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I don’t know why I even agreed to The Pump. I’d be more comfortable at Little Texas, with its neon signage and combination of pop and country music. Although, now that I think about it, a loud combo of pop and country probably doesn’t make Little T’s a good “date” location, and if I’ve somehow gotten myself talked into a date with George’s friend—maybe ex? The way he talked about him, I thought he could be—I should at least be able to hear him.
“You could cancel,” I whisper to myself, the desire like the small, sputtering flame of a Bic lighter. After the afternoon I’ve just had, all I want to do is go home, sit on bed in my underwear, and scroll social media for satisfying cleaning videos.
“No, you absolutely cannot cancel,” I hiss back. “You’re supposed to meet him, like,now.”
The door to The Pump swings open and two women walk out, laughing. “Must be nice,” I grumble at them, then immediately feel bad about it. It’s not their fault they’re normal, adult humans who can make friends.
I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Not when the burn of Nora’s betrayal aches like a phantom limb. Not when the thought of meeting someone new, of trying to convince them that I’m worth the time, makes me feel sick and exhausted. I was just so excited to be making a friend in George. The first time he spoke to me I assumed he was talking to someone behind me and kept walking until he waved his hands in the air.
And now we’re...friends...almost. We’re at the very least semi-consistent lunch dates. Our conversations don’t get into very personal territory, mostly sticking to work, my teaching position at the university and his work running the psych department. And at a time when my desperation for human connection outside of my parents borders on rank, it’s so stinky, I didn’t want to say no to him about his friend Jesse.
I bare my teeth into the rearview mirror and pat down my hair. I hike up my jeans and adjust the crop top that seemed like a good idea when I tried it on but now seems too cutesy and far too underdressed in the fading evening light. I review my list of acceptable conversation topics: my work/his work; the Phillies/whatever sports team he likes (though if he doesn’t at least tolerate the Phillies, I’m not sure what more we could say to each other); recent travel; summer holiday plans.
Safe, normal topics of conversation.
Pausing at the front door, I pull my spring jacket on, despite knowing I’ll have to take it off in a few moments anyway. The air is cool enough that my nipples are pressing through the fabric of my shirt. I’ll never apologize for having nipples that react to the temperature, but I just know I won’t be able to keep my mouth shut about them, if I walk in there like this. I’ll make some joke about my breasts and then his gaze will fall to them because where else would they go and he’ll either be horrified or think it’s a desperate come-on.
Unacceptable conversation topics: the aforementioned nipples; if he has a favorite tree; the top ten stupidest ways early modern men attempted to identify witches; why the 1983 Phillies’ uniforms are the best uniforms, which is really less of a topic of conversation and more of a slide deck.
“Just a drink with a nice guy,” I mumble. “George wouldn’t set you up with a serial killer.”
Although, how well do I know George, really? What if George is a serial killer? What if they’re a serial-killing duo?
“Go inside, Lulu,” I growl.
The hostess who stands at the front is a young Black woman with a bubbly smile. “Do you have a reservation?”
I search the restaurant, but the few men all have a dining partner already. At the back of the room, where a dark bar fills the space between the “in and out” doors to the kitchen, one broad-shouldered, white man in a navy blue pullover sweater sits perfectly centered. Part of me is tickled by the symmetry of it all. The girl who takes pleasure in this kind of movie-scene kismet wants to frame him between my thumbs and forefingers and take a mental snapshot. But I can’t get hot for kismet anymore.
I try to channel a little bit of the kismet-loving, happy-go-lucky girl I used to be as I let the hostess know I’m all good, stride between the tables, and hop onto the stool next to him. Letting my hair fall over one shoulder, I smile, following a template for flirtation. Fake it till you make it or whatever.
“Hi, Jesse Logan? I’m Lulu.” I stick out my hand to shake.
Jesse turns toward me, his mouth flat. Not the reaction I expected. Maybe since this is technically a date we shouldn’t shake? Maybe we should hug? Should we kiss? A double-cheek peck? Surely, we shouldn’t. Now that I’ve thought the word “kiss,” my brain must immediately collect data about the kissability of this man, and my eyes drop to his mouth.
Double crumbs, he definitely saw that, and what if now he thinks I want to kiss him?
“Can I get you anything?” the bartender asks, saving me from this spiral. He has that classic style, a white cloth folded over his shoulder, a perfectly crooked smile aimed at me, suspenders and a slick haircut. He looks like he can call a woman “doll” and it doesn’t even come off that patronizing. I feel Jesse’s eyes on my face while I order a beer and the bartender asks for my ID, confirming that the crop top was definitely the wrong choice. His stare feels heavier as I flush, rummaging through my bag, which is one-third purse, one-third work tote, one-third gym bag, for my wallet.
Jesse Logan shifts in his chair, sighing, and if I dropped dead right now the coroner would have to put humiliation as the cause of death because heck am I rattled. My eyes are so wide from trying not to suddenly cry, they feel like they could fall out of my head as the bartender studies my license, my face, my license again, and finally nods. As I tuck my ID back into my wallet and ask once more for the closest beer on tap.
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye as I settle beside him. The bartender returns with my beer, refilling Jesse’s drink, which is...soda water? Silence descends as the bartender walks away, wiping down the dark wood of the bar. The dining room behind us tinkles quietly with the sounds of utensils on plates and clinking glasses. I have to have arrived at least two minutes ago. That span of time doesn’t seem so long in general but in the context of a first date with a man I’ve never met before, it’s an eternity.
My heart doesn’t beat any faster, just harder, like each pump is more difficult than the last. My palms sweat. I don’t know when this happened, or how. All I know is that I left the UK, where I’d built a healthy, thriving social life, a best friend I trusted, a boyfriend I loved, all to have it blow up in my face. I came back to beg for a job at my hometown university, with the early modern historical equivalent of a rock star in Dr. Miranda Jackson, and found that most of my high school friends had moved away, moved on. I was left with a vacuum, of time, of space. Wake up, teach classes no one seems very interested in despite my efforts, grade mediocre scores, go home, repeat. And now this: sitting here in the kind of silence that grows louder and louder. This must be what it feels like to burn alive, every second longer than the last.
His jaw works, his five-o’clock shadow thick by seven. “Hello, Eloise.” His voice is deep, flat.
Eloise?
“How do you know my name?” I ask, my voice prickled with irritation. IhateEloise.
He studies me. “George. He said your name is Eloise.” He sounds accusatory, like either I or George has lied. After a beat, he smiles, mouth closed, lips tight.
I turn my chin toward the bar to hide the flush that I can feel creeping up my cheeks. “Right.” I make myself laugh, likeha! “You’re not going to call me Eloise all night, are you?”
I was named after my father’s mother’s aunt; an oops baby according to me, a delightful surprise according to my mother, when my parents were already well into their careers. I was nameless for the first week of my life before they finally pulled Eloise out of a literal hat. My father still owns the head covering in question and wears it on particularly sunny days in the garden. I met my great-great-aunt Eloise once when I was seven and Dad took us back to his home, a small village in Kent. Eloise loved my father dearly, but she did not even tolerate seven-year-old me. Which didn’t offend me too much once I found out that she coughed up phlegm almost constantly. The incident that sealed our resentment was when I watched her eat a piece of her own long hair like a slowly slurped noodle. Even my young seven-year-old self knew that was a bridge my overactive gag reflex could not cross.
I saynoneof this out loud.
