I called ahead to Charli’s, a swanky restaurant on the Upper West Side, and made a reservation. I wanted to start out strong, although I knew I had run the risk of using up my entire one hundred dollar per diem. Denise had come through in flying colors, getting the website updated with my business info, so I was in great spirits. I even figured if the date went well enough, I could come out of my pocket a little, if need be. I’m sure J would figure out a tax deduction from the receipts.
After the cab pulls up to the curb in front of the restaurant, I get my first complete front, back, and side views of Sarah. She is about five-foot-six in her heels. The simple, yet elegant, black dress she is wearing falls on her frame in such a way that it’s impossible not to know that she’s a professional dancer. The twists in her hair form an ornate crown, and with her posture, I feel as though I’m escorting a queen.
Prior to getting my notes on Sarah, I had posed a question to Denise.
“Am I just supposed to go on three dates and pick someone to start a relationship with? If so, that sounds like Hoopz standing there with that silly ass grill in her mouth waiting for her five minute relationship with Flav to end.”
Denise responded, “If a date goes well, see where it goes. Just make sure you go on each one at least once.”
There were at least two major things wrong with what she said. First, I couldn’t figure how I was supposed to get to know any of these women with the others waiting in the wings. Second, the whole thing felt like I was herding them through a process that wasn’t fair to anyone. Meanwhile, I was supposed to write a blog entry every week about how things were going with each of them. One thing was for damned sure: the idea sounded much better on paper than it did when you had to go and execute it.
Now I’m sitting across from Sarah Landfair who is dressed to impress and clearly ready for a real date, not some Hollywood set-up. She wasn’t sent here from central casting, and she doesn’t seem to be here for any other reason than to see if we have anything in common. I immediately feel like a fraud and ask to be excused from the table.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“I just have to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.” My delivery is stilted and awkward, but she nods as if she understands.
I work my way across the restaurant to the restroom/lounge area, taking out my phone along the way. I quickly punch in J’s number and push the “CALL” button.
“Hello?”
“J, I can’t do this!”
“What? Who? Man, pull yourself together!” J says, finally realizing it’s me.
“Sorry, but I can’t go through with this. Dude, this sista is here for a real date. This is no game.”
“Well, have a real date then, Cool. Ain’t that the point?” he responds, nonplused.
Up until that moment, all of this had been largely an elaborate production in my mind, even though I knew what was at stake.
“Yeah,” I mumble into the receiver.
J sighs. “Just enjoy your date. Have fun and worry about the technicalities tomorrow.”
“You’re right,” I say, thanking him and hanging up the phone.
I return to the table and take a seat across from Sarah, unsure of what to do next. I feel as though we have been dropped in the middle of a prop. The only thing that’s missing is the camera crew. I can hear what J would say in the back of my head, “There are no cameras, so don’t sweat it.”
Sarah looks at me, and I can tell that she’s starting to get uneasy about all of this.
“You look amazing,” I offer.
She smiles and thanks me, before looking away. I’m losing her interest now, I can tell.
“Well, I have an idea,” I say. “Why don’t we ask each other a few questions to break the ice? You can start first, and we can go back and forth.”
She looks at me, pauses, then nods. “Okay. So why are you single?”
She doesn’t ask it in a way that makes me feel like I’m too good to be single. It’s more like she’s questioning my motives for taking her out.
Feeling no need to hide anything, I say, “I was once in love with a woman who broke my heart. She was my college sweetheart, and she cheated on me.”
“How far back was this?” she asks.
“Nope. It’s my turn,” I say smiling. “I get to ask you a question now.”
Sarah nods. “Fair enough.”
“How long have you been dancing?”
She lifts her head, considering this. “It feels like I’ve been dancing ever since I could stand up, but I’ve been taking formal lessons since I was five.”
“Nice,” I say. “Your turn.”
“How far back was your relationship with your ex-girlfriend?” she asks, without hesitation.
“Nine years.”
