“So!” Nate had a strand of something green between his two front teeth. Nice hair, I told myself. Nice, thick hair, not a sign of thinning or receding. Focus on the good stuff. Maybe this could work. “Tell me about yourself!”
I’d gotten as far as “born in Florida” when Nate interrupted, launching into the story of his grandparents, who’d retired in Sarasota, continuing on to the highlights of the spring break he’d spent in St. Pete in 1999 and how, in general, he preferred ski vacations to beaches. “Too much sand in too many places, you know?” Pausing for a bite of burger, he chewed, swallowed, and said, “Do you ski?”
“Never learned. I had a heart condition when I was little, so my parents were really cautious about what they’d let me do.”
“Ah.” He returned to his burger. Usually, dropping heart condition into a conversation would prompt at least a few questions, a bit of back-and-forth about exactly what was wrong and whether it was better, but Nate seemed more interested in his meal than my health. I stifled another yawn and sneaked a glance at my watch, an inexpensive Timex. Nana had gotten me a Cartier Tank watch, but it caused too much trouble when I wore it to work. Brenda, I remembered, had asked to try it on, had turned her wrist from side to side, then had gotten teary and said, “I’ll never have anything this pretty.” Andy’s watch had monitored his heart rate. Sometimes I’d make him wear it when we were in bed, to see if his heart rate jumped when I kissed him and did other things.
“So tell me about speechwriting,” I said.
For five minutes, Nate talked and ate, describing how he’d landed his job (his father had been the mayor’s urologist), and how the mayor consistently ruined his best efforts with his high-pitched, nasal voice. Then, somehow, we were back to skiing again. “I learned to ski in Vermont. Didn’t ski on powder until I got to college. It was, like, a totally different thing.”
Possibly my desperation was starting to create its own gravitational pull, because not one but two waiters came to our table. “We’re all set here,” said Nate, pushing his last two french fries into his mouth without asking if I wanted anything else. I made the expected gesture toward my purse; he did the obligatory wave-away, saying, “No, no, I got this.” In less than two minutes the bill was paid, and we’d collected our coats and bags and were out on the street. “That’s me,” I said, gesturing toward the subway, trying to decide what I’d do if he went in for the kiss or put me on the spot by asking for another date.
No such luck . . . or no such problem. “Listen, it was great meeting you, but I’ll be honest. I’m not sure I’m seeing a future.”
“Mmm.” I wasn’t interested in feedback any more than I was interested in seeing him again, but Nate took my noncommittal noise as a request for explanation.
“You’re a great gal, and I’m sure there’s a lot of guys who’d be into you, but I mostly date eights and nines.”
I’d been slinging my work bag over my shoulder. When he said eights and nines, I paused, midsling, positive that I’d heard him wrong. “I beg your pardon?”
“Eights and nines,” he repeated, as if it was a normal and inoffensive thing to be rating women like coins in a collection or steaks in the butcher’s case—choice, select, prime.
“And I’m a . . .”
He had the nerve to put his glasses on for a closer look. “Did you ever think about straightening your hair?”
I looked past him. The sidewalks were full of people carrying takeout containers and briefcases and shopping bags, people on cell phones, people on bikes, people just walking around like the world was a normal place where everyone obeyed the social contracts and men understood they couldn’t go around casually assigning women numbers outside of the privacy of their own heads.
“You’re a jerk,” I said in a pleasant voice.
“Hey, hey!” He held up his hands, the universal male gesture of I didn’t do it. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”
“You have bad breath,” I said in that same polite voice. I didn’t know whether it was true—luckily, I hadn’t gotten close enough to smell—but there’d been raw onion on his burger, so it felt like a safe bet. “And you have small, womanish hands.” Nate looked at his hands. Then looked at me. “Girlie fingers,” I said, and lifted my head, curly hair and all, and walked away.
I didn’t cry until I’d made it home, until the door was locked, my work clothes were off, and I was wrapped in my cozy chenille robe, with my unlikable hair in a ponytail. You’re beautiful, I heard . . . in Andy’s voice. No, you are. You’re beautiful.