You let the practice man pick you up at your house. Silly girl. You know better than that. He seems pleased to meet you. A little nervous. Why shouldn't he be? You're cute. He natters on the way to the restaurant. Drifts over Botts dots. Giggles.
You get your first good look at him once you are seated. He has high hair. Reminds you of something. Oh God. You'd forgotten about the famous dessert. The waiter stands at the table, recites the specials in Midwestern.
"Do you think you'll want the chocolate souffle? I'd need to know now because it takes light-years."
At least you think that's what he said.
"Yum," says the practice man.
Your Plan B ka-booms. He leans across the table, into your space, says, "Tell me everything about yourself."
"Um," you say.
Your helium's not flowing. He tries something else. "What about a cocktail?"
You're way ahead of him. Your bartender brain is making martinis. Double adrenaline. Shaken not stirred. There you lift again. You are sitting on the waiter's shoulder. The poor practice man. He's talking to the bottle. He's working so hard. After an hour, all the soufflE has gone out of his hair.
You excuse yourself to go to the ladies' room. There's a girl at the sink. You stand, side by side, dabbing cold water on your wrists, your temples. Her hands are shaking. You already know her, this ceiling sister. She's you, 5,000 deaths ago. Imagine that. Done in by your own cocktail lounge. It's not Point A or Point B that's the problem. The mastodon is the space between. Coffined by elevators, snuffed by stoplights that change from yellow to the end of the world, trapped without helium, between words, in silence.
You hand her a towel. You say, "If I were you, I'd skip the souffle"
When he pulls up to your curb, you jump out before he shifts to park. You know he wants to kiss you. You'll risk the scab. You wave goodnight. You thank him. You pretend not to hear him say, "Let's do it again." You look up at your Rapunzel tower. You climb your own braid. Ahhhhhhhhhh-Haaaaaaaaaah. You're done. Not over it. That's something for another day. Today was just about getting through.
You've done everything required, everything you promised. You are free, until Monday, when you'll have to start again. For two days you'll be going nowhere. For two days you'll breathe.
You'd prepared the room for your return. Laid a fresh terry robe at the foot of the bed, turned down the sheets. Fluffed the down puff. Left a truffle on your pillow, like they do at the Four Seasons. You haven't lost your sense of humor.
You have a message on your voicemail. "Seriously, Alec Baldwin's head. If I was his neck, I'd sue for divorce," says your best friend. "Call me. When you land."
You hang up your velvet jacket, take the phone from its cradle, and lie on the floor in your underwear.
