Sometime Soon

one



“I compost,” he tells me, even though it’s a total non-sequitur. We’d been talking about work. “I give it away for fertilizer,” he continues as his bushy, dark eyebrows move up and down with each change in his expression.

This is our third date. It’s a warm summer afternoon, and we’re eating ice cream cones on a park bench about a block away from Derek’s apartment. Derek and I worked together before he left to take a job elsewhere. All the women at my office used to lust after Derek but he never seemed to notice. When we ran into each other about a month ago and he asked me out, I could hardly believe it. But then we went out on a date, and I realized very quickly that we have nothing in common. I’m not sure why I’m even here today. That’s not true. I know why I’m here. He’s hot and he asked.

“Do you recycle?” He waits for my reply as he pops the last bite of ice cream cone into his mouth.

“Sure. I mean, I have to. My trash collection service requires it.”

He nods at me. “But you would anyway, right?” His eyes are intent on mine.

“Yeah.” I shrug before finishing off my own ice cream. This isn’t the first time his views on the environment and recycling have come up. By now, I understand very clearly how strongly he feels about these issues.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you.” He stands and slips his sunglasses over his eyes.

I’m just coming to terms with the fact that I don’t care to see his compost, or him, anymore. But I need to get through this Sunday afternoon date. Just making an excuse and leaving would be too rude.

We quickly cover the block to his apartment. Derek’s long legs eat up the sidewalk, and I have to practically speed walk to keep up with him. He doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he reaches down and folds my hand in his.

He lives in one of many brick brownstones that line the street. I follow him up the short stairway to the main entrance. I’ve never been here before, and I can feel that he has expectations of me today. I really hope this doesn’t get awkward.

After climbing three sets of stairs inside the sweltering building, which obviously has no air-conditioning, Derek pulls out his keys and opens the door to his place. He gestures for me to precede him inside. As I step past him, I notice that despite the bright sun out today, his apartment is dark and draped in shadows. I can only make out a small kitchenette to the left of the doorway.

I feel Derek move behind me just before a light clicks on. The walls of the apartment take shape, and I can see a small living room with a loveseat and a wide-screen TV. Clutter in the form of books, discarded dishware, and rumpled clothing covers every available surface. A line is strung up across the length of the room, and what appear to be wet clothes are hanging from it.

I turn around and watch as Derek steps inside and goes into the kitchen area. “I use this composting bin in here,” he tells me, pointing to a squat rectangular container sitting on the countertop.

I nod before turning back to look at the wet laundry in the living room. “Do you always dry your clothes this way?” I ask.

“Always. Do you know how much energy dryers use?”

“I never thought about it.”

“You should,” he tells me. Then he takes the lid off the composting container and the odor of rotting garbage assaults my nose. “I put all my food scraps in here,” he explains.

I make a face and take a step back.

He laughs and replaces the lid. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” he jokes as he waves the smell away from his nose.

I smile politely in response just as I hear a buzzing sound near my ear. I jerk back and swat away a black fly that’s circling my head. I quickly realize that it’s not just one fly, it’s several. “Derek, you’ve got bugs in here,” I say as I bat at another one

“I know. It’s a hazard of composting. That’s what these strips of paper are for. They’re sticky flypaper for catching the bugs. This is much safer than using insecticides of any kind.”

I glance around again, and this time I notice the long narrow strips of off-white paper hanging down from the kitchen cabinets and the doorframes throughout the apartment. They are all completely covered with bug carcasses. My nose wrinkles in disgust.

“Um, Derek,” I begin, knowing I’ve got to get out of here and not caring what kind of excuse I use.

“Hmm,” he answers softy. Suddenly he is directly in front of me. Before I can register his intent, he bends down and puts his lips on mine.

I sputter in surprise and quickly break our connection.

His eyes pop open and he appears confused by my reaction.

I shake my head at him. “I’m sorry. I can’t”

“Why not?”

I know I have an incredulous expression on my face and I don’t want to be rude, but I can’t stop the words that come pouring out. “Derek, your apartment reeks of garbage, and it’s infested with insects. You’ve got one of the ten plagues of Egypt happening in here. This is not exactly putting me in the mood,” I inform him.

