Fifteen minutes late, April thought. Great. Fifteen more and she'd be free to go.
A friendly waiter approached. "Are you ready to order, ma'am?"
She stirred her water glass. "Maybe just the drinks menu?"
He nodded, "Right away, ma'am." And briskly walked away.
Wow, she thought. So we're really in the "ma'am" days now, huh? At thirty-nine years old, she'd hoped she had a few months left in her before people would catch a whiff of her rotting eggs.
It was infuriating. No one, not one person had called her "ma'am" before she signed those papers. Maybe the change was visible. Maybe people could tell now just by looking at her that she was damaged goods. She could sense it in her friends' reactions when she walked into a room-the dark cloud of "new divorcee" hanging over her head everywhere she went. It's not that she wanted to be in a bad mood all the time. That's just what happens when you wake up one day to see the life you've built up over the last 6 years crumbling into smoke.
She sipped on her water and glowered. Maybe he stood me up, she began to think as twenty minutes clocked in. She smiled at the thought. Ten more minutes and it may be officially socially acceptable to cancel and walk out, to text him, "I'm so offended!! never speak to me again." As if she really minded, as if she wasn't actually relieved.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed.
"so sorry! Traffic's a bitch. Be there in ten"
Damn it, she thought. He's really on his way.
It wasn't that she wasn't attracted to men anymore. If anything, she craved a man's touch-a hairy chest, a nice cock. But she wasn't particularly interested in getting to know their personalities. Their casual misogyny, their fragile egos. The conversations were more exhausting than any of the awful sex. And there was plenty of that.
Even though she ached for the feeling of a man inside her, the actual act was rarely like she ever hoped. In fact, after almost a year of half-assed head and painful clit-probing, she was pretty much over dating. The only reason she was still in the game was because of her ex's Facebook-seeing his stupid smiling face with his new girl, two-thirds his age with half April's education. One post could fuel her through several terrible nights.
Bzz, bzz. "Almsot there!"
April closed her eyes and fumed. Why did she do this to herself?
She didn't know anything about this man, except for the few photos Danielle had shown her. They were all the same, classic douchey dude selfies-fishing by the dock, sitting down on a beachside patio with a cocktail in hand, a long-distance photo scaling Half Dome, shirtless. A hat on his head in every photo. Hiding his bald spot, no doubt.
"Mark Handler," Danielle said right as their lunch break started, showing her his Facebook photo on her phone. "He's a friend of Sam's. Early forties. A software engineer. And a very eligible bachelor."
She scrolled to another photo-just Mark from the waist up, purple in the face, heaving a barbell off his chest.
"Oh yeah, and smoking hot."
April rolled her eyes. And self-obsessed, clearly. "Okay. I'll meet with him."
"Great," said Danielle, squeezing her arm. "I really think you're gonna like this guy. Just-keep an open mind, alright?"
Oh, yeah. April was great at that.
"Im here"
Damn. She had started to fantasize that he had gotten into some sort of accident. Not bad enough to hurt him, of course. But maybe bad enough that he'd have to pull over and call triple A. Don't worry, we can reschedule! And never follow up.
But no, he had arrived intact. She looked up to see him roll in through the door.
Literally.
He looked around the room, scanning the dimly-lit restaurant. The hostess leaned down to greet him.
April sank into her chair, feeling her stomach drop. Really, it was no problem, she told herself. She wasn't prejudiced. He was still hot. Of course she was cool with it. For God's sakes, she was a liberal!
Still, she thought, taking an angry gulp of her water. Danielle couldn't have mentioned the man was wheelchair-bound?
He looked up from across the room and spied her, waving a hand. She forced a smile and wiggled her fingers at him. He grinned, and started to wheel himself across the room, narrowly avoiding collision with a waiter.
"Sorry, fella!" the waiter said.
Mark shrugged it off and kept rolling along with surprising swagger. He parked right across from her.
"Hey," he said. "April?"
"Hi."
"I'm so sorry I'm late," he told her. "I got a lot of road rage, but I couldn't honk my way out of that rush hour congestion."
Her eyes widened.
"I'm kidding," he said, gesturing to his chair. "I Ubered."
"Right," she said. So he was a clown too. Awesome.
She scanned his torso-his big strong arms and his superhero chest wrapped tight in a polo shirt. The collar slightly popped like some seaside tycoon. She glanced down at her own black dress and heels. He could've at least worn a tie, she thought.
