An April Fool

The margarita tastes like summer. I close my eyes and listen to sounds that only I can hear – waves breaking on the beach and the cry of gulls. I turn my face to the sun and imagine the cool wet sand between my toes. Another sip and I smell fresh-mown grass and potted geraniums and smoky barbecue grills. Summer is many weeks away, but this first day of April has gifted us with a taste of warmer days to come, and restaurant patios in Toronto have sprung to life with patrons like me who are keening for them.

“Another margarita, Ma’am?” The waiter jolts me from my reverie as I’m tipping the last of my drink into my mouth. If male wait staff are to be the judge, I’m somewhere between a miss and a ma’am, but these days I’m landing on the ma’am side more often than not.

I’m not feeling the slightest buzz. “One more,” I say. I resolve to drink this one slowly. It will be more of a prop.

“Back in a flash,” the waiter says. He retreats with the youthful hustle of someone half my age.

The man I’m meeting is now fifteen minutes late. This is my first and perhaps last foray into dating sites. The patio is filling quickly with the happy hour crowd. I scan the new faces for “Joe K.” He said he’d be wearing a blue Leafs cap, but I should be able to recognize him from his profile picture. He’s quite ordinary looking – an average Joe you might say – but on paper he sounds interesting. He’s well educated with a master’s degree in applied science and is actively involved in humanitarian causes like Habitat for Humanity.

Perhaps he has a good excuse. I pull out my phone to text him. My head is down as the waiter hurriedly sets a glass on my table. I look up to say thank you, but he has already buzzed past me.

A glass of red wine. That’s what has been deposited on my table. “Excuse me!” I say, raising my voice. The waiter is either going deaf or he’s ignoring me. A few diners cast glances my way, reminding me that it’s poor etiquette to shout.

As I turn back to my phone, I become aware that two tables way, a man is staring intently at me. He’s wearing a brown leather flat cap, a white button-down shirt and jeans. I avert my eyes, but I can still feel his gaze. I’m only pretending to study my phone when I sense him moving in my direction. He stops at my table so I look up. I can’t see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, but I can sum everything else up in one word: hunk.

The hunk speaks. “Hi.”

At this point, I’m doing some high-speed fantasizing in which his next words go something like this: I saw you sitting here alone and wondered if it would be okay if I joined you.

The man points to my drink. “I think the waiter made a mistake. Is it possible that I have your margarita and you have my merlot?”

Only now do I notice the glass in his hand and feel my face growing hot. “Oh! Yes, I guess so. Thank you.” I take the glass from him, but he makes no move to collect his merlot.

“Would you mind if I join you?” he asks. When I fail to respond, he adds, “It’s getting busy, so they could use the extra table, and frankly, I would enjoy some company.”

Finally I find my voice. “I’m actually waiting for someone, but it looks like he might be a no-show, so … why not?”

As the hunk seats himself across from me, I do a quick assessment. I’ve already established that he’s impossibly attractive, but now I’m honing in on the details. He’s a shade older than I am, early forties maybe; about six feet in height, perfect white teeth, clean-shaven, strong build. He probably works out.

“I’ll vacate my chair if and when that happens,” hunky man says. “Is this guy you’re waiting for a date? Or possibly a husband?”

This throws me a little. I was expecting a less direct approach. “Uh, to be honest, it was to be sort of a blind date. We met on Match.com.” I extend my hand. “I’m Deanna, by the way.”

The man gives my hand a warm squeeze. “D.J. My brother met his wife on a dating site. Guess it works sometimes. I’ve been tempted to try it myself, but my divorce is still kind of fresh.”

I wonder if this is what speed dating is like. In less than a minute of conversation, our cards have been laid on the table and I expect we’ll be moving right along into patter about work and family and personal interests.

“Tell me about yourself,” D.J. says right on cue. “Like, what are you into? What do you do?”

“I’m kind of a nerd,” I tell him honestly. “I enjoy reading and watching science and history documentaries. I’m a bioengineer and currently I’m working on the development of new types of prosthetic devices. High-performance artificial limbs, to be precise. Also divorced. And what is it that you ‘do’ if I may ask?”

D.J. has taken a few seconds to tap something on his phone and I’m not sure he was actually listening very closely. I only share the stuff about my career in bioengineering when I’m asked, but I usually get at least a “Wow!” in response.

“Sorry about that,” D.J says, shoving his phone into his back pocket. “I’m in media.” He smiles, slides off his sunglasses and leans back in his chair, arms crossed. His eyes are light blue and he has extraordinarily long thick eyelashes. Gorgeous, like the rest of him.

“What does that mean exactly?” I ask.

“It means television,” he laughs, as though I should be clueing in on my own.