His eyebrows slam downward; his mouth a straight, tight line. There is no mistaking the fact that he is completely insulted and offended.

“I’m just going to go,” I say quietly, taking a step back toward the door.

“That’s a probably good idea,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest and watching me with eyes that have turned hard and cold.

I turn on my heels and pull the door open. After I step out, I close the door behind me to ensure that no insects can escape with me. Then I take the stairs down two at a time. Once I burst outside, I gulp in the fresh air. As I head down the street in the direction of my car, I’m processing what happened back there, and I’m not quite sure how to feel about it yet. At least now I don’t need to have the “I’m sorry but I’m not interested” conversation with him. I think that came across quite clearly. A serious set of giggles are beginning to bubble up inside me, despite the familiar disappointment that’s already settling in.

My last long-term relationship was nearly five years ago. I’ve had several mini-relationships since then, but no one special. Nearly all my friends, and my sister, are married or getting married. I’m thirty. I should be worrying about finding someone at this point, and I do. But a part of me refuses to dwell on the looming threat of being perpetually single. Besides, there’s plenty of time to find the one, if he even exists. That’s what I keep telling myself. Now I just have to believe it.



I’m early, as usual. The bar is crowded, but there are plenty of empty tables. The after-work crowd is mainly interested in alcohol. I can relate.

The newest hot spot, Café Blue, is a long narrow rectangular space with soaring ceilings cut by a row of swirling fans. The drinkers are packed together on one side of the room, and a small group of diners is chewing together on the other side. Of course, the whole place is painted in shades of blue. I’m here to meet my good friend Katie for dinner. She has been dying to try Café Blue, and she made me promise not to go without her. What she doesn’t know is that I have already been here. I came two weeks ago with Bryn, so I now know that the food is overpriced and the service is subpar. Bryn and I had tentative evening plans a couple of weeks ago, but in the afternoon she left me a message asking me to meet her “at that new place Café Blue at 8”, and then she never answered her phone again. I was stuck. I actually met Bryn through Katie, but they’ve since had a falling out and are mutually ignoring each other. I haven’t mentioned that I’m no longer a Café Blue virgin to Katie.

As long as I’m here early, and in an effort to make the best of it, I casually walk up to the bar and discreetly angle my way in. From my last visit, I can recall several nice-looking, suit-wearing, likely employed men hovering around. From what I can see, they are back tonight.

Having just come from the office, I’m wearing a pair of navy Bermuda shorts topped with a frilly white peasant shirt. I have on a pair of uncomfortable, but flattering, strappy sandals. This outfit is a step up from my usual Converse sneakers and T-shirts. I work in marketing at a computer software company in Cambridge, just across the river from Boston. The high-tech world has a very casual dress code.

I reach a hand up, checking that my dark curly hair is still neatly contained in a clip. I’m fairly presentable, I think, for having just walked a block to get here on a muggy August night. As I’m attempting to make eye contact with the burly, nose-pierced bartender, I feel someone move in beside me on the right. A deep voice with a smooth cadence says, “I’ll get his attention for you.”

I look over and find myself eye-level with a grey button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves over tan forearms, topped by a striped tie loosened at the neck. Glancing upward, I meet a pair of smiling brown eyes shielded by trendy frameless glasses, and thick sun-streaked hair that’s combed to the side and in perfect order. He doesn’t have to worry about his locks springing out in all directions when the humid summer air sneaks up on him. “Thanks.” I smile at him, astounded by how quickly this has come about.

“What are you having?” he asks.

“Just a Chardonnay,” I answer, eyeing the exotic drinks being consumed around me. Hard alcohol does not agree with me, despite my many attempts to convince it otherwise.

Within moments he has flagged down the bartender and is moving a chilled glass of wine toward me. I reach out and place some bills on the bar, shaking my head at him, but still smiling when he tries to pay. This is something of a problem. I don’t like other people paying for me. It becomes especially difficult in dating situations. Not that this is a dating situation. But in this case, a nice-looking stranger trying to buy me a drink could take my refusal as a rejection, even though I’ve tempered it with a friendly smile.

