Sad face :-(
And again, he looked younger than thirty-nine. And his skin was white, paler than the olive complexion I’d been expecting, which was fine, but different from his picture.
“Derek?” I really was confused by the differences between his photo and his reality.
“Yes. I’m Derek. Derek is my name. That’s me.” Derek, my date, extended his hand, shook mine with a perfunctory up-down movement, and then claimed the seat I’d offered.
My smile wavered. My hopes crashed to the earth in a giant, burning cluster-comet of disappointment. I braced myself. We hadn’t made it past the first minute of awkward and I already knew things weren’t going to work out.
Derek was not my perfect match.
We had zero chemistry. No spark when we touched. No shock or magic voodoo juju awesomeness. No nothing.
And no eye contact. He wouldn’t even look at me.
Inwardly, I sighed and cringed, wondering if we’d be able to wrap this up quickly so I could run to the drugstore for some tampons before meeting my knitting group for wine, and yarn, and then more wine.
Outwardly, I pressed my lips into a shape I hoped resembled a smile and sat in my chair. My eyes sought the clock over the door. It was only 3:14. My record for a coffee date was twenty minutes. I wondered if I could break it today.
“Did you want anything?” I motioned to the cup in front of me, keeping my voice light. “I grabbed a drink already.”
“No,” he said, a slight business-like smile affixed to his features. “Let’s get started.”
“S-started?”
Derek was looking at his watch. He pressed a button. He let his hands drop to his lap. Only then did he lift his eyes to mine.
And then he blinked, his smile slipping infinitesimally, as though the sight of me was unexpected.
I lifted my eyebrows, waiting, because apparently it was time for us to get started. Whatever that meant.
“Hi,” he said. His gaze moved over my features, his smile growing hazy, more genuine.
. . . Huh.
He had brown eyes. His brown eyes held me momentarily transfixed, and not just because they weren’t gray—as he’d listed on his page—but because they were expressive and remarkably attractive.
His hair was also brown, but longer than it had been in his pictures.
Truly, he really did look significantly different than his profile—surely not just because of the absent beard? Nevertheless, despite being beardless, his face was handsome: high cheekbones, strong nose, a jaw that was decidedly square. His eyes were remarkably wide and round, but somehow they suited him perfectly, and I decided his eyes were my favorite part of him.
I allowed my smile to mirror his, my gaze dropping momentarily to his very nice lips, which honestly struck me as oddly pouty for a man.
Okay, let’s give him a chance. Even though he misrepresented his height, age, and eye color . . .
So. Weird.
Who does that?
“Hi,” I finally replied, examining him, my reporter spidey-sense tingling.
Derek flinched at my returned greeting, his eyes narrowing, and he frowned.
“You’re Marie?” His tone was distrustful?
“Yes.” I nodded once, slowly, cataloging his clothes. “And you’re Derek.”
“Of course I’m Derek. Who else would I be?”
“Uh . . .” Yeeeeeah no. I can’t wait to tell Sandra about this guy.
“Moving on.” He shook his head again, as though shaking himself, and frowned at the table. “So, Marie, you’re a writer?”
“That’s right. And you’re an engineer?” I asked, no longer in date mode.
“Your profile said you’ve had one serious relationship in the past, is this true?” Derek lifted his dark eyes to mine again and this time his expression struck me as carefully neutral.
“Yes.” I gave him a pointed look. “Everything on my profile is true.”
It didn’t feel necessary to clarify that though I’d only been in one serious relationship, I’d had relationships in my early twenties, all of which—except my last boyfriend—had been bad and/or unhealthy decisions.
So, yes, technically everything on my profile was true.
Not like your profile, buddy. Not even your eye color is right.
He didn’t seem to catch my hint. “As a woman in your thirties, what are you most looking for in a companion?”
I flinched, unaccustomed to such severely direct questions right off the bat. Not that I was opposed to directness, just that it wasn’t typical on first dates.
In my limited experience with online dating, the order of actions was usually as follows:
1. Both people smile and try not to betray their thoughts as expectations based on photos are either surpassed, met, or disappointed.
2. I shake off my initial impression and try to have an open mind, talk about inconsequential things like movies and the weather.
3. I don’t get my hopes up if things are going well.
4. I never commit to seeing him again in order to avoid appearing overeager.
5. I wait three days, and then text. If the text is not returned, forget him and move on.
I’d only sent a text to four guys over the last two years. Three had returned my message. None had lasted longer than the third date, and no one had ever felt right.
“I guess . . .” I cleared my throat, glancing over Derek’s shoulder to the busy café behind him, as I attempted to parse my thoughts.
As a woman in your thirties was a strange way to frame the question. What did my age have to do with anything?
“So, you would say that you don’t know what you want?” He sounded curious.
My gaze cut back to his. “Yes, I know what I want.”
“But you don’t want to tell me?”
“I don’t mind telling you.” I studied him for a moment, gathered a deep breath, and spoke the truth. “I’m looking for the right person.”
I’m looking for my perfect match.
Derek’s expression didn’t change, and he continued to gaze at me with a patient, watchful expression. But when I didn’t continue, he angled his head forward as though to say, go on.
“And?”
“And that’s it. I’m looking for the right person.”
“Ah, okay. And what traits will this right person have? Starting with the most important.”
What?
“I—”
“And if you could rank each attribute on a ten-point scale of importance—where ten is the most important—that would be very helpful.”
Now I openly frowned at him. “You want me to rank personality traits on a ten-point scale, starting with what I find most important?”
“Not just personality traits, physical attributes as well. Or, if you like, you can start with your love dialect.”
“My love dialect?”
“Correct. What form of affection is most meaningful to you, and so forth.”