a short story by Heather Goodman

It's been a long time. And really, to some extent this is my first date. Ever, almost. I met Craig in high school. No, junior high. Oaklyn Junior High, 1991. I don't even remember when or how, but we were just together. "Going out," we called it. We married two weeks after high school graduation, and I got pregnant almost immediately. So a first date? Well, I guess this is my first.

Part of me has no idea why I'm going out tonight with Matt in the first place. It's not like I've had the hots for him or anything.

But I know why. I know that I've missed having a guy around, and that things are starting to get lonely around here (even with three kids on the loose), and that my biggest fear, when you get right down to it, is being alone forever and always. I've never really been without a guy, and I don't like this feeling at all. And Matt makes me feel good. He flirts with me. After Craig left with her, the last thing I felt like was a woman, at least an attractive woman. Matt, with his teasing and little comments, makes me feel curvy.

I open the abyss of my closet. Well, size-wise, I guess it's not an abyss, but when you have to decide what to wear, and it feels like you have nothing, it's like this dark chasm of nothingness. Half my clothes rest on the floor slaughtered. What to wear, what to wear. I hate these decisions.

First I pick out a scarf. The outfit will have to go with the scarf I choose.

At some point in my life, I decided to become the scarf lady. At some point, meaning after Craig left. Everyone needs a crazy fetish, right? Especially when you need something that makes you feel like someone else. I wrap one around my neck, and voila! I'm Grace Kelly. A princess swooped off her feet. Or, if I wear that saucy one Beth gave me last Christmas, Sophia Lauren. It will take a while before I can work up to wearing that scarf out. But a woman can dream.

I admit it; I hate to shop. At least non-virtual shopping. I walk into a mall, and my body wants to instantly fold in fatigue. About as close as I can get anymore is driving up at the entrance to drop off Beth where she joins a herd of girls and a few straggling boys. Then I speed away before the mall vampire can suck the life out of me.

So I shop online. Point and click. Not that I have much money for that. Virtual shopping for clothes online presents its own difficulties. It's sort of the Forrest Gump approach to life: you never know what you're gonna get. For example, one time I ordered a sweater, size small. What came to me was too small for Beth, who looks like one of the Twiggy malnourished kids. I gave it to my five year old niece for Christmas. Perfect fit.

That brings me to scarves. Shoes are too expensive, but it's amazing the slashed prices you can find for scarves. And they add splash to any everyday outfit. You see, my outfits scream for help everyday. Maybe that's the wrong word. They would scream if they had any energy left. It takes all their energy just to keep all their threads together, which makes it hard to feel like Grace Kelly and Sophia Lauren and curvy.

Bert bursts in the room. The door bangs against the wall. How many times do I have to tell the kid to stop doing that? I mean, there's already a nice pockmark in the sheet rock. He bent the doorstop to impotence a year ago.

"Mommy and Matt, sittin' in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

"Thank you," I tell him and nudge the door shut. Well, at least he's learning to spell.

Where was I? Oh, yes, my scarves. I love my scarves, my warm woolly scarves, my flashy sparkly scarves, my scarves splashed with velvet geometries. I feel debonair and sophisticated with them, like I belong in an Audrey Hepburn movie. Sometimes I wear them as a sash in place of a boring old belt. Sometimes I throw them around my neck, especially mid-winter when my summer freckles stand out from my ever pastying skin. But I digress, which is okay because as long as I'm thinking about the scarves, I don't have to think about why I'm wearing the scarf this evening.

Tonight I find a glittery blue and silver scarf, one with lots of flair. I have a love-hate relationship with this scarf, really. If you touch it the wrong way, the oh-so-delicate threads pull and get all out of shape. But it makes me feel like I belong with the night-on-the-town scene.

The door bell rings, and I hear Beth let in Matt. She asks him to take a seat and even offers him a drink. Such manners. I don't remember teaching that to her, but I'm thankful all the same.

Enough of this dilly-dallying. A nice blue sweater with a fitted skirt, and I'm ready. Sort of. It's time. Deep breath. One last look in the mirror. I look. On second thought, I'd better turn away.

Matt stands up from the couch like a gentleman when I walk down the stairs. He looks younger when he's nervous. Even with my flashy scarf, I feel so much older than he looks with my three kids watching the two of us.

"You look great, Marnie."

