The Perils of Modern Dating

 

It was like in that painting, “Nighthawks.” Al all-night diner near the docks, an oasis of light on a darkened, empty street.

This meant she didn’t want to be seen with me. A woman like that—she was probably cheating on someone. No way she was still single. 

I had my choice of tables—almost no one in the place. I chose a seat with a view of the door. I couldn’t wait: that long black hair, those pale blue eyes. They had haunted my dreams for weeks.

Okay, she was late. Of course. A woman like that has a right to be late.

I checked my phone. No messages. She did not answer at her number.

But finally the door jerked open—first a jerk, then slowly.

Why was he so bundled up? She definitely did not want to be seen with me. I wouldn’t even hve known it was her, had she not walked straight up to my table and said my name.

“Frank?”

“Maryanne?”

“There’s something I haven’t told you, Frank. I guess I need to tell you now.”

“Sit down, Maryanne. I’m a good listener.”

“You don’t have to be.”

She began to take off her wrap. I saw the long black whiskers. I saw the thick lips. I saw the eyes.

They were not blue. They were small and black, like beads embedded in her grey skin.

Her mouth opened and closed convulsively, gasping for breath an she covered the back of my hand with a moist fin.

“Frank, do you understand what this means?”

“Yes, Maryanne. Someone explained it to me at my writers’ group.”