Chapter 13: Ophelia

Chapter 13: Ophelia

I have a date. The powers-that-be on social media thought we’d be a good match. A ClikClak guy. I’m doing it.

Well, not it. At least not yet. I’m putting that on hold until I’m very  sure that the guy is not a tosser.

Every time the word crosses my mind, I smile. I’ve folded it into my repertoire, like my use of Xs and Os, feeling romantic and whimsical every time I use it.

So this guy, Jeremy, is from Lynn, which isn’t too far. I’m done with the long-distance thing, so even though there are a lot of choices, once I started narrowing it down geographically, the pickings became slimmer.

The story of my life.

Jeremy is taking the commuter rail in and meeting me in the North End. That’s good because it’s not that close to where I live in Chestnut Hill. Several people commented on his post that he seemed like a good match for me. I’m not sure I see it, but what the hell do I know? It’ll be all public, and Marley is on standby if I get weird vibes. She’s going to be just down the street and with one text, she and her boyfriend will be there to escort me away.

As I stare at my closet, I’ve no idea how to dress. I’ve been inside my apartment for way too long, going practically nowhere except the grocery store and over to Marley’s place. It’s made me very lazy when it comes to dressing. I’m up to date on skin care, hair styling, and makeup, thanks to ClikClak, but my wardrobe … sigh.

None of my clothes are stylish anymore.

On the other hand, what in the 1980s is up with these trends of wide-legged pants and mom jeans? I’m a size six (on a good day), but since I’m only 5’2", that means I’ve got some curves. Those oversized pants are super unflattering on my frame. I call them teapot pants because when I wear them, they make me look short and stout.

Do I wear jeans? Do I wear pants? Do I wear a dress?

A dress means I have to shave my legs. Shaving my legs means I’m giving myself permission to get frisky, and I’ve vowed not to do that.

I settle on a pair of black skinny pants, paired with my chunky-heeled black boots, a white oxford shirt, and a green sweater vest. Preppy, somewhat stylish, but still relaxed.

I look cute, for me.

It’s about as good as post-pandemic fashion gets.

On the T there, I text Marley.

Me: Should I ask about his vax status or to see his card?

These are things I never had to think about before.

Marley: You didn’t ask already?

Me: <shrugging emoji> Didn’t know how to work it in.

Marley: <facepalm emoji> I’m not sure you’re responsible enough for this.

I know that I’m not. It’s why I’m still hopelessly single at the age of thirty. I could barely navigate the dating scene before COVID. Now, it’s another layer that has me relegated to my apartment and contemplating adopting five more cats to round out at an even half-dozen.

Me: I know. I’ll ask before we go in and de-mask.

This whole mask-no mask, vaccine-no vaccine thing reminds me of trying to discuss contraception while you’re both naked. There’s no way to do it smoothly, yet it has to be done.

Marley: Still going to Carmalina’s?

Me: Yes. Reservations for 7

Marley: So I’ll expect your text around 7:30

She’s not being mean; she’s being a realist. I’m the eternal optimist in the friendship because I always charge into things expecting the best. Hell, it’s why I’m letting social media set me up in the first place. Also, Trent is the only person I’ve dated in recent history that I knew in real life and not from social media or an app, and we all know how that turned out.

The first thing I notice about the guy standing in front of the restaurant is his height. He’s well over six feet.

"Oh, wow. I didn’t know you were so tall. I couldn’t tell that online." Stellar opening line. Score one for Ophelia.

"I like short girls."

Yes, this is our first interaction. It’s not exactly romance novel material. My brain automatically rewrites the scene, including a magnetic gaze and instant chemistry. I hope I remember it when I get home.

"Well, I’m short," I say lamely. I don’t know how else to respond. My head is tilted almost all the way back, just to look at him. I have a feeling I’m going to have a sore neck by the time this night is done.

"No, I don’t play basketball. The weather is the same up here. Yes, my parents are as tall, and 6’6".”

That’s a lot of information all at once, none of which I asked for. Okay, I was curious about how tall he was, but the other things people must ask him are just uncalled for. It’s like me getting asked if I need a booster seat or if I’m a jockey.

"I understand how you feel." This could be a bonding moment. Someday we’ll look back and laugh and tell our grandchildren that this was our first conversation.

"I doubt that. Short people have it easy. You have no idea how I feel."

Scratch the grandkid idea.

"Okay then. Should we go in?" I don’t know what else to say.

The hostess seats us, eating up a few minutes of time. He starts talking, but I’m having trouble processing what he’s saying. I resist the urge to look at my watch or phone. There haven’t been any major red flags—yet—that necessitate me texting Marley, so I try to pay attention to what Jeremy is talking about.

"So then, I tell her she’s gotta stop following me around. I’m not taking her back for the fourth time."

