Author's Note:
I'll give my usual disclaimer. This story is written from my perspective as a straight man. I hope it's not alienating for female readers. This is the only perspective that feels authentic to me right now. Maybe someday I'll try a different point of view.
I edit my own stories. I found a few minor typos in my last submission, so I've been more careful with this story.
As always, I welcome feedback. I've enjoyed hearing people's thoughts, and it's probably the reason I've continued to submit stories and attempted to improve my writing.
Thank you for reading.
.....
Two years after my divorce I was still single and living alone. I was forty. My twelve years of marriage had been fairly successful, but my wife and I grew in different directions and eventually decided to part amicably. I didn't feel any pressure to find a new partner. I was learning to accept myself and live more honestly. This seemed to be an important step in my life.
Dating after so many years of marriage was strange. I used a dating app for the first time. It was kind of exciting at first. Many more young women expressed interest in me than I would have expected, but ironically, my interest in them was also less than I expected. I didn't want to be fetishized as an "older man". I'll admit, soon after my divorce, I did date a woman who was thirteen years younger than I. She was lovely, but there wasn't enough to sustain a deeper connection. Eventually I stopped using the app. I decided to let connections happen naturally in-person.
There were a few hits and many misses. I remember one evening in particular. I met a charming woman at a bar. We spent the evening talking. She was single, fascinating, and funny. We seemed to have great chemistry and a quick rapport. Toward the end of the night I considered asking her out on a date, when she offhandedly asked me if I could introduce her to any of my single female friends. It was only then I realized she was gay. Apparently the vibe I had been feeling was embarrassingly misguided. But I truly enjoyed my conversation with her, and it was a good reminder that authentically connecting with someone is its own reward. I decided to take this lesson and apply it to my future interactions.
A few months later I attended a gallery opening for my friend Jenna's most recent body of work. It was a full installation that had taken her weeks to complete. Openings weren't really much fun for me. I preferred to visit galleries after the work had been on display for a week or two so I could see it without feeling crowded by other people. But supporting my friend was important to me and I'd agreed to come.
I entered the gallery and admired the effort she'd invested in transforming the space. I took it in briefly before deciding to look for her to offer my congratulations. I moved through the crowded space, weaving through the tangle of trendy (if not slightly pretentious) art folk. Then I was compelled to stop abruptly. An alarmingly beautiful woman stood in my path. She was dark skinned, statuesque, and voluptuous, her hair in tight braids pulled back into a cascading ponytail. She was resplendent and commanding. I immediately felt a shock, a stab of panic like seeing a crush, even though I had never met this woman. We made eye contact as I approached, and my unconscious mind demanded something of me; a vague edict to speak.
"Hi," I said, as though we'd known each other for years.
"Hi!" She said returning my smile. "Have we met?"
"No. I'm confident I'd remember."
"Oh, okay," she said, still smiling, probably wondering why I had greeted her.
"I'm looking for Jenna. Do you know her?" I asked.
"Yeah! She's back there," she said pointing to the back corner of the gallery where Jenna was somewhat predictably lurking away from the crowd.
I thanked her and moved on, but my thoughts kept returning to her. I wanted to look back. I wanted to stare at her, to memorize her features and watch how she carried herself like a living sculpture. I delayed as long as I could, but as I approached Jenna I spun briefly to glance back in her direction. I found her looking back at me and quickly averted my eyes in embarrassment.
"Hi! Thank you for coming!" Jenna said, welcoming me with a hug.
"Congratulations!" I said. "This is incredible."
"Thank you."
"By the way, who the fuck is that?" I asked, too nervous to turn around and indicate who I meant.
"Who?" Jenna asked in confusion.
"The tall smokeshow, behind me. Is she still looking?"
"Oh, you mean Zoey? Yes, she's still looking," Jenna said, waving over my shoulder. "Why?"
"I don't know. I said 'hi' to her. It was a weird thing to do."
Jenna and I discussed her work for a while, but her attention was in high demand. She was soon whisked away by other friends and potential buyers, and I decided to leave before the wine reception.