“Nine years?” she repeats.
“Okay. My turn. What made you want to go out on this date?”
She smiles. “You just looked like someone with a good heart. All of the other guys looked like they were trying too hard, with their expensive suits and labels, and there you were, standing there in a t-shirt and jeans. You looked like someone who had no pretense, like you really just wanted to meet someone cool and down to earth. I guess I was looking for the same thing.”
I nod. This is my first time hearing anyone’s impression of my profile, so I take it in quietly, considering what to ask next.
“How long ago were you involved in a serious relationship?”
“About a year,” she responds.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Unh unh. It’s my turn.”
I smile.
Before she opens her mouth, our server appears to take our orders. I’m surprised when she orders a grilled chicken Caesar salad, and I decide to do the same because I’d hate to be eating a filet mignon and lobster tail while she’s picking at a salad.
After the server walks away, I say, “A salad? You could’ve ordered something with more sustenance.”
“I’m a dancer. I have to watch what I eat. But you should’ve ordered what you really wanted.”
“I’m good. I figure if you can eat a salad and look that amazing, then maybe I could see what a salad would do for me.”
“You look just fine to me,” she says.
I smile.
“So where were we?” she asks.
“I think it was your turn,” I say, unable to remember exactly what we had just been talking about.
She smiles. “I’ve been burning to ask you this one question: what exactly does it mean when you say you want your dream woman to be the embodiment of a Stevie Wonder lyric?”
I should’ve expected this question at some point in time, but I’m totally unprepared to answer it. “Well,” I stumble, “To be honest, I don’t really know what that means. There’s a part of me that feels there’s a Stevie Wonder song for every occasion, like it’s just the soundtrack running in the background of my life. I guess having a woman who embodies a Stevie Wonder lyric would be like having a woman who is the perfect complement to my life.”
She turns her head slightly to the side so that she looks even more like a model. “Do you believe that you can find your dream woman like this? On a blind date?”
I know it’s my turn for questions, but I answer anyway. “I don’t know. But if I did, wouldn’t that be something?”
We decide to take a walk in the warm evening air. We walk a few blocks south and stop at a coffee shop where we order two cups and sit outside at one of the small tables.
Sarah crosses her legs and leans forward. “I got one for you,” she says. “It’s gon’ rain on yo head!”
“The Color Purple,” I say, laughing. “Good one. What about this one? My neck! My back! My neck and my back!”
She laughs heartily, placing her cup on the table. “That’s Friday! I love that movie!”
She rests her hands on her lap, and my eyes are instinctively drawn to her legs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman with legs this shapely before. Even in her dress, I can see she has a body that looks like it’s been carved out of marble and buffed to a brilliant onyx shine.
“Are you from New York originally?” I ask.
“Actually, I’m from Atlanta.”
“Atlanta Atlanta or suburban Atlanta?”
“Smyrna.”
“Oh, that’s not Atlanta,” I say, joking. “That’s Smyrna.”
She shrugs her shoulders, laughing. “But most people have never heard of Smyrna.”
“I used to live in Atlanta, and I can tell you right now, there’s a difference.”
“Oh really?” she responds, encouraging me with her smile.
“I lived off a strip of road between Campbellton and Cascade called Centra Villa, right off of the SWATS. Now that’s Atlanta!”
“So do you consider Buckhead Atlanta, too? Because I’m pretty close to that area.”
I smile, shaking my head. “I’ll just say this: you can hang out at Lenox Mall, but for true authenticity you have to hit up Blackbriar Mall.”
“I thought it was called ‘Greenbriar.’”
“That’s what the sign says, but have you seen all of the sneakers, weaves, and baby clothes in there?”
Sarah bends over laughing, her hand tapping the table repeatedly with each movement of her body. Her laughter is melodic and playful, and I realize that I could spend hours and hours trying to do or say things that would keep her in stitches.
“So you’re from Atlanta, too?” she asks.
