Date Night

As the waiter poured the deep red glass of Merlot down my white shirt, all I could think was thank god. The man sitting across from me, tall, dark, and handsome as they come, was truly the dullest creature I have ever met— and before you judge me, I had really, really tried. Not only was I struggling to carry on any form of conversation with this man, but he had also spent half of the evening staring at my chest, which was now graciously covered by a coating of red wine and six napkins (both of which, thankfully, doused on me by the panicked waiter), and the other half interrupting me with facts about the only topic he seemed interested in: industrial beef farms (I was, of course, having a steak).

This was my cue. Yadda yadda “I had a great night, let’s do this again sometime, ah, yes, I know they keep the cows in little pens, okay goodnight,” and, ducking out of a kiss, I dropped money on the table, pulled on my mask, and moved for the door. As I passed the front desk, my waiter was on his way out of the kitchen, looking flustered. When he saw me, and then my plum-colored shirt, his face turned from pink to crimson. He took a quick breath, I assume, in preparation for a fresh string of unnecessary and well-meaning apologies. “Wait, wait,” I giggled, cutting in before he could start, “it’s okay… I love tie dye.” His face softened in relief and he laughed a little. I pressed a $20 into his palm and spirited out of the restaurant to the safety of my car, exhaling fully for the first time all night as I pulled the door shut behind me. I broke into a laugh of relief.

Well baby, free at last I said as the ignition turned over and the pop music I was listening to, to “hype myself up, “prior to the date turned back on. I switched it to classic rock, turned it up and drove, windows down in Pennsylvania February, the 40 minutes home.

It was only 7pm when my tires hit my driveway and only 7:05pm when I peeled off my purple shirt and poured myself a new, gratuitous, glass of Merlot. I prefer my wine, and my own company, anyway. “We have to stop meeting like this,” I flirted with my glass of wine, as I flopped my exhausted body onto the couch, not bothering to turn on the living room light.

The soft sounds of traffic seeped into my apartment from the streets below and the warm glow of the town through the window acted as a gentle nightlight. I hear my bathroom sink drip, drip, drip and I remember that I was supposed to call the super before the weekend. My loud, red, date-night lipstick, now kissed only against the inside of my mask, and loud funk music had drowned out its quiet, persistent drumming prior to my date. I guess it’ll have to—drip— wait—drip— until Monday.

Drip, drip, drip.

I would text my friends but I don’t really have anything new to say. “Online dating is hard?”— Drip— “I need something different for myself”— drip— “than the dating app algorithm had insisted.” “Everyone can be whoever they want”—drip— “in their profile.” “You never really know who someone is until you spend time with someone”—drip— “until they’re right in front of you”— drip— “staring you in the chest.”

I guess I’ll have to keep—drip—waiting.

No.

Bringing my wine, I headed back into my kitchen, pulling open the cabinet beneath the sink, where I had left the unopened tool box that my dad had pressed into my arms, wearing a bow on its shiny grey exterior, when he had helped move me in. “Every strong girl needs a toolbox.” I perched my wine on top of it and carried them into the bathroom, carefully placing them on the counter and flicking on the light. I put my hair into a pony tail and clicked “how to fix a leaky faucet” into google. YouTube, Wikihow, HomeTips, FamilyHandyMan, and at least ten other pages of websites had suggestions, so I set to work, humming to myself.

As I belted the final line of some Taylor Swift song I don’t remember the name to and wiped the sweat from my brow, I crawled out from the mystical cabinet under the sink. I faced my opponent, said a little prayer to the faucet gods, and held my breath as I turned the handle on, then off again. No more drip.

Victorious, I sank to the floor and laid with my back against the cool tile. I stared up at the constellations of cracks in the ceiling of my bathroom, promising them that I would get to caulking them another day, naming them one by one after past lovers.

I thought about how fitting it would be to slip into the bath with another glass of wine or paint my fingernails or meditate or do something that would make a the self-help book that I should probably be reading proud. Instead, I got up, went into the kitchen, pulled out some day-old Chinese food, and ate it cold on my floor playing solitaire.

By 9:30pm, my glass of wine was empty and I felt old and ready for bed. I ran my toothbrush under the sink and once again basked in the triumph of its leaklessness when I turned the faucet back off. I looked in the mirror and watched my face as I turned the light off. I climbed into bed and under the covers and listened again to the sounds of the night, fewer cars on the road now.

I thought about how this should be the part where I felt like myself again, for the first time in a long time. But the truth is, I think I’ll have to wait and see. This was, after all, just my first date with myself.