after another. Frankly, you bore me.” She walked to the next booth.
Jonathan called after her, “Molly! Don’t be mean.”
And then came the moment he was dreading. “So how was your weekend?” Tracie asked.
Chapter 7
Jon had a problem. He told Tracie everything, or almost everything, which was good. But looking like an idiot and a goofball and a pathetic excuse for a man was not so good. He needed her empathy and advice, but he was afraid of her pity. So, usually, he made a joke of his pain. Now Jon raised his hands and clasped them over his head. “The undefeated world champion with the worst social life in America . . .”
“Well, with Mother’s Day, it would be —”
“No. It was the disasters previous to Mother’s Day that hurt.”
Tracie raised her eyebrows and scrunched up her eyes in an exaggerated moue [“move”] of remembrance. She was really cute when she did it. “Oh God! I’m so sorry! I forgot! The look-see didn’t work out?” Tracie sighed. “What about the big date?”
p. 62 Molly returned with coffee and poured it out for Tracie, then shook her head and left. Tracie leaned across the booth and lowered her voice. “What happened? What went wrong with the look-see?” Her face assumed a look of horror. “You didn’t wear that plaid jacket, did you?”
“No,” he assured her. “I wore my blue blazer.”
Tracie, her mouth by now full of coffee, almost did a spit take. “You wore a blazer for a look-see?”
“Yeah, I —”
“ Never get dressed up for a look-see. The whole point is to appear casual.” Tracie sighed with frustration at him, not for the first time. “So . . . what happened?”
“Well, I walked into the bar; she waved. She was attractive in a skinny, redheaded way. So I went over to her and gave her the flowers . . .”
“You brought flowers?” Tracie cried, her hands flapping in exasperation. “God, that stinks of desperation.”
“Maybe that’s why it lasted eleven minutes. We’d hardly begun to talk when she said she’d left clothes in the dryer and didn’t want them to wrinkle.”
“That’s a new wrinkle in lame excuses,” Tracie told him. They both let the horror of it sink in for a few moments. Then, as always, Tracie brightened. Jon was certain her optimism was genetic. “Oh, forget about it. I’m sure she wasn’t a natural redhead anyway. The drapes never match the rug.” Jon managed a p. 63 grin and Tracie grinned back. “So what about Saturday night? You know, the date with that woman you work with? The one you yearn for with the lust of a thousand pubescent boys. What’s-her-name?”
“Sam. Samantha,” Jon reminded her. For a moment, he wondered why he always knew every friend and boyfriend of hers by given, middle, and nicknames but she . . . He sighed. “Actually, it was worse,” he admitted.
“How could it possibly be worse than an eleven-minute look-see?”
“Well, for one thing, I was meeting her outside. For another, it was raining. And for a third, she never showed.”
Tracie’s lower lip dropped in real surprise. Then she exaggerated it, just to cover. “She totally stood you up? She wasn’t just late? I mean, you waited long enough?”
“Two hours.”
“Oh, Jon! You stood in the rain for two hours?”
“Yeah. I didn’t mind that as much as the fact that I have to see her tomorrow at work.”
“Ouch!” Tracie winced, his upcoming humiliation on her face, then tried to recover. “At least tell me she called and left a message with a plausible lie,” she begged.
“Neither. No message at home, work, not even an E-mail. And I’d left messages for her on all three.”
Tracie grimaced. Jon flushed, embarrassed again. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said.
p. 64 Jon got defensive. “Well, what should I have done?”
Tracie narrowed her eyes. “It reminds me of the Dorothy Parker line: ‘ “Shut up,” he explained.’ ”
“But how else could she
Jonathan called after her, “Molly! Don’t be mean.”
And then came the moment he was dreading. “So how was your weekend?” Tracie asked.
Chapter 7
Jon had a problem. He told Tracie everything, or almost everything, which was good. But looking like an idiot and a goofball and a pathetic excuse for a man was not so good. He needed her empathy and advice, but he was afraid of her pity. So, usually, he made a joke of his pain. Now Jon raised his hands and clasped them over his head. “The undefeated world champion with the worst social life in America . . .”
“Well, with Mother’s Day, it would be —”
“No. It was the disasters previous to Mother’s Day that hurt.”
Tracie raised her eyebrows and scrunched up her eyes in an exaggerated moue [“move”] of remembrance. She was really cute when she did it. “Oh God! I’m so sorry! I forgot! The look-see didn’t work out?” Tracie sighed. “What about the big date?”
p. 62 Molly returned with coffee and poured it out for Tracie, then shook her head and left. Tracie leaned across the booth and lowered her voice. “What happened? What went wrong with the look-see?” Her face assumed a look of horror. “You didn’t wear that plaid jacket, did you?”
“No,” he assured her. “I wore my blue blazer.”
Tracie, her mouth by now full of coffee, almost did a spit take. “You wore a blazer for a look-see?”
“Yeah, I —”
“ Never get dressed up for a look-see. The whole point is to appear casual.” Tracie sighed with frustration at him, not for the first time. “So . . . what happened?”
“Well, I walked into the bar; she waved. She was attractive in a skinny, redheaded way. So I went over to her and gave her the flowers . . .”
“You brought flowers?” Tracie cried, her hands flapping in exasperation. “God, that stinks of desperation.”
“Maybe that’s why it lasted eleven minutes. We’d hardly begun to talk when she said she’d left clothes in the dryer and didn’t want them to wrinkle.”
“That’s a new wrinkle in lame excuses,” Tracie told him. They both let the horror of it sink in for a few moments. Then, as always, Tracie brightened. Jon was certain her optimism was genetic. “Oh, forget about it. I’m sure she wasn’t a natural redhead anyway. The drapes never match the rug.” Jon managed a p. 63 grin and Tracie grinned back. “So what about Saturday night? You know, the date with that woman you work with? The one you yearn for with the lust of a thousand pubescent boys. What’s-her-name?”
“Sam. Samantha,” Jon reminded her. For a moment, he wondered why he always knew every friend and boyfriend of hers by given, middle, and nicknames but she . . . He sighed. “Actually, it was worse,” he admitted.
“How could it possibly be worse than an eleven-minute look-see?”
“Well, for one thing, I was meeting her outside. For another, it was raining. And for a third, she never showed.”
Tracie’s lower lip dropped in real surprise. Then she exaggerated it, just to cover. “She totally stood you up? She wasn’t just late? I mean, you waited long enough?”
“Two hours.”
“Oh, Jon! You stood in the rain for two hours?”
“Yeah. I didn’t mind that as much as the fact that I have to see her tomorrow at work.”
“Ouch!” Tracie winced, his upcoming humiliation on her face, then tried to recover. “At least tell me she called and left a message with a plausible lie,” she begged.
“Neither. No message at home, work, not even an E-mail. And I’d left messages for her on all three.”
Tracie grimaced. Jon flushed, embarrassed again. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said.
p. 64 Jon got defensive. “Well, what should I have done?”
Tracie narrowed her eyes. “It reminds me of the Dorothy Parker line: ‘ “Shut up,” he explained.’ ”
“But how else could she
Similar Books
