19
I don’t want to sound like a bad person, but I swear Doris pretends to have hearing trouble sometimes. Like right now, she’s
telling me a long story about her childhood, and any other time I would be happy to hear it (well, maybe not happy , since so many of her stories are just thinly veiled complaints about every person she’s ever met, but I wouldn’t mind listening), but right now I’m desperate to get home and get ready for my date.
(My date with John .)
Every time she pauses for breath, I tell her loudly that I have to go, but she just barrels on like she hasn’t heard me. If
she really can’t hear me, then I guess I’m a horrible person for thinking it, but if she’s pretending... well, it’s kind
of genius, isn’t it?
Finally, I give up and just back out the door. “I’m really sorry!” I holler. “I’ll hear the rest tomorrow!”
I swear I hear her snicker as the door swings shut.
Back at home, I spend a half hour restraightening my hair, which has gone all limp and tangly at work, and put on some dark
eyeshadow that I think makes me look sort of cool and flirty but probably actually just looks like normal eyeshadow.
Normally for a date I’d put together a pretty outfit—for my date with Arjun, for example, I wore an A-line dress and strappy sandals—but knowing John, he’ll show up in jeans and a T-shirt and I’ll look way overdressed by comparison. I pull on a pair of dark jeans that an ex once said made my butt look good and a black T-shirt and slim-fit bomber jacket. I’m toeing on my sneakers when bright lights swing through my living room. A few moments later, there’s a knock on my door. I shove my phone, credit card, and money in my pocket, smooth down my hair one last time, and open the door.
John is dressed in a T-shirt and jeans (I knew it!), but he somehow looks nicer than normal, like he’s done his hair differently
or something.
“Hey,” I say, my voice a little high-pitched from nerves. “Er—how’s it going?”
He looks amused. “Good. You?”
I shrug casually. “I’m cool.”
(I’m cool ? Good lord.)
John snorts. “You’re cool?”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, shooing him off the doorstep. “I say stupid stuff when I’m nervous.”
“You’re nervous, are you?”
He looks way too pleased. I glare at him. “Not about you . Just about the state of the world. Climate change. Rising oil prices. The inevitable heat death of the universe.”
He laughs. “Of course. Your house is really nice,” he adds, as we walk to his car.
“Isn’t it?” I say, walking backward to admire it. “It’ll look even better in a few weeks, when all the flowers are out.”
“Do you own it?”
I grimace. “I wish. Who can actually afford a house these days? The market is awful.”
I explain how I wound up in the house as we drive to the high way. He says “mm” a few times and nods once, but when I stop talking, silence falls. I glance around the car, looking for something to say.
“Isn’t PEI pretty?” I ask finally.
“Mm.”
I point out the window. “Ooh, look at the cows.”
John glances over but says nothing.
“John,” I say sternly. “You’re being too quiet.”
He laughs. “I don’t have anything to say. And I’m not chatty. You know that.”
“Yeah, but this is a date ,” I say, swiveling in my seat to face him. “Conversation is supposed to flow . We’re supposed to talk for hours and hours without noticing the time pass by.”
“That sounds awful.”
“John!”
He grins. “What? Wouldn’t it be nicer to just chill and enjoy the drive? You can hook your phone up to the speakers if you
want to listen to music.”
I scowl at the side of his head. Ridiculous.
That said, it would be kind of nice to listen to music. Plus, I have the perfect “relaxing drive” playlist on my phone.
“I’ll put music on,” I say, “but only if you tell me three facts about yourself.”
This is a trick I’ve used on several first dates. I’ve told you before, people love talking about themselves.
“Pass,” John says.
I throw my hands up. “You can’t pass . Honestly, do you want me to enjoy this date or not?”
John looks at me. “Are you not having fun?”
My lips twist, fighting a smile. Because, yes, maybe it is sort of fun bantering with him.
“Three facts,” I say stubbornly.
“Three facts, and then ten minutes of silence,” John counters.
“Why did you even ask me out if you don’t like to hear me talking?” I say indignantly.
John snorts. “I don’t mind you talking—”
“How romantic.”
“—but there’s no point in talking just for the sake of talking. If you have something to say, I want to hear it. But you don’t
have to talk just to fill the silence.”
“You and I are very different people,” I say dryly, which makes him laugh again. “But fine, deal. Three facts for ten minutes
of silence. I’ll go first. Let’s see. I’ve never broken a bone... I had my appendix taken out in high school... and
I think beer’s disgusting.”
“I like beer.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you do. That doesn’t count as one of your facts.”
“Fine.”
“And nothing boring!” I add quickly. He gives me an exasperated look, and I grin.
“Three facts...” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Okay. One: I bought this car in Calgary and drove it back
here last summer. Two: I’m going to Toronto later this summer for my buddy Kareem’s wedding. And three...” He thinks for
a minute and then shakes his head. “I’ve got nothing.”
“You can’t have nothing,” I scold. “Surely you can think of one other fact about yourself. I could name five facts about you myself!”
John snorts. “Can you?”
I sit a little straighter. “Sure can. Watch this.” I count on my fingers. “You drink your coffee black. You don’t wear a watch. You speak Spanish and French.” I hesitate. This is a little hard, now that I think of it. “Ah! Got it. You like old cars, and you’re a little rude to customers.”
“Vintage cars,” John corrects. “And I’m wearing a watch right now.”
I roll my eyes. “I mean most of the time.”
“You mean at work.”
“That’s most of the time! It counts. I win.”
“Was this a competition?”
“Duh. I bet you couldn’t name five things about me.”
I’m expecting him to brush me off, but instead he looks at me, his brow crinkled in thought. The silence stretches out a moment,
long enough for me to get a bit nervous about what he might say. “You’re too nice to customers,” he says finally. “And you
feel like you have to talk a lot to entertain people.”
“Hey!” I say.
“You like talking to old people way too much,” he continues. “And you’re a little idealistic.”
I plant my face into my palm, torn between amusement and aggravation. “You were supposed to say facts about me, not insults.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Were any of those untrue?”
I consider them. “I’m not a little idealistic,” I say finally. “I’m extremely idealistic.”
He laughs. “You’re right. My bad.”
I laugh with him. “I can’t help it,” I admit. “I don’t mean it to be snobby, though. It’s just, like... I don’t know. Don’t
you ever want your life to be more exciting and like—important?”
“Important how?”
“I don’t know. Like when you die, don’t you want people to remember you for something?”
“I’ll be dead. I’m sure I won’t care.”
I snort. “You don’t get it.”
“Nope.” He gestures out the front windshield. “Some drunk moron could swerve into our lane and kill us both right now. We
wouldn’t be any less dead if we were world-famous billionaires.”
“Okay, but don’t you think we’d be happier right now if we were world-famous billionaires? Or even better, if we’d done something important that people would remember us for?”
“I suppose I might be happier if we were rich enough to be driving a McLaren. But otherwise, no.”
I study his face. I think he really means that. “Well, I want my life to be meaningful,” I say stubbornly.
“And I don’t think what makes your life meaningful is what happens after you’re dead.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again.
Huh.
He has a point.
“Hey, you only said four things about me,” I realize aloud. “You need to say one more. Maybe one that’s slightly less emotionally
devastating this time.”
He frowns at me thoughtfully for a moment, then nods. “You have a nice ass.”
A laugh splutters out of me, embarrassed and pleased. “Good lord,” I say, blushing, and lean forward to turn up the music.
“Let’s do our quiet time now, please.”