David has parsley in his teeth, and I’m not sure how to tell him.
“Anyway, so I took a job teaching social studies to eighth-graders in East L.A., and I thought it would be for a year or two, but I just really like it,” he says. He laughs at himself a bit, and it’s really charming. It is. But he has parsley on his front tooth. And it’s a big piece. It’s not so much that I mind. I mean, parsley is not the measure of a person. It’s just that I know he’s going to go to the bathroom at some point, and he’s going to look in the mirror, and he’s going to see it. And he’s going to come back out and say, “Why didn’t you tell me there was a huge piece of parsley in my teeth?” And I’m going to have to sit here and shrug like an idiot.
“You have a—” I start, but he accidentally speaks over me.
“I mean, in college, I was convinced I would graduate with my political science degree and next stop, the Senate! But, you know, life had other plans,” he says. “What about you?”
“Kind of the same thing,” I say. “I work in the alumni department at Occidental.”
“That sounds like it could be fun.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a good job. Same as what you’re talking about. It’s not what I set out to do. I was a psych major. I just assumed I’d be a psychologist, but I found this, and I don’t know, I really like it. I find myself getting really excited when we are putting together the newsletters, planning reunions, that sort of thing.”
David takes a sip of his white wine, and when he does, the parsley manages to wash away.
“Isn’t it nice,” he says, “once you’ve outgrown the ideas of what life should be and you just enjoy what it is?”
Of all the things people have said to me about my marriage, none has resonated like this does. And he’s not even talking about my marriage.
I lift my glass to toast.
“Here’s to that,” I say. David clinks his wineglass to mine and smiles at me. You know what? Without the parsley there to distract you, it’s quite a smile. It’s bright white and streamlined. His face is handsome in a conventional way, all cheekbones and angles. He’s not so attractive that you’d stop traffic to look at him. But neither am I. He’s just a humbly good-looking guy. Like, if he were the new doctor in a small town in the Midwest, all the local women would schedule an appointment. He’s that kind of attractive. His glasses sit comfortably on his nose, as if they have earned the right to be there.
“So what kind of stuff are you into?” David asks me. “I mean, when you’re not at work, what are you doing?”
“Uh . . .” I say, unsure of how to answer the question. I read books. I watch television. I play with my dog. Is that the stuff he means? It doesn’t seem very interesting. “Well, I just recently started hiking and running. I like taking my dog out in the sun. I always feel good about myself when he gets tired before I do. It’s rare, but it does happen. I guess, other than that, I hang out with my family, and I read a lot.”
“What do you read?” He takes a bite of his salmon as he listens to me.
“Fiction, mostly. I’m getting into thrillers lately. Detective stories,” I say. The truth is, I’ve stopped reading anything with a love story in it. It’s much less depressing to read about murder. “What about you?”
“Oh, nonfiction, mostly,” he says. “I stick to the facts.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Admittedly, it is hard to keep up conversation with a stranger and pretend he is not as much of a stranger as he is. I try to come up with something to say. I talked to him about his job already. What do I ask?
“Sorry,” he says. “This is my first date in a very long time. I’m sorry if it’s awkward.”
“Oh!” I say. “Me, too. First time on a date in a while. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I haven’t dated anyone since Ashley,” he says, and then confirms what I already have deduced. “My ex-wife. Christina keeps trying to set me up with people. But I never . . . this is the first time I’ve agreed to it.”
I laugh. “Mila was really pushing it.”
“So I take it you are also a victim of the institution?” he says, smiling. “Divorced?”
“Well,” I say, “I’m separated. My husband and I. We’re separated.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” David says.
“No, me, too,” I say. “About yours.”
David laughs to himself. “Well, we never separated. I found her sleeping with one of her coworkers. I filed for divorce as fast as I could.”
“That’s awful,” I say, putting my hand to my chest. I’ve known David for, like, an hour. But I can’t believe someone would do that to him.
“You don’t even know the half of it,” he says. “But I won’t get into that. I told myself, ‘Don’t talk about Ashley at dinner.’”
I laugh knowingly. “Oh, trust me. Same here. I’m relearning how to talk to people since Ryan left. Honestly, this is my first date since I was nineteen. I have a whole list of things I’ve told myself not to do.”
“Let me guess. Don’t talk about your ex. Don’t talk about how lost you feel being alone again. Don’t talk about how weird and awkward it is to sit across the table from someone other than your ex.”
I add a few myself. “Don’t eat off his plate, just because you’re used to being able to do that. Don’t admit you haven’t been on a date in eleven years.”
David laughs. “We’re doing better with some than with others.” He tips his wineglass toward me, and I reciprocate. Our glasses clink, and we drink.
We laugh our way through dinner. We order more wine than we should. As buzzed becomes tipsy, the filter of what to say and not say starts to wash away. We tell each other the things we don’t tell other people.
He tells me he wakes up sometimes thinking he should just take her back. I tell him Ryan is dating someone else and that when I think about it, I think my heart might implode. I tell him I’m not sure I ever had much of a life outside of Ryan. He nods knowingly and tells me that in his darkest hours, he wishes he never caught her. That he just never found out. That he could live his whole life being the guy who didn’t know that his wife was cheating. He tells me he liked life better then. I tell him I’m starting to wonder who I even am without Ryan. I tell him I’m not sure I ever knew.
It’s the first time I’ve told someone the uglier truths about how much it hurts. It’s the first time someone has been able to tell me they hurt, too. It is comforting when you share your pain with someone, and they say, “I can’t even begin to understand how difficult that must be.” But it is better when they can say, “I understand completely.”
When dinner ends, he walks me to my car. We walk down Larchmont Boulevard past the closed shops and cafés, all decorated with wreaths and lights in preparation for Christmas next week. It would be a romantic moment if we hadn’t spilled our guts to each other, exposing our wounds and washing away all mystery. When we get to my car, David kisses me on the cheek and smiles at me.
“Something tells me we’ve friend-zoned each other,” he says.
I laugh. “I think so,” I say. “But a friend is a good thing to have.”
“It’s too bad we’re so clearly not ready,” he says, laughing. “You’re a beautiful woman.”
I blush, and yet I am relieved. I’m not ready to go on a date that ends with passion. I’m just not ready. I grab David’s hand. “Thank you,” I say, opening my car door and getting into the front seat. “Keep my number, will you? Feel free to call me when no one else gets it.”
He smiles that nice smile. “Ditto,” he says.