"Thanks." My voice jiggles a bit. First date since Craig, and man, this isn't easy. I can do this. I want this. I want to feel pretty, oh, so, pretty.

I give all the last minute instructions to the kids. It's a first for them, too. Beth is watching them all by herself.

"I'm almost twelve!" she had insisted. Really, my comfort lies in the fact that our townhouse walls are thinner than the pages of my Bible, and Mrs. Thompson next door will be listening in. She's good at that.

"Make sure Bert gets in bed by eight." I tell her this hoping he'll at least be in bed by nine or nine-thirty.

"I know, Mom."

"And the pizza will be done --" I check my watch "-- in about two minutes. Make sure you use pot holders and don't burn yourself."

Beth sticks one hand on a bony hip. The other jabs toward me in frustration, like an angry teapot with a twisted spout protesting with a steamy scream. I better get used to this stance. Not too long until she's a full-blown teenager.

"And don't forget to turn off the oven."

"We'll be fine, Mom. Go. Have fun." She scoots us toward the door.

I give all three of them hugs, taking a deep breath of each of them. Beth smells like a fruit basket. Bailey smells like grass, even though it's in the middle of winter, and Bert smells like our chocolate lab, Tiff-tiff.

"Knock, knock." Bert never grew out of the knock-knock joke stage like his older brother and sister, but at least he's learned to give a punch line.

"Who's there?" I ask.

"Orange."

"Orange who?"

"Orange you gonna miss me?"

See what I mean? The perfect punch line. It about does me in, in fact.

"Bailey, what does the magic eight ball say? Should I go out?" I ask right in front of Matt and all. I'm ready to do whatever Magic Eight tells me to. I'll just tell Matt, "See, Magic Eight Ball says I should stay home. Sorry."

"Magic Eight Ball, should Mommy go out?" He closes his eyes while he asks then flips the ball. Apparently, he doesn't like the answer because he flips it again. He covers the answer so that no one else can see but him and me.

"Maybe," Magic Eight Ball tells me.

I have no idea if the previous undesired answer was yes or no. Bailey is getting harder and harder to read.

Maybe I should stay, though. Maybe Bailey with his "Maybe" is begging me to stay.

Beth sees that look in my eye and practically slams the door in my face. No turning back now.

Matt grins all the way to the car. I think dating is like HTML code. <SAY voice = "sexy morning" bodymovement = "salsa hips">I had a great time.</SAY><!--and back here I bury what I really want to say in a hidden comment. Things like, Will you ask me out again? or I would like you to kiss me, or don't even think about coming an inch closer, mister. That last one with a different voice and body movement, of course.--> At least, that's what I gather from the movies. But what do I know?

"I made a reservation at an Italian place. Do you like Italian?"

Wow. Reservation. That sure is different from high school. "I have two Italian aunts," I tell him. I could get used to this. Maybe this won't be so hard. What girl doesn't like to be spoiled with plans and reservations? This is exactly why I need to be doing this.

"Well, I hope this restaurant can compare to their cooking, then."

I smile. To be honest, I stink at this chit-chat stuff. I never know what to say, so we mostly drive in silence. I make a few astute comments about his car, like, "So you drive a Toyota," which then infers the follow-up question, "Do you like it?" Astounding conversation, really. Should have been recorded for posterity's sake. The whole "what do you do?" line of questioning is out. We work together. That's how we met. I'm a web designer and he's my liaison for the first company that hired my services. We always had work stuff to talk about before, like anything the office wants to highlight that week, to which Matt would wink at me as an answer, meaning me, of course, the company wants to highlight me. You see how I could fall for that. But who wants to talk about work stuff on a Friday night? I guess this is what dating is about, making your own conversation when you left work at work and there are no friends to buffer. Maybe I don't like the dating thing as much as I thought I would. Sheesh, girl, make up your mind. I remind myself of the alternative and try another line.

The restaurant is terribly romantic. You know the spiel, dim lights with candles at each table, violin music in the background, probably Paganini, of course. Thankfully, the music plays just a little too loudly, a blessing for our conversation, or non-conversation.

The waiter brings a wine list. Matt ponders this list long enough for Rome to fall. And he tells me a tidbit of information about each wine on the list. Show off. I don't know how the waiter keeps such a stoic face. The waiter comes back with a bottle. He holds it against a white towel and everything. He pours just a taste for Matt, who swishes, sips, assumes a pained face, and nods. The waiter pours two full glasses. Finally.

