The View From Penthouse B

27





In Which I Go Out on a Date


WHEN I ARRIVED AT the beautiful hotel bar, dark wood everywhere, Mitchell rose from our small, votive-lit table and greeted me with a polite kiss on one cheek. He was wearing a dark suit, a starched white shirt, and a tie striped in orange and royal blue.

The waiter was there in seconds. I ordered a datelike Cosmopolitan before Mitchell chose from the bar menu a gin and tonic with grapefruit bitters and grapefruit zest, inspiring me to say, “Make that two.”

The waiter said, “It’s one of our signature cocktails. And a personal favorite of mine.”

And then we were alone. He complimented me on my choice of venues and told me I looked nice. Did I sense that he was somewhat taken aback by the grooming improvement? I said thank you, adding that this was the first warm day of the year, hence this cotton frock.

“Quite toasty,” he said. “And maybe not just the ambient temperature.”

I heard myself babbling that my dress was a hand-me-down from my sister Betsy, who had decided it was too long and she had no time to get it altered. Otherwise she and I are the same size. I’m taller. I’m the middle sister. She’s a banker . . . she wears suits to work . . .

“Was this the sister I saw you with at the deli?”

I told him no, that was Margot. Which led to more babbling about the population of penthouse B, i.e., Anthony Sarno, sterling roommate and excellent baker.

“How many roommates and how many bedrooms?” Mitchell asked.

I told him it was a large place. That, one by one, various undesignated spaces were being turned into sleeping chambers.

“Sounds nice,” he said. “Do you have your own room?”

I said, um, yes, I did.

“Me, too.”

“Do you have roommates?”

“What I have,” he said, eyes closed with the burden, “is joint custody of a college-aged daughter.”

I said, “I think that’s nice. Where is she in school?”

“College-aged,” he said. “Not college-enrolled. She works for my parents, which I think I told you about. We’re in dry cleaning.”

I asked if that meant he was inhaling dangerous fumes, and he said no, that was off-site at the plant. He did the books. “I have a bachelor’s degree from Saint John’s,” he added.

“I know. You mentioned that before.”

“And you? College?”

“Yes. Syracuse. English major.”

“Syracuse,” he repeated. “Do you follow basketball?”

I said sometimes, which was a stretch. Edwin was the one who had, on my behalf, adopted Syracuse, filling some vacuum, he always said, because his own alma mater, Juilliard, never made the sports pages.

“Saint John’s was eliminated in the first round this year,” Mitchell continued.

“That’s too bad,” I said, without asking first round of what.

“They lost to Gonzaga, which was seeded eleventh.”

I asked if this was that thing they call “March Madness,” and he said yes, exactly.

“Was Syracuse in it?” I asked.

“Not the Sweet Sixteen. They lost to Marquette.”

“You know a lot,” I said.

Our drinks arrived, and we concentrated on our first sips. He proposed a toast. “Thank you for joining me. What’re the odds you’d have seen my ‘missed connection’?”

I clinked his glass. “Slim. But you’re welcome.”

“I read those things all the time, but, honest to God, I never thought I’d try it myself.”

I changed the subject to a more businesslike one: reminding him that when we met at the deli, he was very keen about online dating.

“Did I tell you to do it? Because it stinks! The women post pictures that are twenty-five years old. I mean—be serious! They’re standing in front of a nineteen-eighty-eight Buick holding a kid in diapers!”

“Is there really a Renee?” I asked.

“There is . . .”

“But?”

Without looking up, he said, “Issues.”

When nothing followed, I asked, “Would you care to elaborate?”

“I don’t want to be a whiner. The major problem is that my daughter hates her.”

I took what I hoped looked like an offhand sip from my drink before asking, “Because . . . ?”

“She thinks Renee acts one way in front of me, and another way when it’s just the two of them.”

“So they do things together, without you?”

“Once. A movie I didn’t want to see. And believe you me—it was a disaster.”

I said, “I’d be scared to take the daughter of a man I was dating to a movie unless I already knew she liked me.”

“No kidding! And maybe you’d let her reach into your box of popcorn without asking her to first wash her hands.”

“That’s terrible,” I said, though I could recognize the impulse.

“Renee claimed that she didn’t know anything was wrong. Becca’s not a sulker, either. It didn’t help that when they got back to the apartment, Renee asked her if she had homework, and if so, had she finished it. Becca heard it as Go to your room so I can be alone with your father. And said something to the effect of ‘I graduated from bleeping school two bleeping years ago.’”

“And when was this?”

Mitchell frowned. “Last Sunday. A matinee.”

“Like three days ago? Or the Sunday before that?”

“Whatever. It’s for the best. Are you familiar with the term ‘exit relationship’?”

I said yes, of course. I’d been in a support group so I knew every term. How long after his divorce had he met Renee?

“I was still technically married. That happens. It takes a long time before a divorce becomes final.” He blotted his upper lip and brow with a cocktail napkin. “Enough about Renee. She blew it. And it never was a hundred percent.”

I asked what made something a hundred percent.

“Lots of things,” he said. And with that, unfortunately, came a rather fond and lingering gaze into my eyes.

What would throw cold water on this sudden romantic spell? “Obviously your number one priority is—and should be—your daughter’s approval,” I ventured.

“No! Not number one. ‘Good with kids’ falls under the heading ‘Bonuses.’ Trust me, numbers one through three are chemistry, chemistry, and chemistry.”

I made a quick downward check at my sweetheart neckline. Had it suggested to him that there was an accommodating woman across the table?

He continued: “Let’s be honest, even at my age there has to be good old-fashioned animal magnetism.”

I asked what his age was. “A young fifty-one,” he said, winking. “But don’t get me wrong. I’m careful. I’m a good dad. Becca shouldn’t have to wake up to a strange woman drinking coffee at breakfast in her negligee.” And then, as if I hadn’t already mentally excused myself from the table: “Is it awkward—having two roommates around all the time?”

I said no. Margot and Anthony and I were most compatible and respectful.

“I didn’t mean everyday getting along. I meant in terms of privacy. Private lives . . . as in entertaining guests.”

Was this the new territory I wanted to conquer, and this its indigenous species? Another woman might have hinted that penthouse B was awash with chemistry and queen-size beds. But I didn’t. I was flummoxed by his ambitious smile and felt nothing except his clammy hand on my thigh.

I looked down. I said, “I just met you.”

“I know! And I like what I see.”

“I meant take your hand off my leg.”

He did. His smile collapsed. “I thought you were enjoying my company!” he whined. “Am I wrong?”

So this was romance; this was how a missed connection worthy of publicizing on Craigslist rewired itself on a first date. Civility abandoned me. “Yes you are,” I said.





From DonJuan22 to MiddleSister: I’m a spiritual, sensitive, kind, thoughtful workaholic who lites up a room but doesn’t suck the air out of it. U sound nice. Write back?