expression, I smiled. This was silly. This was lunch—not even a real date. I looked good in my skirt and wore rocking lip gloss—even my winter-lined, dark-denim peacoat looked sharp. Ultimately, this was just a guy. I might not turn heads the way Sandy did in any room, but I could hold my own in a conversation. Rumor has it, I’m kind of funny too. I started that rumor, but it didn’t make it less true. At the very least, I would get tasty food and a good story out of the whole situation. I set off toward the restaurant again with a bounce in my step.
I slipped inside the door to check the place out. Several business types sat in pairs or groups, and they all looked older than twenty-seven—Ben’s age, according to his profile. Finally, I noticed a lone guy sitting at the bar, nursing a soda and picking at a plate of garlic bread. Working my way over, I honed in on the black frames of his glasses and his dark hair. I studied him while I held the advantage of being undetected. No white socks with dark pants, no sports jersey. Even overly feminine highlights in his hair might send me skittering back to the safety of my Macrosystems cave. But he wore unobjectionable khakis, brown loafers, and a navy polo. And no highlights.
I took a deep breath and slid into the seat next to him.
“Hi,” I said.
He looked surprised. “Hi.”
“So this is kind of weird, right?”
“Uh, sure. Kind of,” he fidgeted. His voice sounded more anxious than it did on the phone. I had checked his profile picture again before leaving work, but since it wasn’t a close up, I couldn’t get a real sense of the details. Seeing him in person, I realized I had managed to fill them in using my imagination, and he differed from my mental picture in subtle ways. He had a rounder jaw and shorter, straighter hair than I had expected. He wasn’t bad looking. If anything, his looks put him on the pleasant side of plain. He reminded me of one of Jason’s high school buddies who came off as exceedingly average until he opened his mouth and became cuter because of his personality.
Trying to break the ice, I said, “So . . . I’m Jessie,” and tried not to wince at my mastery of the obvious.
“Hi, Jessie,” he said.
I tried a joke. “Glad to see you wore pants.”
He furrowed his brow in confusion.
“You know, instead of trousers.”
“Right,” he said.
“Which are still better than slacks,” a voice said from behind me.
I jumped and spun on my barstool to see a tall, dark-haired guy standing there with his hand outstretched to shake.
A sinking feeling unfolded in the pit of my stomach and deepened when he said, “Hi, I’m Ben.”
Oh no.
I looked at the random stranger sitting next to me. “Who are you?” I blurted helplessly, my embarrassment making me stupid.
“I’m Jeff.”
I closed my eyes for a brief moment. “Sorry to bother you. I thought you were him ,” and I jerked my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the real Ben.
Jeff shrugged. “No problem,” he said and turned back to his garlic bread.
I turned to face Ben again and found him standing there, looking amused.
“You are Jessie, right?” he asked, faint hesitation in his voice.
“Yes. You’re the real Ben?” I asked with a glare at the hapless Jeff.
“I am.” He paused and looked unsure about what to do next. Finally, he nodded to a table and said, “Window seat okay?”
“Sure,” I said as coolly as possible, trying to recover my dignity.
When I stood to follow him, he measured every inch of the six feet plus he had claimed in his profile. He had blue eyes, and his dark, wavy hair looked significantly less floppy than in his picture. Also, no glasses. Without them, his sculpted cheekbones stood out, balancing a strong jaw. Oh yeah. This looked much more like my mental picture.
He held my chair out for me, and I slid into it, trying not to slouch under my crushing humiliation.
“So, you look suspicious. It really is me,” he
I slipped inside the door to check the place out. Several business types sat in pairs or groups, and they all looked older than twenty-seven—Ben’s age, according to his profile. Finally, I noticed a lone guy sitting at the bar, nursing a soda and picking at a plate of garlic bread. Working my way over, I honed in on the black frames of his glasses and his dark hair. I studied him while I held the advantage of being undetected. No white socks with dark pants, no sports jersey. Even overly feminine highlights in his hair might send me skittering back to the safety of my Macrosystems cave. But he wore unobjectionable khakis, brown loafers, and a navy polo. And no highlights.
I took a deep breath and slid into the seat next to him.
“Hi,” I said.
He looked surprised. “Hi.”
“So this is kind of weird, right?”
“Uh, sure. Kind of,” he fidgeted. His voice sounded more anxious than it did on the phone. I had checked his profile picture again before leaving work, but since it wasn’t a close up, I couldn’t get a real sense of the details. Seeing him in person, I realized I had managed to fill them in using my imagination, and he differed from my mental picture in subtle ways. He had a rounder jaw and shorter, straighter hair than I had expected. He wasn’t bad looking. If anything, his looks put him on the pleasant side of plain. He reminded me of one of Jason’s high school buddies who came off as exceedingly average until he opened his mouth and became cuter because of his personality.
Trying to break the ice, I said, “So . . . I’m Jessie,” and tried not to wince at my mastery of the obvious.
“Hi, Jessie,” he said.
I tried a joke. “Glad to see you wore pants.”
He furrowed his brow in confusion.
“You know, instead of trousers.”
“Right,” he said.
“Which are still better than slacks,” a voice said from behind me.
I jumped and spun on my barstool to see a tall, dark-haired guy standing there with his hand outstretched to shake.
A sinking feeling unfolded in the pit of my stomach and deepened when he said, “Hi, I’m Ben.”
Oh no.
I looked at the random stranger sitting next to me. “Who are you?” I blurted helplessly, my embarrassment making me stupid.
“I’m Jeff.”
I closed my eyes for a brief moment. “Sorry to bother you. I thought you were him ,” and I jerked my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the real Ben.
Jeff shrugged. “No problem,” he said and turned back to his garlic bread.
I turned to face Ben again and found him standing there, looking amused.
“You are Jessie, right?” he asked, faint hesitation in his voice.
“Yes. You’re the real Ben?” I asked with a glare at the hapless Jeff.
“I am.” He paused and looked unsure about what to do next. Finally, he nodded to a table and said, “Window seat okay?”
“Sure,” I said as coolly as possible, trying to recover my dignity.
When I stood to follow him, he measured every inch of the six feet plus he had claimed in his profile. He had blue eyes, and his dark, wavy hair looked significantly less floppy than in his picture. Also, no glasses. Without them, his sculpted cheekbones stood out, balancing a strong jaw. Oh yeah. This looked much more like my mental picture.
He held my chair out for me, and I slid into it, trying not to slouch under my crushing humiliation.
“So, you look suspicious. It really is me,” he
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