This whole category of etiquette confuses me. It seems as though who should pay on a date is an elusive concept to both sexes. I’m an independent gal making a good living, but I’m under the impression that the gentleman always pays if he does the asking. I’m not necessarily comfortable with this, but I can conform to society’s dictates. Once a relationship forms, expenses can even out a bit more. At least, this was my thinking until various men I’ve dated complained about the “gold-diggers” with whom they had previously gone out. When I heard “gold-digger”, I thought of classless women trying to squeeze jewelry, cars, and other expensive items out of boyfriends or husbands as payback for intimate favors. Of course, this impression was mostly formed by watching too much television. But to my amazement, these men seemed to be referring to women who simply didn’t “go for their wallets” when the bill came after dinner or at the movies or elsewhere. During this unsolicited post-mortem on past dating experiences, there was always the following “not that I would have let her pay, but she could have at least given me the wallet-reach!” which, of course, I then gave at the end of dinner. And that’s how I’ve handled the issue so far. I do the wallet-reach when the bill comes. Although, I’ve been told more than once what my half of the bill was.

But the grin I offer tonight must be working, because Mr. Frameless Glasses doesn’t wander off after I insist on paying for my own drink.

“I’m Jason,” he says, offering his hand and stepping away from the noisy crowd. Very smooth, I think. I have to move with him if I don’t want to leave him hanging on the handshake. “Andrea,” I reply, putting my hand in his. He has a good handshake, firm and quick but not too fast on the pull-away. His hand is dry and warm. Unfortunately, mine is cold and wet from just having handed my wine glass off to my other hand.

Jason holds a tumbler with ice and some clear liquid soaking at the bottom. “Just coming from work?” he inquires.

“Yes. You?”

“Survived another day in the trenches,” he answers solemnly.

“I’ve had bad days before, but my survival is generally a given,” I reply.

He peers down at me through his floating lenses. “You don’t let them get to you then? Good for you.”

“I try to stay above the fray,” I agree.

“A very good policy. You can’t be either a school teacher or a prison guard then.”

I laugh. “Thankfully, no.” I take a sip of my wine when my cell phone startles me, buzzing in the front pocket of my shorts. I promptly start to choke.

I’d transferred the phone from my purse into my pocket in case Katie called to tell me she was running late, which she usually was. When my phone is buried in my luggage-sized purse, I can never get to it in time. I hold a hand up to my mouth and try to cough and sputter as attractively as possible.

“Are you okay? Do you need me to pat you on the back?” he jokes, moving closer.

As my phone continues to buzz, I give a just one second hand signal to Jason and yank it out of my pocket. “I have it on vibrate. It startled me.” I manage to choke this out, feeling ridiculous as I glance at the caller ID. It’s my sister. I debate not answering it, but she’s relentless. If I don’t answer this call, several more will follow on its heels until I finally do pick up.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this,” I apologize.

He offers me a good-natured shrug and takes a step back to give me some privacy.

“I just had a big fight with Mom.” I hear before I even finish saying hello.

“About what?” Although, I know what it has to be about.

“The flowers. She wants me to take time off from work next week to go check out the florist. She knows I can’t take any time off right now. But she insists it has to get done next week or else the flowers won’t be ready in time, and we have ten-thousand other things to do once the florist is taken care of. I told her I simply don’t have time right now. She should just go by herself.”

“I assume that didn’t go over well,” I manage to say when Laura finally takes a breath.

“No, it didn’t. I don’t see what the big deal is. Why can’t she just pick out the flowers herself? She doesn’t listen to me anyway.”

“Because it’s your wedding.” I look over to see if Jason is still there. He is, watching the baseball game on the screen above the bar. With this new side view, I notice his strong jaw line. “Laura, can I call you back later?”

“Why? What are you doing? I hear noise in the background.”

“I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”

“Who?”

“Katie.”

“Where?”

I’m in trouble now. Laura is another Café Blue diner wannabe. I can’t think fast enough to lie, and I don’t really want to anyway. “Café Blue,” I sigh.

