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It is past six-thirty when I leave my building. The streets and sidewalks are full of commuters coming home from work. I blend into the Gore-Tex garbed crowd, ignoring the rain that spits down on us. I don’t even know where I’m going until I see the outdoor seating area in front of the Virginia Inn restaurant and bar.
I sidle through the outdoor tables and go inside. The dark interior is exactly what I need right now. I can disappear in here. I go to the bar and order a dirty martini.
“Tallulah, right?”
I glance sideways. Dr. Granola is beside me. Just my luck to run into a man who has seen me at my worst. In the gloom, his face looks sharp, maybe a little angry. His long hair is unbound and falls forward. Cufflike tattoos cover his forearm. “Tully,” I say. “What are you doing in a place like this?”
“Collecting for the widows and orphans fund. ”
It figures.
He laughs. “I’m having a drink, Tully. Same as you. How are you doing?”
I know what he is asking and I don’t like it. I certainly don’t want to talk about how vulnerable I feel. “Fine. Thanks. ”
The bartender hands me my drink. It is all I can do not to pounce on it. “Later, Doc,” I say, carrying my drink to a small table in the back corner of the bar. I slump onto the hard seat.
“May I join you?”
I look up. “Would it make an impact if I said no?”
“An impact? Of course. ” He sits down in the chair opposite me. “I thought about calling you,” he says after a long, awkward silence.
“And?”
“I hadn’t decided. ”
“Be still my heart. ”
Through speakers hidden somewhere in the walls, Norah Jones’s husky, jazzy voice urges people to come away with me.
“Do you date much?”
It surprises me enough that I laugh. Apparently he’s a man who says what is on his mind. “No. Do you?”
“I’m a single doctor. I get set up more often than a set of bowling pins. You want me to tell you how it works these days?”
“Blood tests and background checks? Condoms by Rubbermaid?”
He stares at me as if I belong in a display case for Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
“Fine,” I say. “How does the dating game work these days?”
“At our age, we all have stories. They matter more than you’d think. Sharing them and hearing them is the start of it. The way I see it, there are two ways to go: tell your story up front and let the chips fall where they may, or stretch them out over a bunch of dinners. Wine helps in this second tack, especially if one’s story is long and boring and self-aggrandizing. ”
“Why do I think you put me in the last category?”
“Should I?”
I smile, surprising myself. “Maybe. ”
“So, here’s my plan. Why don’t you tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine, and we’ll see if this is a date or if we’re ships passing in the night?”
“It’s not a date. I bought my own drink and I didn’t shave my legs. ”
He smiles and leans back in his chair.
There is something about him that intrigues me, a charm I didn’t see the first time. And really, what better thing do I have to do? “You first. ”
