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Authors: Jami Attenberg
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three occasions his dates had cried. They had his sympathy. He
acted the part anyway. But eventually he began to grumble to himself, If you’re not ready to date, then why are you here? He didn’t want to be anyone’s practice run. He hadn’t dated a widow in a month, crossed
them off his list of potential mates, but that redhead looked so gorgeous in her photo,
ooh, she had that gorgeous bosom and gigantic eyelashes, he could just see himself
getting caught up in her, if only she hadn’t wanted to leave in such a hurry.
The rest were these women who had never married. At first he thought of them as these poor women, because how their egos must have suffered as they careened through their free-flying
youth and suddenly woke up one day to realize they had become old, Jewish maids. Also,
they had never experienced what it was like to be committed thoroughly, which, for
better or worse, had taught him a thing or two about life and shaped the man he had
become. But sometimes after talking for a while, he thought maybe they were the lucky
ones. They weren’t ruined like the rest of the women, at least not in the same way.
Their losses were different, and what they had gained was different, too. Most of
them were childless. Most of them could give or take marriage, and he suspected that
when they left him, they never gave him another thought. His picture was blurry, but
there was no denying it in person. Even if he had molded his interests in his profile
to match the ads of the younger women, one look and they knew, this guy had never
done yoga in his life, and most likely was not picnicking in Millennium Park either.
He was somebody’s father, somebody’s grandfather; an old man.
And then there was the hooker, or half a hooker, maybe; he wasn’t quite sure what
she was. Tracy had contacted him on the site a few days after he joined it, and he
should have suspected something, because she was far younger than him, thirty-nine
years old—only four years older than his son! What would she want with him anyway?
He should have known, but still he agreed to meet with her, suggesting coffee, then
she suggesting a drink, and then a few hours before they were to meet, she e-mailing
him and telling him she had just come from the gym and had had a tough workout and
she was famished and did he mind meeting her for dinner instead? She named a pricey steak house, and
how could he say no? He didn’t want to seem cheap or less than a class act.
She turned out to be a real knockout—though perhaps a bit older than she claimed on
her profile—with dark, shining eyes, plump lips, a lush behind, and slick, minklike
hair that she kept pulled to one side over her bare shoulder. She was wearing a strapless
dress made of a black stretchy material that ended above the knee. Middlestein hadn’t
seen that much skin on a woman up close in a long time. She smelled fantastic, this
combination of flowers and baby powder, and she was tan, and fit, and everything about
her was perfect. As she slowly crossed and uncrossed her legs and ran her fingertips
along the shiny enameled wood of the bar, possibilities unfolded in front of him.
They sat first at the bar—she guzzled a martini, he sipped at a beer—until their names
were called, and he couldn’t say exactly what was going on until after they had been
seated and just before their steaks had already been delivered. He asked if she enjoyed
her work as a receptionist at a massage-therapy institute, and she put her hand on
his and said, “Well, what I’m really looking for is a daddy, so I never have to work
again,” and then she giggled, and he stared at her for longer than he meant to, and
she said, “If you know what I mean,” in a low voice, and he—he just couldn’t help
himself—he did the briefest of calculations, he moved a zero around in his bank account,
even though he already knew the answer, and
acted the part anyway. But eventually he began to grumble to himself, If you’re not ready to date, then why are you here? He didn’t want to be anyone’s practice run. He hadn’t dated a widow in a month, crossed
them off his list of potential mates, but that redhead looked so gorgeous in her photo,
ooh, she had that gorgeous bosom and gigantic eyelashes, he could just see himself
getting caught up in her, if only she hadn’t wanted to leave in such a hurry.
The rest were these women who had never married. At first he thought of them as these poor women, because how their egos must have suffered as they careened through their free-flying
youth and suddenly woke up one day to realize they had become old, Jewish maids. Also,
they had never experienced what it was like to be committed thoroughly, which, for
better or worse, had taught him a thing or two about life and shaped the man he had
become. But sometimes after talking for a while, he thought maybe they were the lucky
ones. They weren’t ruined like the rest of the women, at least not in the same way.
Their losses were different, and what they had gained was different, too. Most of
them were childless. Most of them could give or take marriage, and he suspected that
when they left him, they never gave him another thought. His picture was blurry, but
there was no denying it in person. Even if he had molded his interests in his profile
to match the ads of the younger women, one look and they knew, this guy had never
done yoga in his life, and most likely was not picnicking in Millennium Park either.
He was somebody’s father, somebody’s grandfather; an old man.
And then there was the hooker, or half a hooker, maybe; he wasn’t quite sure what
she was. Tracy had contacted him on the site a few days after he joined it, and he
should have suspected something, because she was far younger than him, thirty-nine
years old—only four years older than his son! What would she want with him anyway?
He should have known, but still he agreed to meet with her, suggesting coffee, then
she suggesting a drink, and then a few hours before they were to meet, she e-mailing
him and telling him she had just come from the gym and had had a tough workout and
she was famished and did he mind meeting her for dinner instead? She named a pricey steak house, and
how could he say no? He didn’t want to seem cheap or less than a class act.
She turned out to be a real knockout—though perhaps a bit older than she claimed on
her profile—with dark, shining eyes, plump lips, a lush behind, and slick, minklike
hair that she kept pulled to one side over her bare shoulder. She was wearing a strapless
dress made of a black stretchy material that ended above the knee. Middlestein hadn’t
seen that much skin on a woman up close in a long time. She smelled fantastic, this
combination of flowers and baby powder, and she was tan, and fit, and everything about
her was perfect. As she slowly crossed and uncrossed her legs and ran her fingertips
along the shiny enameled wood of the bar, possibilities unfolded in front of him.
They sat first at the bar—she guzzled a martini, he sipped at a beer—until their names
were called, and he couldn’t say exactly what was going on until after they had been
seated and just before their steaks had already been delivered. He asked if she enjoyed
her work as a receptionist at a massage-therapy institute, and she put her hand on
his and said, “Well, what I’m really looking for is a daddy, so I never have to work
again,” and then she giggled, and he stared at her for longer than he meant to, and
she said, “If you know what I mean,” in a low voice, and he—he just couldn’t help
himself—he did the briefest of calculations, he moved a zero around in his bank account,
even though he already knew the answer, and
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