“Oh, no! I’m from Mississippi.”
“Mississippi?” she says, more as an exclamation than a question.
“Oh, I see what this is,” I say in jest. “You think I escaped slavery to get here. Well, I’ll have you know that I have my papers on me right now.”
She laughs heartily again, and I smile.
“What was it like growing up in Mississippi?”
“I guess just like growing up anywhere else. I don’t really know how to describe it because it was all I knew. My hometown is small. It’s a place called Corinth, just off of Highway 45, about forty-five miles from Tupelo. It has some pretty rich history, too. After the Civil War, a contraband camp was set up there to educate newly freed slaves.”
“Impressive,” she said.
“I don’t know about all that.”
“I mean it’s impressive that you know so much about your hometown.”
“Well, maybe I could show it to you one day,” I venture.
She smiles. “That would be nice.”
For a moment we sit quietly sipping on our coffees. I can’t believe how amazing this woman is. If this were the only date I had on my schedule, I would be completely satisfied.
“So tell me about dancing. What’s it like to be a professional?” I ask.
“It’s hard work, but I feel fortunate that I can make a living doing it. I can’t think of anything else that I’ve ever really felt this passionate about. It’s like when I hear the music, it moves me and shapes me and spins me around. It’s complete freedom.”
I nod. “So what do you think about when you dance?”
She lifts her head, as if acknowledging the music of the city breathing around us. “I think Michael Jackson said it best when he talked about thinking being the worst thing a dancer can do. You have to feel it. Your body has to become one with the music. I mean, you can train and study and spend hours in the studio, but at the end of the day, dancing comes from your soul. To me, it’s the best way that I can express myself.”
“Well, I would love to see you dance,” I say.
“I can take care of that for you. No problem.”
I smile. I can only imagine what it would be like to see her becoming one with the music, her perfect body moving in unison with the music.
“I’m really enjoying this,” I say.
“So am I. Too bad you have to go on those other dates.”
I take a sip from my cup, considering this. “That is a little crazy, isn’t it?”
“Well, we both knew what we were signing up for. To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect you to be this cool,” she laughs. “No pun intended, Cool.”
I smile. “Kind of makes me wish we could’ve had this date without all of the rah-rah. I’m almost afraid to step out too far now, considering I’m supposed to write about this for the website.”
“How far would you have stepped out—if you weren’t writing all of this down?”
It’s a coy comment, I know, but seeing her sitting in that chair and knowing that we’re both adults, I can’t help imagining what it would feel like to lift her up and pin her against a wall. I can feel myself start to stiffen, so I quickly look back to my coffee, focusing on the heat coming through the cardboard cup.
“Damn,” she says. “It’s like that?”
“Who knows?” I say, laughing. “You’re very attractive. You’re intelligent. You’re fun. I wouldn’t want to keep the evening in a box.”
“I feel you. So how does this work? Do I get to go out with you again, or is tonight the only time I have to make an impression on you?”
I consider what kind of impression she could make that she hasn’t already made, and I feel myself stiffen again. I push away my thoughts. “From what they told me, I have to go on the three first dates, but I can see whoever I want to see again.”
“But you have to write about it?”
“At least until I make my decision. I’ve been told that I need to make a decision at least two weeks after my third date, though.”
She takes a sip from her cup. “So there’s not much time to get to know anyone then.”
“I guess it’s just enough time to see if there’s a spark of chemistry or something.”
“So what do you think of me so far?”
“You’re great,” I respond.
“But I’m not a Stevie Wonder lyric,” she says, taking another sip from her cup, her eyes flirting with me.
“We’re still getting to know each other, and you could very well be.”
She leans forward, her voice nearly a whisper as the taxis roll past us in the street a few feet away. “I don’t believe in making out on a first date, but if I did, brotha, you would be so in there.”
As I hear this, I realize just how much I want this woman, and it is only when I have seen her to her taxi and caught my own back to Harlem that I realize that she had planned it that way.