He has, again, caught me off guard.

As I listen to him, I picture him at his desk, facing his phone set, leaning on his elbows, an urgent expression on his face.

“This is personal, not business,” he delineates. “You can talk about work, if you want. But, work is not hanging on this.”

I can’t yet abide thinking about Frank sexually, and, besides, his wedding ring tells me I may not be reading him correctly.

“So, what should I wear?” I muse, scrambling to keep time with the conversation, feeling frivolous with his interest. “Oh, I’ll wear what I have on. Frank, I’m pleased you’ve asked. I’ve been wanting to sit down and talk with you without interruptions.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.”

“Anyway,” I continue, “there is a ‘however’. I feel like I want to be comfortable. Of course I’ll wear my boots...”

“Of course!” choruses Frank.

“But I don’t feel like changing out of my jeans, and I’m in my favorite sweater, which is ratty looking...”

“You’ll be a vision.”

“I figure it’ll make a difference in where we go. I’ll meet you...downtown?”

“No, I’ll pick you up.”

“Oh. Well, ah, I may not let you all the way in - I mean, it depends on how clean my place is...”

“Not necessary. I’m taking you to dinner. You don’t need to invite me in.”

“How nice, Frank! I’m looking forward to it! By the way, I’m not real hungry, but French onion soup, mmmm, with Parmesan cheese and garlic toast sounds good. Or whatever. You’ll need directions...”

“I’ve figured out where you live. I think I can find it.”

“The complex doesn’t have a number on it,” I mention, expecting him to ask for directions, “and it has security entrances, so you have to ring me from the lake side, as you’re facing it. The left side.”

“I can handle that.”

“Well, good! So. I’ll see you at six-thirty or so. I mean, if that sounds good to you...” this is, after all, his plan, I remind myself.

Frank laughs. “Six-thirty is fine.”

I replace my receiver in the cradle.

I am relaxed and ready to leave when I buzz Frank in. No, no home tour, I decide.

Frank steps back and curves his arms into a protective arc from his shoulders, like a parasol against the last piercing rays of southwestern sun. I check my body, quickly. Numb. I am not detecting any attraction attempting to connect, either way. I am relieved. I walk under the dome of his body and smile, turning in, stretching up. I stare over his shoulder at the setting sun.

The bucket seats in his car have generous seat belts. I wrap mine loosely, giving me enough room to swivel toward him, to speak with my body when I need to. He is slumped against the driver’s door, skewed in my direction.

“This is great!” I enthuse. “Being single, I’m always driving myself, and I tend to forget how spectacular the desert is!”

“I’ve been wondering how that happened,” Frank says. “Aren’t you in your late, ah, mid thirties? You’re divorced, right?” He is looking at me slyly, as though he is anticipating the answer to reveal him trapped in his car with a monster.

“Let’s see,” I tease. “I’m single because I hate sex, I hate men, I hate children, I hate America, I hate life as we know it...”

Frank laughs.

So do I.

He relaxes, visibly.

So do I.

“You know, it is unusual,” he probes.

I sigh. “No, I’m not divorced,” I say, in obvious rote. “I’m single. I know it’s unusual. I’ve caught myself telling people that I’m surprised I’m not married. The truth is, I’m surprised I escaped marriage. I went through a period in my late twenties into my early thirties where I lusted for marriage. Everyone I was sexually attracted to became a marriage candidate. Some of them even thought I was a marriage candidate. So many times it would have been so easy to go through the ceremony. But, I never did. So, here I am, not married, and no one is more surprised than I.”

“Really!” I notice Frank is looking at me with interest, but not as though the object of his interest is a stuffed, two-headed calf or a deformed fetus in a bottle of murky formaldehyde.

“You know, Frank, several years ago on some talk show, I saw an older woman being interviewed, she was probably in her late sixties, maybe even early seventies. She was a member of the Gray Panthers. She mentioned that she’d never been married. She was asked why. ’Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ’Just lucky, I guess.’ I was in my late twenties, had already turned down one,” I thought about Steven and amended, “no, two proposals of marriage, was expecting a third soon, wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it, and still imagined that, of course, I’d be married by 30. Actually, I didn’t even think about it. It was something everyone else did, and I hadn’t yet gained the perspective on my life to realize that I had actually never done what everyone else did. When I heard her say that, though, I thought, that sounds like me. And I was pleased.”

Frank doesn’t seem to know how to respond. At least, I think, he’s not asking, “Don’t you ever get lonely?” I am on my knees in my seat, turned toward him, studying him.

“How come you married?” I ask him. I don’t really believe his response will illuminate how I feel about being single, but it’s a start, I think. Maybe, too, I will discover why I keep detecting more than an appreciative interest in me, even though he’s married.

He’s startled. He stares at me for a moment. “I chose to be married. Have you chosen to be single?” He is challenging me, but his tone does not tell me if it’s a win or lose proposition.

“Yes, in one way or another, up to now, I’ve chosen not to marry. But I understand, I think, what you’re getting at,” I venture. “You’re wondering if I’ve pursued marriage, unsuccessfully. I’ve never pursued it. I don’t really know why. You know, I remember when I was thirteen, I announced to my mother that I would never marry because I couldn’t stand the idea of having sex with only one man throughout my whole life. Pretty precocious for someone who was in love with “The Nun’s Story” and “The Singing Nun”, at the time. Once my oldest sister got married, though, I guess I just thought it would happen. I even made a bet with one of my sisters that I would be the second to get married. I think I figured that if I didn’t get married, I wouldn’t have a reliable sexual avenue. As it turned out, though, not only did I not get married, as I had predicted much earlier, but I didn’t end up sexually frustrated, either. Did you pursue your marriage?”

He studies the road ahead over the steering wheel. “I wanted to get married, but, no, I didn’t pursue it. It just happened.”

“See what I mean?” I point out. “Actually, I didn’t think you’d say that. I thought you’d tell me you actively looked for the right woman.”

“I knew her from the time I was a boy. I didn’t have to ’actively look’, as you put it.” He says this gently.

I consider this as I settle back in my seat. “So, is it okay if I’m not married?” I ask, bringing us both back into the moment.

Frank laughs, heartily. “Is it okay if I’m married?” he responds. By the time our eyes meet, though, he’s become aware of the implications of his automatic response and his laughter is fading.

I look away from him and pretend his question isn’t double edged. “As long as you’re taking us to a mixed couples restaurant!” I reply.

We are both laughing, again, as the car pulls beneath a copper-tinted glass skyscraper glinting in the evening sunfire.

Throughout dinner we are both relaxed, encouraging a keen awareness. I approve of the restaurant; dark, close, stained brown and antique red; heavy, polished wooden tables in circular, cushioned, tapestried booths, raised above floor level and scattered across a plush, dusky carpet. None of the booths directly faces one another, but dim, angled glimpses of couples can be had throughout the room in the mirrored paneling. I approve of the smells, rich with meat, onions and herbs.

Frank and I sway into and away from each other throughout dinner. My nerves scan as I approach him, trying to guess if he is going to incline toward me in response. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he caves back.

His sturdiness betrays a love of food. He describes some of the entrées zestfully, comments on the appearance and taste of each of our choices.

When I am at ease, I eat with my fingers. This evening I pluck my vegetables into my mouth, licking my fingers clean of dressing. I pick cheese off the side of my soup bowl by hand and suck at the oily residue off my fingers. “Mmm,” I mumble, through masticated toast, “good food!”

He says nothing about me eating without utensils. I notice, though, as I lick my fingers, he studies my mouth. I wonder if Frank is savoring the same image that had baffled me.

Text & Graphics © 1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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