well, forever! I feel so grubby and grimy. My mom's going to be here on Saturday, but there's no way I can wait that long. I just have to get into the shower." Then she looked directly at Harry. "And you're going to have to help me."

He found his voice. "Um, maybe I could give you a sponge bath," he mumbled.

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"How about just getting into the tub?"

"I've never felt clean after a bath."