I passed Zoey on the way out and introduced myself. "You're Zoey?"
"Yes," she said.
"I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier. I didn't mean to be rude," I said apologetically.
"Oh, no worries. It's nice to meet you. Jenna has mentioned you a few times."
We briefly talked about Jenna's art, but I didn't want to be intrusive, so I quickly excused myself.
"It was really great to meet you, Zoey. I'm actually taking off, but I hope you enjoy your night," I said. Then in a moment of dumb bravery I casually said, "By the way, you're magnificent," before I turned and left her smiling and probably bewildered.
I returned home feeling a little disappointed about my exchange with Zoey. Was I a creep? I didn't want to ruminate on it, so I tried to put it out of my mind. This happened to me from time to time. I'd replay conversations in my head, compulsively focusing on moments of awkwardness like small wounds I couldn't leave alone. I wished I'd been more charming and asked Zoey a thoughtful question about herself instead of being so enthralled by her physical beauty. I managed to forgive myself and chalked it up as another lesson in self compassion. Maybe I'd see Zoey again someday and have a proper conversation.
Two days later I got a text from an unknown number.
[Unknown: Hi! This is Zoey. I got your number from Jenna. I hope you don't mind. Do you want to grab coffee sometime?]
It was a shock. I thought I'd made a terrible impression on Zoey. I replied immediately. Maybe I was overeager, but I wanted to meet this woman and didn't want to mess it up a second time.
[Me: I'd love to have coffee with you.]
We met at a small café the next day. We had a lot in common. We were both divorced. Zoey had been single a year longer than I. We both hated dating apps.
Zoey was also an artist. We shared our work, exchanging phones to scroll through each other's images. As I fawned over her thoughtful and vibrantly colored art, I felt my admiration growing. Infatuation always starts like a dark seed planted deep in my heart, and I could sense its familiar roots beginning to sprout, groping its way into my limbic system, seeking purchase on something important to me, metaphorically tugging at my heartstrings. It hadn't yet grown into the dense mangrove it would become, but I knew it was there, silently expanding.
"Jesus, this is amazing," I sighed.
"So is yours!"
As it turned out, Zoey hadn't asked Jenna for my number. Jenna had given it to Zoey and told her I called her a "smokeshow."
Yes, I was a creep.
"Fucking Jenna," I thought, cursing her briefly before I appreciated the fact that Zoey never would have messaged me if Jenna hadn't intervened. She was actually a wonderful friend. This was little consolation for my embarrassment.
"I'm sorry I called you that," I admitted sincerely.
"Don't be. I was flattered. I don't get that kind of compliment often," Zoey offered forgivingly.
"Really?" I asked skeptically.
"It's a blessing and a curse. Most of my friends are skinny white girls. They get all the attention. That's usually good for me, but you know, it gets a little old."
"Okay, I'll tell you something at the risk of looking shallow."
"Ooh, tell me."
"I wanted to hit on you so badly the other night, based exclusively on how hot you are."
We both laughed.
I didn't want to dwell on it so I moved the conversation along. We chatted for another hour and didn't return to the subject. Our coffee date ended with a nice hug and mutual interest in seeing each other again.
Zoey and I met for drinks a week later. Again, our conversation was expansive and deep. We talked for three hours before I mustered the courage to reach across the table and take her hand. I nervously slid my palm across hers and she smiled, closing her fingers around mine and bringing her other hand to my wrist. Her hands felt small and silky against mine. I enjoyed the contrast of my light complexion against her dark skin. We talked while we touched each other's hands, communicating far more through our gently playing fingertips than our words. I ran my fingers up her palm and explored the thin tendons of her wrist, then tenderly folded her fingers into a fist and held her whole hand in my palm, gently kneading her forearm with my other hand. These were the terrifying simple touches that could only occur once in a relationship; the first touches. I will never forget the first time I touched her hands.
Our date ended with another hug and a chaste kiss, standing on the sidewalk while she waited for her ride to pick her up. I returned home, vibrating with excitement.
