He dated a dozen widows, most of whom had sopped up their tragedies like their hearts were sponges. They did not want to be on that date. They were there because someone had made them, their child, their mother, their sister, their co-worker. If they had their way they would stay home by themselves on a Friday night, but could they really stay home on every Friday night for the rest of their lives? In their ads they promised they were lively and active and engaged in the world around them, but in person they were only able to fake it for a half hour or so before their devastation became apparent to Middlestein. On 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 this was not what he wanted anyway, but oh, he wouldn’t mind putting his hands on that tuchus of hers. But there was no way. A steak dinner, sure; not much more than that, though. And if he couldn’t bring her to his grandchildren’s b’nai mitzvah in June—he could just hear the whispers, he knew he’d be whispering himself if one of his buddies did the same, and his children, and especially that daughter-in-law of his, would never forgive him—then she wasn’t much of an investment at all. Then she said, “Do you think you would like to be my daddy?” and a massive pang of depression struck him, and he looked down into the bottom of his drink, searching deeply for his dignity. When he looked up, her smile had faded.
“I’m just looking to meet a nice lady,” he said, which wasn’t exactly true, but was closer to the truth than what she was proposing.
“I can be very nice,” she said, the last remnants of her flirtation fading, because she was not there to defend herself, only to promote her possibilities.
And then there were the steaks, and they were delicious. She took half of hers home in a doggy bag, which she clutched to herself as they stood in the parking lot. A kiss on the cheek, and then a whisper: “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”
*