Dream Date

Why’d I ever agree to this? Oh right, because it pays.

But still.

It’s one thing to check your morality at the door- or online portal, in this case- and invent an elaborate system of justifications. “I’m just doing it for the money”. “Money I’ll put towards my degree”. Ya. Sure. And where, exactly, did you get that Gucci wallet?

And all those empty takeout containers stacking up in the by the door of the Lower East Side Shithole you call your apartment? I guess those were a good cause, too? Whatever. Thai food is justifiable in the moment. As justifiable as a degree at least.

‘Your glass of Merlot, sir”.

Jesus Christ. Look at all these people. Sad, elderly. They’re practically strangers to each other; exchanging pleasantries from behind sagging faces they barely recognize anymore. Everyone doing what they can, pretending like they actually care. Like maybe if they show up and smile and bring food it won’t be them in the ground in a few months

You think you’ll have this many people at your funeral? Or, what do they call it? A Shiva?

You gotta give it to the Jews. Even after death they throw a pretty decent party.

This is low. Even for you. It’s self-defeating to pretend- to make-believe- but to pretend to be a mourner. Or at least dating one?

“That’s my brother Stephen. He’s a real piece of shit.”

I can feel her hand on my neck. Cold and wrinkly, with those knuckles that are bumpy and misshapen- like a tulip bulb or the last potato at the grocery store- showing signs of ageing that her makeup and overpriced perfume can’t cover-over. It’s like looking at the hand of death. Or soon-to-be Death. Soon-to-be-Death in a Bulgari ring and Jimmy Choos.

“He thinks because he’s gay and married to some six-packed pop-tart we’ll forget that he’s an asshole. Well, not today. Not ever.”

* * *

It’s easier to smile now, after three glasses. I don’t recoil. Don’t flinch when she touches my forearm and gives it a little squeeze. As though I’m here to console her over the loss of her first husband. At least I think that’s who he is. Was. Whatever.

What kind of life did they lead together? Did they actually fall in love? Or was it an arrangement of convenience, sort of like what we have now? Aren’t all marriages, on some level, an arrangement of convenience? She seems enough. Messed up, sure. But who isn’t? Would I tell my wife about the time I went on a date to a Shiva for money? Will I ever have a wife?

I wonder what she was like in her younger days. At the right angle you catch a glimpse of a younger self resurfacing, coming up for air. And in the right light she’s actually kinda-

“Are you sure you want another, sir?”

I love Merlot.

* * *

I wish she didn’t yank me by the wrist like that. With such purpose. But It’s time for our confrontation with Big Brother and his pop-tart.

I understand her urgency. It’s showtime.

Couples fight. They yell and scream and have the capacity to say the most horrible things to each other. They push and shove and even throw frozen ice cream sandwiches with every intent of leaving bruises. They scream. They cry. But they never yank.

A yank is for a spoiled child from a fed up mother. Or what a piece of jib rope from a sailor on his schooner. Tug? Maybe. Pull? You bet. But couples don’t yank. So it shatters the illusion. Or at least dents it a little. Or just enough.

“What company are you with?”

The pop tart is whispering in my ear, now, while his husband and my date shoot daggers from their eyes and talk about things I don’t care to translate into poor-man’s English. Something about Nantucket and accountants.

“What company are you with?”

He really is attractive. Long, golden hair that flows, but still keeps its shape. Like a cartoon of a you’d see on the side of a sunscreen bottle.

“He’s been one of my best clients for years. At this point we practically are married.”