a date

at a coffeeshop where the vibes are kind of inhospitable—very uncomfortable chairs. the woman gets there first. total milf, jogging clothes. she waits for five or ten minutes in a seat with a view of the door. i don’t notice whether he gets there on the hour or whether he’s late. he’s maybe fifteen years younger than she is, six inches taller, and much more formally dressed. he sits down without going for the hug. she can’t see or hear how anxiously he is tapping his foot under the table. she talks first, “it’s so great that we’re doing this,” and she talks more, enough to notice that her speech is slightly, ambiguously slurred—a southern accent? is she a little drunk? both?

he doesn’t smile, doesn’t say much, doesn’t make an effort to agree with her when he does talk. it would come across as intimidating if i couldn’t see his nervous foot, or how he clasps and wrings his hands under the table from time to time. she can’t see this. but regardless of what he puts out there, she seems determined that she will have a good time. she leans in. she laughs when i’m not sure he’s joking. during frequent lulls in the conversation, she reasserts her opening line. “it’s so great that we’re doing this.”

she loves that they both care about fitness. she mentions that her son is “a trainer, too.” does that “too” include her or the date? i learn that the son trains the mother, tilting the weight to the second option. she tells her date about her training program. he interrupts frequently in a neutral, somewhat flat voice, to tell her about the what he thinks she and her son are wrong about. of everything that happens on the date, this comes the closest to fazing her, but she powers through. his nervous foot slows, then stops.

at 6:30 the coffeeshop kicks all of us out. at the same time as he says he hopes he sees her next weekend, she asks him which way he’s heading.