“Café Blue! I told you I wanted to try that place. Why didn’t you tell me you were going there tonight? I could have met you.”

“I’m sorry. It came up last minute, and you’ve been so busy.”

“Not too busy to eat dinner.”

“Have Jonathan take you sometime,” I suggest.

“He’s working so late these days. I don’t want to eat dinner at ten o’clock.”

I glance up and see Katie entering the restaurant. “Look, I’m sorry. We can come here another time. I really have to run.”

“Wait. Tell me how your date with Derek went?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Derek is done. But I don’t have time to explain right now. I’ll call you later, okay? What’s a good time?”

“There are no good times anymore,” she says.

“I’ll call you when I get home,” I tell her before ending the call.

I put the phone away in my pocket. I am now roped into another overpriced dinner at Café Blue. I wave to Katie and turn back to Jason, who isn’t there. I swivel around, but I cannot spot the grey shirt and the perfect hair. I sigh in defeat. Once again, forces beyond my control are conspiring against me.

“This place is so cute.” Katie beams as she grabs my arm and looks around. “Let’s get a table by the front window so we can people watch.”

I scan the bar once more, wondering how he has completely disappeared, and then I follow Katie toward the maitre d’. Katie, as always, is perfectly put together. Her tall slender form is covered in a silky daisy print dress that flutters just above her knees. Her curtain of dark blonde hair neatly surrounds her face and shoulders.

Katie was a psychology major in college where we met freshman year. She now uses her great insight into the human mind as a human resources manager for a large bank in town. That’s also where she met her fiancé. Because she was the one who hired him, she felt it would be a conflict of interest to date him and turned him down for over a year before he moved on to another big banking firm in town. They still talk about that tortured year of furtive glances and repressed feelings. I’m happy for Katie, although I have my doubts about Mike. Katie got married young and then suffered through a terrible divorce about three years ago, and now she seems ready to jump back into the pool again. I have to give her credit for that.

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

“Chardonnay,” I reply, taking a careful sip this time. “And I was talking to a cute guy at the bar until my sister called and he disappeared.”

Her eyes widen and she glances back at the bar. “Really?”

“Yeah, but he probably moved on to a girl who could drink and talk at the same time.”

Katie turns back to me. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and open the menu.

The company is enjoyable even if the dinner isn’t. Katie is a beautiful girl and she really has no idea. She is good-natured and optimistic to a fault. In fact, her only real fault is the way she is constantly trying to fix me up--with anyone. Finally a few months ago, I put my foot down. She’s been very good ever since, but I can feel her chomping at the bit. This is the same issue over which Katie and Bryn had their falling out. At least, that’s what Bryn claims.

I’m a fairly picky eater, and I typically agonize over restaurant menus and drive waiters crazy by making special requests once I finally do decide. But tonight, without much thought, I simply order the same salad and roasted chicken I had last time. It is the cheapest and safest item on the menu. Katie eyes me with surprise at my definitive and speedy decision. She orders a pinot grigio and the salmon. I’m tempted to warn her off the salmon, but I can’t come up with a good excuse quickly enough. Fish can be iffy at good restaurants. At this one, it’s a definite risk.

Our waiter this evening looks more like a gawky teenager than a grown-up trying to earn a living. His face is pocked with acne, and he seems far too young to be working, especially in the evening.

Katie’s wine appears quickly enough, then the waiter either disappears or ignores us for nearly forty minutes. This place is all about the bar profits. We can’t even get his attention for a bread basket to hold us over or to inquire as to where our salads are. When the waiter finally approaches, tray in hand, we see that he has brought our salads and our meals together, but we’re too hungry to complain. My chicken is rubbery, and Katie makes a face when she bites into her salmon, but insists it’s fine. It’s another less-than-spectacular meal at Café Blue. Perhaps the place would go out of business before I had to come back with my sister.

We are waiting and waiting for the check as Katie begins explaining how much trouble they’re having setting the wedding date. This works well for me because I’m hoping to get through my sister’s harried wedding plans before moving right into another frenzy of wedding to-do lists. “Laura and Jonathan are getting married in May. That seems like a nice time to do it.”