She finished off her water glass and casually glanced over at him, noticing something glinting beneath his beard. She squinted. There, hanging around his furry neck, was a silver chain.
Lovely.
The waiter returned, his eyes widening slightly, as if he too had started to suspect that her date would never make an appearance.
If only, April thought.
"Here's your beverage menu," he said, offering the booklet to April.
"Thanks," Mark said, taking it from the waiter before she could grab it.
Wow. What a gentleman.
Mark scanned the page for a moment, scratching his beard. "What would you like?" he asked her.
"Anything red," she said, shrugging. Anything strong.
"We'll do the '98 Merlot."
"Sure thing," said the waiter. "Now, are we going by the glass or by the bottle?"
"By the bottle," April said, a little too quickly.
Definitely by the bottle.
* * *
As the night wore on, she had to admit-the man wasn't half-bad.
He was balding like she suspected, and his forehead had one too many wrinkles for her taste. But he had big kind brown eyes, and he made her laugh, and he had an air of confidence to him that she certainly hadn't expected from a man in his shoes.
"So, Danielle says you're new to the city?"
"Yeah," he said. "Just bought a place on Sixteenth and Elm."
"Wow," she said. "That's a nice neighborhood. That's near Campbell Park, right?"
"It is," he grinned. "Right by my kitchen window. I got a great view of the park, the city skyline. You should see it."
Her eyes widened. He stammered, realizing how it sounded.
"No, I didn't... I mean, it's just a nice view."
She smirked. And a class act, too.
And sure, the way he ate his chicken was a little sloppy. But it was also kind of hot, the way he tore at the flesh with that ravenous look in his eye, like a hungry puppy.
"Aw, shit," he said, looking down at the grease on his shirt. "Look at me, I'm a mess."
"You're okay," she said, downing another glass of Merlot. Her eyes lingering on the dents of his nipples.
He patted himself dry, leaning forward, when the chain came loose from his neck, a dog tag clinking against his shirt buttons.
"Oh," she said, setting down the glass. "You're a vet?"
He looked up. "Oh, yeah," he said, slinking the chain off his neck and laying it on the table so that she could see. "Danielle didn't tell you? I was a Marine. Sam and I were in the same unit."
She nodded, feeling a little relieved.
So that's how it happened, she thought. She'd been wondering all evening how to go about asking about his chair, but had downed one too many glasses to do it with any tact.
Was he as intoxicated as he was? She couldn't tell. His face was flushed, but he still carried himself with the same confidence and sensitivity he had delivered all evening. If he was drunk, he certainly handled it well.
"So, what about you?" he asked. "How do you know Danielle?"
"Oh, we work together at my firm," she said. "She's been setting me up on dates like every month. Tryna get back in the game, you know? And my hus-sorry, my ex-husband is doing it. And I'm like, go for it! You know? If at first you don't succeed... try, try..."
Oh, God. She was definitely drunk.
He arched his eyebrows. "You were married?"
"Yeah," she said. "Have you ever-?"
"No," he said, shrugging. "I was engaged once, but..."
His voice trailed off. The playful vibe they had going for the last couple hours died instantly. An awkward silence hung between them.
"Excuse me," he said, "I just gotta run to the men's room."
She watched him wheel himself away.
Looking at him weaving through the tables into the bathroom, she couldn't help but wonder what exactly were the mechanics of that process for him. She imagined him emptying some kind of pee bag into a toilet, like a hospital patient, and suddenly the evening took a very unsexy turn. The guy was hot, but as she thought about everything going on down there, she felt her attraction wane.
The waiter walked by and asked if they'd like any dessert.
"Just the check, please," she said. She poured herself another glass, trying to douse the guilty feeling in her stomach.
But why should she feel guilty? She thought. She didn't owe this guy a thing. So what if she wasn't attracted to him because he was in a chair? That wasn't her fault.
He wheeled back over to the table as she drained the last drop from the bottle.
"Oh," he said, eyeing the check on the table. "You wanna wrap?"
"I think so," she said, mustering up her most sober smile. "I have work tomorrow."
He shook it off with a smile. "Okay," he said, pulling out his wallet. "Well, this was great. Let me know if you'd ever want to do this again-"
"Or see that view from your kitchen window," she added.
He chuckled. "Yeah. Or that. Just let me know."
