This story needs a better ending—a Valentine’s Day ending.
It starts at one of the handful of repertory movie houses that survive in Toronto. I could go on about how much I love rep theatres—the just-right scale of them, neither “colossus” nor “overgrown living room”; the lack of video-arcade hype and outlandish pricing—but that’s not why I’m writing.
It was my birthday. I’d gone to see a movie with a girlfriend.
I’m single, widowed far too young and for far too long. At first I tried to change that story. I dated men a computer found for me—good matches on paper, but no soul fit. I believe in soul fit. I believe love finds you. Maybe that’s why I was at this particular movie on my birthday. It was a love story. I wanted to keep believing .
A man sat across the aisle from me. He was pleasant looking; he had a newspaper folded thin under one arm. He ate his big bag of popcorn with ungainly enthusiasm. He smiled easily.
The theatre grew dark and I was engrossed. I won’t describe how susceptible I am to movies. It’s embarrassing.
But as the closing titles rolled, I thought again of the man across the aisle. Why couldn’t I meet someone like him?
Suddenly I remembered the old story about the man at sea. Nearly drowning, he refuses three offers of help, saying that God will save him—that he’s waiting for God—and then … he drowns. When he gets to heaven, he asks St. Peter why God didn’t save him and St. Peter says, “We sent you a rowboat, a life raft, and a submarine. What more did you expect?”
What more did I expect? He was sitting a few feet away. It was my birthday. You’re supposed to take chances on your birthday.
So, for the first time in four decades, I decided to take a chance. I stood in the aisle behind him and tried to speak. This is where my near decade of singleness collided with a case of indescribable nerves. He looked up and smiled in such a way as to freeze me into immobility. Then he stood and left the theatre. I compelled my limbs to move.
A crowded movie lobby doesn’t do anything to ease the nerves. He was through the door. He stood outside in the pool of light spilling out onto the sidewalk, putting on his coat. “Excuse me,” I blurted.
Somehow, I explained. “I don’t usually do this. It’s my birthday. So I’m just going to ask you if, um, by any chance you’re single?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He said it sheepishly, looking down and then up with a smile, and I was … well, I was thrilled. We chatted, he wished me a happy birthday, and then he offered to take me for a drink.
In a fit of misguided loyalty I told him I couldn’t. I’d come with a friend.
“I can’t ditch her—it wouldn’t be right—but I’d really like to do that sometime. Can I give you my number?” I scrawled my number on his newspaper. He walked with me to the corner where I saw my friend. I floated across the street to meet her.
I beamed a look at her that said, “I did it!”
As I explained what happened, I could see it vividly—the number I wrote on that paper. It was my number all right— when I was twelve.
My old brain had lurched into action and I’d written my childhood telephone number on that paper.
I ran—no, I pelted—back to find him.
He was gone.
The worst part isn’t losing track of that man—the worst part is the thought that he might be as good a guy as he seemed. He might pick up the phone and get the operator’s voice that’s now at the end of that number, and he might think it was a cruel trick. But it was just the opposite. It was a leap of faith.
I put a note on the theatre’s website and left a card at the ticket booth addressed to Nick. Nick, that’s all I know, no number, no address, just a face, a name, and faith.
Toronto, Ontario