Uh-oh. I don’t know what I’ve missed, but now the first red flag has been waved. It’s still too early to tell which one of them is not stable. I should probably be paying more attention.

"Well"—I clear my throat—"what looks good to you?"

"I’m not big on Italian food, and I am lactose intolerant."

I look at all the cheese-laden options on the menu. "Okay, why did you suggest an Italian restaurant then?" There are literally thousands of other restaurants we could have picked from.

"Chicks dig the aviance here."

Aviance? What the hell is he even talking about? I keep repeating the word to myself if only so I can remember to tell Marley. Also, the fact that he actually used a sentence that began with chicks dig.

When the waitress comes back, the first thing Jeremy does is tell her he does not want to add the three percent kitchen appreciation fee onto the bill.

According to the fine print at the bottom of the menu, the kitchen fee goes directly to the kitchen staff to help account for rising costs, instead of raising menu prices. "Um, why wouldn’t you want the people working hard to get compensated?" Having worked in a restaurant previously, what I really mean is, "Why did you just invite them to spit in our food?"

"If you want to pay that on your portion, go ahead. They get paid. At least the ones who are here legally."

Oh hell no. He did not just say that. Flags are popping up like the front of the United Nations. "That’s not a fair assumption to make."

"Yes, it is. I’ll take the crazy alfredo."

Didn’t he say he was lactose intolerant?

I order the rollatini and hand my menu over, wishing I’d faked appendicitis before placing the order.

"I can tell you’ve got expensive taste."

Huh? I frown. "How can you tell that?"

"I ordered first, and you still ordered something more expensive than me."

"I didn’t know there was a rule."

"Yeah, when you order second, it’s impolite to order something more expensive. But seriously, let’s talk about the elephant in the room."

I’m confused about which elephant he’s talking about. Is it the fact that he forgot to mention he’s a giant? Or the fact that he doesn’t respect hard-working people? Or the fact that I’m pretty sure he’s racist? Or the fact that he claimed to be lactose intolerant and then ordered alfredo? Let’s not forget aviance, whatever that means. There’s going to be a whole lot to unpack with Marley over a bottle of wine and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.

"Your ClikClak. I mean, were you really that stupid, or was it all staged so that you’d get famous? Like are you trying to expand your business?"

My ClikClak? That’s why he’s here? Oh for the love of God. If I tell him it wasn’t staged, then I’m letting him think I’m stupid. I’m not stupid. I just do stupid things. Occasionally.

Like go out with this guy.

"And," he continues without giving me a chance to speak, "how much is this night going to cost me? I was sort of surprised that you wanted me to take you out to dinner first."

"What?" I mean, I know standards are low, but how low can they get?

"Since you’re an accountant and all. I’m surprised you wanted dinner."

I’m not sure what my job has to do with this. "Well, accountants need to eat too."

"None of the other ones I’ve been with have."

Okay, the red flags are waving as if doing a color guard routine. I can’t ignore them for one single second longer. Time to go.

Luckily, the waitress walks by, and I get her attention. "Um, excuse me, can I get my meal to go?" I pull my wallet out and hand her $40. "Keep the change and give the kitchen staff their three percent, please. I’ll wait at the bar for my food."

She gives me a tight smile. "You got it, honey."

"Wait, what are you doing?" Jeremy asks.

"I’m paying for my food, and I’ll be leaving, thank you very much." I stand up. "Good luck to you, Jeremy."

He stands up too, towering over me and the table. "What are you doing? You can’t walk out on me like this. I came all the way in from Lynn!"

The manager walks over. "Right this way, ma’am. You can wait safely with me."

I don’t look back, even when Jeremy yells, "You were so desperate on ClikClak. That’s why millions of people watched. To laugh at you. You’re disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself."

The manager tilts his head and then squints. "Are you …"

"Yes, surprise visit girl. I know."

"We’ll make sure he leaves and then get you an Uber home. Sit tight."

While I wait for my food as well as a safe exit, I do what I do best. Pulling out my phone, I hit record.

Well, date number one was a complete and total bust. At least I’ll be going home with a good meal from Carmelina’s in the North End, right on Hanover Street. The staff here has been great. The date, not so much. Now, I’m gonna go block him before he can harass me here too. But I still believe love is out there, waiting for me. Kisses and hugs!

And I do block Jeremy.

Marley, on the other hand, does not, and she sends me a copy of his video, ranting about me. He also goes off about the staff at Carmelina’s and how they tried to poison him because he ended up in the bathroom almost immediately after eating his food. Apparently, he doesn’t understand what alfredo sauce is made of. After all, he picked the restaurant solely for the aviance.

I’m pretty sure he meant ambiance. At least, that’s what I think he meant. Nothing else makes sense, not that the date as a whole made sense.

I’m fairly confident I’ll soon be able to add "dating men I meet through ClikClak" to the list of stupid things I’ve done for love.