“I know,” she says, sounding uncharacteristically defeated. “Mike says he doesn’t care, but every time we try to work out the date, he’s too busy or he has some excuse for why a date I suggest won’t work for him.”

“Excuse me, miss?” the waiter says from above. He places the bill on the table and then hands me a business card. “A gentleman asked me to give this to you. He had to leave, and he says he’s sorry for not being able to wait for you earlier.”

I take the card, and the waiter winks at me before walking away. I’m taken aback, not sure if I really saw the wink or not. Then I hear Katie stifling a giggle.

The business card reads “Jason Randall, Financial Analyst, Prime Investments”.

“There’s something written on the back,” Katie says.

I flip the card over and see a neat blue scrawl with small block letters that read, “Sorry we couldn’t talk more. I would like to. If you would, too, call me.” He’s written down a telephone number that’s different from the business numbers on the front.

“Let me see,” Katie says, reaching for the card. “You must have made an impression.”

“I barely said two words to him.” I grab the card and reread the back.

“That must have been enough.”



You take your life in your hands when you drive in and around Boston. Bostonians drive offensively rather than defensively. The local joke is that using your turn signal is giving information to the enemy. In the past year I’ve been sideswiped by a car taking a right hand turn from the wrong lane, and I’ve been driven into, albeit slowly and therefore without much of a jolt, by a newly licensed teenage girl who was not supposed to be driving her parents’ BMW. I wasn’t at fault in either case, but I was hassled by the paperwork and the loss of my car while the repairs were made. But at this time of night, just after eleven on a weeknight, there are very few cars on the dimly lit roads. I cruise easily out of the city, and I am back at home in less than half an hour.

I love my townhouse. I bought it last year with down-payment money I’d been saving since I started working. Thirty is simply too old to be paying an extravagant rent in Boston. I miss being in the city, but most of my friends have migrated west, so remaining there just didn’t make much sense anymore. I now live about twenty minutes west of Boston, but within walking distance to a small town center and the local commuter rail stop, preventing me from feeling completely isolated inside suburbia. When I first moved, I thought I might even walk to the train and commute into the office that way. But I’m still ruminating on it as I drive my car into the heated office garage each morning. I don’t want to rush a decision like that. My townhouse is also closer to my folks and to my sister, which has its pluses and minuses.

Once I bought my own place, I donated to charity all the shabby college furniture I’d been dragging around with me. I bought a brand new couch and bed and decorated the place in warm shades of cream and mauve. I now have a dedicated home office and a separate kitchen that is not part of a kitchen/dining room/living room combination as all my apartments had been. I also have an upstairs. I really am a grownup now.

Tiger, my four-year-old cat, loves the stairs. At first he didn’t know what to make of them. He stays indoors, and we’ve never had steps before. Now he regularly dashes up and down for no reason I can see other than--he can. Tiger is the first pet I’ve ever had. At first I felt terrible leaving him alone in the house all day while I was at work. I was tempted to get another cat to keep him company, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. That’s how it starts, right? Pretty soon two cats turn into four and four turn into eight, and then I’m one of those women. No way.

I park in front of my townhouse and drag my laptop bag, purse, and lunch bag through the hallway and into the kitchen. I’m braced for the attack, knowing it will come as soon as I turn on the kitchen light. With my bags unloaded, I reach over and flip the light switch on. Once the room brightens, he comes at me. A beige blur flies toward me from under the dining room table. I feel his soft, furry paws grab me around my bare ankle, and then he jumps back and looks up at me. “Gotcha!” his expression says. Tiger plays sneak-attack every chance he gets. He never tires of it.

I reach down and pat his little head, smiling at the immediate purr response. I refresh his water dish, yawn widely, and decide I don’t have the energy to call my sister back. I pull Jason Randall’s card out of my back pocket and place it on the counter. I’m debating whether or not to call him. Not tonight, of course, but at all. I’m flattered that he’s interested. But beyond that, I’m not sure I want to bother. Dating just isn’t fun anymore.

I decide to worry about calling Jason Randall another time, and I head upstairs to bed with Tiger hot on my heels.