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~ Nothing is given away by telling you they do not end up together ~

 

They ended up at her place after seeing a band. It was their fourth outing, their first real date. He was 57 and she 59, both well-preserved, you could say good-looking. He was a jogger and cyclist, she a swimmer, both raised in blank suburban 70s neighbourhoods, him West Vancouver, her Kerrisdale.

She made tea. They sat lined up on her tastefully plain couch, barely an inch between them, looking out on her living space. An oval table tucked within a second-floor bay window with a laptop, notebook, and scattered notes. A yoga mat, a half-empty bookshelf, and her ragged unframed abstract paintings that recalled something undefinable, difficult.

Susurrant midnight chit chat, crackling silences, cravings begged and prodded, it was time, past time. He faced her, she smiled and leaned in, they kissed for the uniquely glorious first time, which, like everything else, falls quickly into the chasm of the past.

Eva and Spencer had met on a dating app two weeks prior, both looking for a LTR. She had a dense fop of curly hair dyed black that left her ever-rising neck bare, sexy, lively, something of a dancer or athlete back when. Her smile pulled comically to the left and flashed a perfect straight line of upper-suburban teeth. No makeup, which suited her, blue eyes but on her profile pictures they looked darker, almost vacant, maybe something ruined, he thought. Her skin sagged in dashes below her checkbones but most everything else was taut and attractively weathered, resilient, except her voice, frail, puerile or beaten down, a breathless baby bird in a kid’s cartoon. She was mostly retired, a transient office manager, a means to support her film and TV acting. She liked hikes, Baba ghanoush, and dry cider. Her profile had a picture of her lying flat on her back, on a flat rock, probably a summit, relaxed and sweaty, her face obscured, her eyes probably closed, checked out on a hot summer afternoon. He imagined himself there, the effects of cider, her sweet sweat in the breeze. Looking into her darkened eyes again, he hesitated, but then swiped right.

His profile was six feet of lean good looks, stiff wavy grey hair parted on the side with a wave at the front, implying some virility, certainly some vanity, and unlike her, he smiled broadly in every photo. His profile said he enjoyed meeting new people, staying active, and doing things outside his comfort zone.

A couple days later, she messaged:

Hi Spencer, hope you’re loving the sunshine today! So what’s the latest thing you’ve done outside your comfort zone?

It wasn’t the bucket list fodder, skydiving, gorillas in the mist, Machu Picchu, but rather experiences that pushed his nerves and neurons: stand-up comedy open mics, solo back-country camping, learning to salsa – not easy, for he had no sense of rhythm. The neighbours had tried to teach him the bongos one evening, but never again. In those uncomfortable times, for all too brief moments, he forgot himself.

He ventured a half-truth, saying nothing about his nerves:

…I find if I don’t do these things life blurs into monotonous days, nothing memorable because nothing stood out. It’s about doing things worth remembering.

I’m glad we connected! It looks like we have things in common: love of outdoors, adventuring, and yes, Baba G!

Her: 😃

Four days later they met at an uncrowded airy café on Broadway. Despite efforts not to be, he was always very early. The tables were airy light pine which relaxed him and only one was occupied by three twenty-something girls near the window, giggling at something on their phones quietly, harmless. He sat far away from them, halfway down along the wall. He left the bench seat, giving her the view. He sat a quarter turned toward the entrance, conscious not to fully face the door like an excited puppy wagging his tail when she arrived, though that’s how he felt. He considered ordering his coffee, wanting any drug, but it was rude to order before her arrival, wasn’t it? Had he worn the right clothes? Did they look carefully chosen (they were) or just thrown on? Chosen was more respectful, but thrown on more relaxed, non-threatening, non-presumptuous, non-desperate. Which would she appreciate more? What would she think if he had a coffee already with his untucked navy Oxford shirt and his too-big smile and good manners? Would any of it fly? Get a grip, calm down, caffeine is a terrible idea, you’ll certainly chatter something stupid, your shirt is ironed like it’s Sunday school!

Fuck it, he ordered an Americano, black.

He’d worn casual black leather shoes, jeans, had shaved and washed his hair, which he swept back with a wave Elvis might appreciate, but probably laugh at. Before leaving home he’d checked himself in the mirror more than once and said aloud, “You still got it.” Fuckable is what he meant. But that was never the hard part. The challenges were underneath and he could feel their malevolent motion as he showered, ironed, and double-tied his laces. Perhaps he should have worn a tight-fitting black t-shirt, his favourite thing to wear, show off his sculpted chest and torso and left scruff on his face, were those more pleasing choices? No, no, bare arms in February look ridiculous!

And she could easily misinterpret a revealing appearance as a sexual offer, which would probably offend her – women were not sex objects – he needed to look respectful, that’s what he wanted her to see at a first meeting. And forever more, for that matter. Regardless of the mental and emotional churning, or maybe because of it, he felt wonderfully uncomfortable, alive.