I don’t especially like this game where he feeds me tidbits and expects me to beg for more, so I decide not to play. I take a long drink and wait for him to make the next move. The tequila is beginning to kick in. Beyond the grinning face across from me, I see a blue Leafs hat. Joe K. has finally arrived and is scanning the patio for me.

“Looks like my date is here,” I say.

D.J. turns to look, then swings quickly back around. “Ditch him,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Wouldn’t you rather spend your date with me?”

I don’t know if what I’m hearing is confidence or audacity. “What?” That’s my witty comeback.

“Tell him to get lost. He looks like a loser, anyway.”

My real date has spotted me and is walking in my direction. “That would be rude. I …”

“ D.J. leans forward and captures my hands in his. “Come on, now or never.”

I pull my hands back as Joe K. arrives at our table. “Sorry, I can’t.”

Poor Joe must wonder what’s going on. I fumble my way through an awkward greeting, but before I can begin to explain, he turns his attention to D.J. They grin at each other.

“April Fools!” D.J. says, winking at me. “I was your date all along. This is a buddy of mine who let me use his profile picture on Match.com.”

For a moment I’m speechless as I try to make sense of what’s happening – aside from me feeling every bit the fool.

The buddy chirps in. “I’m Joe K. – Joke. Get it?”

I get it. I just don’t think it’s funny. I glare at D.J. “You mean this whole setup was just so you and your friend here could watch me squirm and have a good laugh?”

“No, no!” D.J. says. He looks up at his buddy and dismisses him with a flick of his thumb. Then he leans toward me. “I really did want to meet you. I saw your profile on the dating site, but I couldn’t use my real photo or name because I would be recognized.” He took off his hat and loose curls spilled out across his forehead.

He’s looking somewhat familiar now, but I can’t place him. “You mean … because you’re famous.”

D.J. shrugged. “You could say that.”

“I did say that.” I chugged the rest of my margarita.

“Let’s start over and do this properly,” D.J. says. “I’m Dane Jackson from Sheridan, but I think you know that by now – unless you’ve been living under a rock.”

It finally clicks. Dane plays the sidekick to a genius detective in Sheridan, a series that is filmed here in Toronto. It’s another modern-day Sherlock Holmes rip-off. I’ve watched part of one episode and some little bits here and there while channel-surfing.

Dane continues. “I have to guard my privacy. I wanted to find someone outside of the business to date, but that’s harder than it sounds for a celebrity.”

I might burst his bubble if I tell him he is, at most, a minor celebrity. Instead, I say, “Why didn’t you simply tell me this when we agreed to meet, or at least show up on time and explain yourself?”

“What’s the fun in that?” Dane asks.

“You tell me.”

Dane loses his smile. “You actually sound a little pissed. I thought you’d be … more …”

“Thrilled? Excited?”

“Hold on, now,” Dane says. “Some girls use profile photos that are old or doctored or even fake. I wanted to see if you were as pretty as your photo. For all I knew, you might have been a troll. But you’re even more beautiful in person.”

My nose feels slightly numb, but my next words are clear and sharp. “First of all, I’m a woman, not a ‘girl’. Secondly, it’s not all about looks. Creeps can be physically beautiful, and intelligence can be sexier than outer beauty. And thirdly …” I’ve lost my train of thought. It could be the tequila or perhaps it’s the fact that I’m feeling like a shallow hypocrite. Was I not captivated by this guy’s physical attributes mere moments ago?

“My apologies,” Dane says. “But can you blame me for being cautious? I also wanted to know how you would react when you saw Joe approaching. You showed surprising strength of character.”

“Because it took such strength to resist your physical appeal and great charm?”

Dane scoffs. “Hey, that was a compliment. You passed the test.”

I’m growing more annoyed with each remark. “I don’t like tests. And I think this date is over.”

“What’s wrong with you? Don’t you realize that any one of the girls … women … on this patio would be over the moon to meet me?”

“Why don’t you go find out? I’m sure you could use a little ego boost right about now.”

Scowling, Dane pointed to a trio of young women a few tables away. “Watch me. See those pretty faces over there? I’m going to make their day.”

Just to be clear, I am far from perfect, and etiquette isn’t high on my list of concerns right now. Miss Manners can disapprove all she likes. I give Dane a sultry, tequila-infused smile. “Fine.” My tone is nonchalant. “You might want to change your shirt first, though.”

Dane looks down and a split second later, he’s wearing the merlot. It looks like blood spatter, the way it splashed so artfully across the canvas of his splendid white shirt. His eyes bug out at me as he leaps to his feet.

The glass is still in my hand. I stand, drain the last delicious drop and set it back on the table. “April Fools.”

Before I turn to leave, I toss a twenty on the table. “That’s for the margaritas.” I smirk and eye his shirt. “The merlot is on you.”