“Really? I mean”—Kent runs his hands through his thick wavy hair—“Thank you. I mean you, you … ” He cocks his head.
“Shaved.”
“Yes, that’s it.” He nods approvingly, and his lips turn up. His smile, sweet and kind, and the first hint of his teeth make my stomach flip.
“I tried the mustache and goatee for a minute,” I say, rubbing my naked chin, “but it was hard to keep tidy. I probably should take a new profile photo.”
“No. You look, well … ” Kent tilts his glass to take a sip of water and somehow misses his mouth. “Cheese and rice!”
Water pours down the front of his shirt, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more discombobulated human.
He takes a deep breath, pats his shirt with his napkin, and, with a lower voice, whispers, “Can I be honest with you about something?”
The hairs on my neck tingle, and I need to remember to shave lower next time. We’ve just met, and he’s already confessing.
“Of course, please.”
“My cat is only half of it.” He pulls his lips in and continues, “I literally just installed the app. You’re my first match.” A small giggle escapes his lips. “And my first date. Since I divorced my wife. Seven years ago.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I’m bi. I mean, I was bi the entire time we were married. She knew. Knows. Corrine, that’s my wife. Ex-wife. She’s totally supportive. We’re friends. Exes. But the split was amicable.”
Not that I’m keeping score, but so far, Kent is late, frazzled, rumpled, divorced, wet, has a cat with a nervous stomach, and I’m his first match on the app. This is his first date since his divorce. Seven years ago. From a woman. My fingers fondle the napkins, pushing the corners closer, tighter.
“Oh, well, that’s nice,” I fumble out, tugging a loose thread on the bottom napkin. “You’re still friends with your ex. Not that you’re bi.”
Kent’s eyes go wide.
“I mean, that’s great too. I mean for me, right?” My shoulders creep up into a feeble shrug.
Kent’s friendly smile returns, and my fingers pause. The man may have a laundry list of cons, but Marvin’s words replay in my head. “Vincent, romance isn’t about tallying points.”
As if on cue, knowing the awkwardness was about to explode like a suddenly active four-thousand-year-old volcano, our server Val approaches.
Portland, Maine has more restaurants per capita than any other U.S. city besides San Francisco, but I’m always going to end up at The Purple Giraffe. Yes, they have a clean report from the health inspector, but also, familiarity. Control. Val.
Even when I’m unable to snag my usual table, Val claims me. Since we first met, she’s cut her hair, the high ponytail gone, replaced by a sharp bob that frames her pale skin. When I was here with Herbert (date four) she told me the fresh cut was part of her trying to embrace her thirties.
After my disastrous date with Marvin, I returned the next week solo. The food—a fusion of Mexican and Korean, a unique explosion of flavors in my mouth—beckoned. And I had a plan. If I kept coming back, I might become more comfortable and be able to relinquish some of my usual date rituals.
During that first return dinner, Val and I chatted. I explained and over-apologized for my OCD, and to my surprise, she was quite understanding. She always keeps a close eye on me and brings extra napkins without asking.
“How are we tonight, gentlemen?” Val asks, her familiar voice a welcome salve.
“Good, we’re good,” I say, willing it into reality.
“Have you decided on drinks?”
We haven’t discussed drinks. Or food.
“Kent, do you like wine?”
“Very much.” He folds his damp napkin in his lap. Maybe there’s hope for us after all.
“Merlot?”
He nods, and his sweet smile, perhaps even a little goofy, prompts me.