At five minutes after the hour, the sun clawed her black curly bob as she pulled through the two glass doors. He turned and faced the wall and waited for the most natural moment to look up as she approached. She was taller than he imagined, around 5’9”, maybe 10. Slim, she carried herself straight and confident. He stood, smiled, they exchanged ‘Heys’. He motioned for her to sit on the padded bench. Did she appreciate good manners? She smiled briefly to be polite. Her pants were beige, cargo-like and wide from hip to ankle, stylish. Chosen? Her white sneakers had a hot green stripe and looked sensible, not sexy or cool, rather ready to run if needed. A waterproof brown windbreaker. She sat slightly diagonal from him at the four-seater, an acceptable offset angle for a first meeting – who the fuck knew who he was – and removed the windbreaker, the most friendly gesture so far, revealing a faded pink t-shirt over a long-sleeved white one, the overall effect which squared off her shoulders and flattened her chest. The faded pink number was nearly a rag, what you wear while gardening or house cleaning, it seemed to him a kind of ‘this is me’ approach, ‘I’m not dressing up, take it or leave it.’ He felt overdressed and some part of him wanted to be offended but allowed for her not wanting his first interest to be sexual, which actually turned him on. He smiled more or less constantly, her resting face was a bit sad, sometimes optimistic or blank, as if looking out the window of a bus at nothing.

She ordered tea and kept her hands in her lap except to drink.

“How do you like living in this area?” he asked.

“It’s good, I wanted somewhere not far from the Aquatic Centre.” Her frail voice conserved breaths, which seemed to take some effort.

He shifted sideways and propped a foot on the chair rung next to him and draped an arm over its back, trying to be casual. “Oh, how long have you been here?”

“In Mount Pleasant, year and a half. North Van before.”

“Cool, I went to high school in North Van. Is that where you grew up?”

“No, Kerrisdale.”

“Ah! I was in West Van.”

“But you went to school in North Van?”

“Yeah, private school.”

She smiled and looked away quickly as if it were a joke. “Me too, Croften.”

“Waldorf.”

There was an instant recognition of something both would rather laugh at than be proud of, the mid-upper-class, white suburbanite in each other and its errant history of feeling superior to others that later got shredded despite how their egos insisted there was an unassailable truth to it.

“You’re in Kits?” she asked.

He straightened and shifted to face her with his arms either side of his coffee. “Yeah, five years now since I left the family home. Kits is great, jog most days along the beach – do you ever go to the pool there?”

“Yeah, busy sometimes, but I love it.” She sipped her tea and returned her hand to her lap.

She was lovely, despite dressing down and a reserved nature, all of which he attributed to meeting for the first time. Her ever-rising, lily-white neck balanced a gaunt jaw, straight nose, proud cheekbones, and sexy subtle sags and lines he wanted to caress. And like her app pictures, no makeup. He wondered if she had had a mastectomy or been through something, which also gave her an enduring vibe, she had beaten it and now couldn’t be swayed. Strength and resilience turned him on.

She still did some acting when she felt like it, which was how she put it, but hadn’t done anything in a while. She had gotten some bit parts on TV series and movies. And she helped out with running acting workshops a couple times a year for an acting coach friend. She’d worked as an office manager up until a year ago and was wondering, without any hint of urgency, if she should go back. Clearly, money wasn’t much to worry about.

“I’ve been working on a play,” she said.

“A play you would be in?”

She shook her head. “No, but I think I’d like to direct it.”

“Oh, that’s awesome,” he said with calm sincerity. He leaned forward and twisted to loosen his back. “What stage are you at?”

“Stage? I don’t-”

“No I mean in the writing, how far along are you writing it?”

She sputtered her lips, which felt nice, she seemed more relaxed now. “It’s, I guess, maybe halfway to a first draft.”

He nodded with his eyebrows up, complimenting and optimistic. “Cool.”

She shrugged and then giggled nervously. “It’s a process, frustrating sometimes.” She smiled, he returned it warmly.

“I write for work too – very different – advertising copy, not artistic – focused on persuasion.”

“Is that what you do?”

“Copyrighting? Not so much, it’s where I started, but still part of what I do now, I’m a media buyer, I buy ad space on the Internet for businesses.”

She nodded blankly.

“It’s a good gig, I work for myself. Not a passion, but a good gig.”

She nodded again, politely, but not fake. He was grateful for that, she felt authentic. And confident, which was somewhat intimidating, but definitely attractive. Decidedly, it seemed, she was not putting out any sexual vibes and naturally he wondered if this was her normal state or if she was holding them back, or perhaps she felt none for him. It had been a year since he’d had sex and wondered how long for her.

They exited the café together and he spoke first: “This was great, I’d love to get together again if you’re into it.”

“Yeah, let’s.”

He gave her a light hug and stepped away. She turned away and then turned back. “I don’t have your number.”

“I’ll message you on the app,” he said, reassuringly.

She nodded and continued on.

He turned and went the other way toward the bus stop. He exhaled, a heavy grip let go of him. Walking felt like floating. The air was fresh and the low clouds were comforting rather than their usual oppressive dreariness.

He forced himself to wait until evening to text her his cell number:

… Great meeting you, Eva😊