"Would you like me to leave the bottle?"

"Please," I pipe in. I'm not that much of a drinker, but who knows how long it would take Matt to make this decision. After all, we're talking about the man who flirted with me for two years before asking me out. Of course, one of those years I was still technically married, but Matt didn't know that.

Matt lifts his glass. "To tonight."

"To world peace," I say, just to throw him. That and I don't know what else to say. All I can think of is Groundhog Day. I guess I could have said nothing. We clink glasses and sip.

The night continues pretty much like this. We talk about work for a couple of minutes. He asks me about my kids. I talk about my kids, although not too much. I promised myself years ago that I wouldn't be one of those moms who goes on and on about every spelling grade, even though it's tempting at times. I mean, you should see how smart my kids are. Then he tells me about his neighbor's dog, or something to that effect.

And the whole time I'm thinking, is this what it's like? Really? This or all the cats? I mean, my kids will grow up. Things are fine now, and all, but what happens when they grow up? That's what I'm thinking while Matt drones on about his neighbor's dog.

I wonder how rude it would be to fake some sort of an illness to end dinner early. Probably a little over the top, but I have this sudden need to see my kids. Right now. Right this second.

"Excuse me." I push out my chair, probably right smack in the middle of a story he's telling. "I need to use the ladies' room."

"Beth?"

"Mom!" she says in that way that only adolescent girls can. The "o" takes on three or four syllables, in other words. "You're supposed to be having fun."

"I am." Liar, liar, pants on fire. "I just wanted to check on you. Make sure everyone's okay."

"We're fine, Mom."

"Have you put Bert to bed?" I don't really care if she put Bert to bed or not, but I want to hear her voice for a little longer.

"Not yet, but I will."

"And you turned off the oven?"

"No. The house has burned down. I'm at the fire station now."

I think Beth gets that sarcasm from me, I have to admit.

"Don't be a smart aleck. I love you. Tell Bailey and Bert I love them."

"Okay, Mom." Each "Mom" sounds a little more impatient. "Goodbye."

"Bye, sweetie."

I look at myself in the mirror. I don't think I look so bad considering the fact that I have three kids.

Three kids. What on earth? Sometimes I think I'm living someone else's life. Twenty-nine with three kids. Okay, well, almost thirty, but let's not go there. I mean, who is this? I don't know what I was thinking.

But I wouldn't trade in any of them. We'll figure it out.

I go back to Matt and the candlelight and the Paganini. Dinner speeds up, thankfully, but all the same, I don't order dessert. I'm ready to go home, even if it means going home. I mean, going back to my empty bed, my queen size, vacant bed. Well, vacant until one kid or another, usually Bert, crawls in sometime between 1:00AM and dawn. That's got to be better than another story about the neighbor's dog, right?

I dig my keys out of my purse, which is this tiny little thing I borrowed from Beth. Why she needs an evening purse, I have no idea. So I get my keys out while we're still in the car on the way home. No dilly-dallying for me. I've seen the movies. I know what message that sends. <SAY lips = "pouty">I had a great time.</SAY><!---Dilly-dally with the keys so that he'll know to kiss you.---> I most definitely do not want a kiss. I just want to get inside.

I practically run out of the car. I don't even wait for him to walk me to the door. He's trailing a good six steps behind me when I have the front door unlocked.

"Thanks, Matt. I had a good time." Relatively speaking. I mean you could consider it a good time compared to, say, working in a sweatshop factory for fourteen hours a day.

"We should do this again sometime."

I just smile. My mother always taught me if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. Poor guy. He really is a nice guy.

"I'll see you on Monday," I say.

"Okay."

I walk in and close the door behind me. I have this need to see my kids. The TV blares a Nick-at-Nite rerun. Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, actually. Since when is that Nick-at-Nite material? Maybe I am getting old. I walk over to turn it off on tip-toe so that my heels don't click-clack all over the floor and wake them up. That's when I see them, all three of them curled up under one blanket on the floor, pillows everywhere. Bailey snores. I lie down next to Beth and grab a corner of the blanket.

"Hi, Mom." She has a sleepy voice and even sleepier breath. I love that sleepy breath.

"Hi, Sweetie."

"How was your date?"

"Let's just say that you won't be seeing Matt around."

"Oh, sorry."

"It's okay. Go back to sleep, honey."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

And I know that everything's going to be just fine.

Copyright 2007 Heather Goodman