This story is a continuation of a previously posted story called, "For The Fun Of It." While this story will stand alone, some of the characters will be more interesting if you've read the earlier story. I'd be very interested in any feedback from these two stories.
I waited across the street in a cafe. I wasn't nervous, mainly because I hadn't made a decision yet; I didn't even know if she would show. But I thought she would. She had said to me once a few months ago that she always ate at the restaurant on Tuesday nights. So I waited and watched. I'd make a decision on my next step if she arrived.
She did, ten minutes later, a thin figure in black pants, a shapeless red jacket and a knitted cap. She entered the restaurant and sat alone at a table by the restaurant's one large window.
I barely knew the woman. I had met her in the restaurant a few times over as many months. We talked, but never really connected, but even so, I got the sense that she wanted to get to know me, a 55 year old divorcee with three grown children.
I studied the figure leaning forward, reading a book I could see on the table. She seemed always to have a book with her, an easy alternative to company.
Screw it! I drank the rest of my coffee, as if the cold dregs could fortify me, picked up my purse and ignored my pounding heart.
She was facing away from the door so when I entered the restaurant I had to walk past her for her to notice me. She did, just as I pulled out a chair to sit two tables away. She smiled at me, looked behind her to see if I was with someone, and seeing no one, asked me if I would join her.
When I sat across from her I had no plan in mind. I simply wanted to get to know the woman, to see if she was interesting, companionable. Our conversation, like before, was spare, superficial and dull. I had the impression from before that she was unusually shy and unusually quiet. This conversation did nothing to dispel that.
After a mediocre dinner we left the restaurant together, each to go our separate way, when I heard myself ask her if she would like to come to my place for dinner on Friday night. When she said yes, quickly, I thought, we agreed on a time and I gave her my address.
I was a wreck for the next 24 hours: what to wear; what to cook; what wine to buy — a million details filled my head before it occurred to me that a mature woman shouldn't be acting like a school girl and I got a grip on myself.
I knew she'd be on time. I accepted the flowers with thanks, she joined me in the kitchen while I put them in a vase and we eventually settled into two comfortable chairs in my living room for a glass of wine before dinner.
She was pretty, in a minimalist sort of way, very thin, with a narrow face, framed by straight, rich brown hair, big eyes and a small sensuous mouth. She had a habit of staring into my eyes which was a little disconcerting because it suggested a boldness which belied my impression of her almost terminal shyness. Her clothes were plain and baggy and did nothing for her.
Her name was Claudia Niccolo. She was born and raised in a small town not far from the city, took a degree in Actuarial Science, and had been employed in the Actuarial Department at a large life insurance company for the past nine years. She was 32, although, probably because of her build, she looked much younger.
This information about her didn't come easily, I felt like I was prying these hard-won facts of her life as if they were a pre-condition to feeding her. I'm usually a good conversationalist, quick to ask, quicker to answer; I can't remember ever having to work so hard for so little. And it didn't get any easier at the dinner table where it took me an hour to fill in a few of the blanks in her life. She had a younger sister who was a masseuse; her parents had died two years before; she had never been out of the country; liked to take long walks on the weekends; loved dogs, although she'd never owned one; liked to write but claimed not to be very good at it, and never watched television or went to movies, although she'd like to, she just didn't like to go alone. Finally, a segue.
"You seem lonely. Are you?"
During the meal her eyes left mine only when she selected food from her plate. "Lonely?" She smiled shyly, "I don't know. I've always been alone, but I don't know that I'm lonely."
"You have a circle of friends, then."
"No." Then she added, "Some woman at work."
I wasn't getting anywhere so I changed my tact, "You are particularly well organized."
She seemed surprised by the observation, "I am?"
"Anyone who eats at the same restaurant every Tuesday night is definitely well organized." I smiled encouragingly, hoping this would lead somewhere.
She continued staring into my eyes, as if searching for something inside me, "There is a reason for that."
"Yes?" Finally, something interesting.
"That's where I first met you."
"Yes." I knew that.
She continued to pierce me with her eyes, "If you wanted to meet me again, you had to know where and when to find me."
Here words were utterly matter-of-fact, utterly logical, the words of an actuary. I hadn't know her name, didn't know where she lived, where she worked, only where she ate dinner on Tuesday nights. Her admission inspired my own admission, "I went there to see you on Tuesday."
She smiled, for the first time since she arrived. "I wanted to see you, too."
I didn't and couldn't understand why a young woman would want to talk to a woman who was, if truth be told, old enough to be her mother. "Why?"
"Because I like you, I like being with you."
"You're a lesbian, aren't you?" She had implied as much in an earlier conversation.
"Yes."
That's all she said, not 'yes I am, but that's not why I like you,' just, 'yes'. It was deflating and I didn't know what to say ...
"But not a very good one." A shy smile punctuated this startling remark.
"Not a very good one?" I repeated her words having no idea what they meant.
"Not a very successful one."
"Ah," then it occurred to me, "it's hard to be alone and be a successful lesbian at the same time."
"Yes." She, again, smiled shyly.