Camellia Aebischer
I look down at my wristwatch. It’s 5.30 pm. My hair is still greasy; I’ve been too lazy to shower. I still have half an hour before I have to leave for dinner. I don’t really even want to go because it’s just another one of those awkward set-ups. We chat about our jobs and laugh forcedly at one another’s lame jokes. But, no no, Sally at the office has insisted that her cousin is absolutely fantastic. Yeah, right.
I’m in a bad mood just thinking about this already, but whatever, time to jump in the shower. I rub a bit of no-name shampoo through my greasy thinning locks, then rinse. Not much comes out of the bottle but I figure the less I use, the less I’ll have to bother with replacing it. I’m totally not even going to bother with shower gel; I just wipe the shampoo bubbles down my torso.
Out of the shower and I towel dry. I can’t remember the last time I washed my towel actually, probably should do that. I go to get dressed and stumble through my tiny one-bedroom apartment to my room. All I can find are some black slacks I wore to my high school graduation; the two belt loops at the back have broken so they look saggy in the butt when I’ve been sitting down for a while. I put them on anyway. I couldn’t care less. On go a button-up striped shirt and a tweed coat someone must have left here on a drunken night.
As I exit my apartment I notice a box of Kraft dinner macaroni cheese staring at me from the outdated poo-green kitchen bench top. I gaze longingly at it for a moment before grabbing my metro card and trudging out the door. We’re meeting at the Olive Garden in Times Square, so cliché it hurts. She chose, of course.
I scramble off the train and notice that my hair is still damp, but I make it on time at least. Walking up to the entrance I can see women everywhere; maybe I should just go home. Next thing I know I’m turning around and heading back for the subway. No, wait, I’m going to suck it up. I turn back. Then that awkward pause-walk-pause happens because my mind is telling me to go but my body doesn’t want to. It looks like I just did some sort of convulsive dance and people are starting to stare now. Okay, time to get on with it. Sally from the office showed me a photo on Facebook but strangely never told me the woman’s name. We have a reservation under ‘Sally’ anyway so I clumsily make my way to the table through the crowded dining hall. The room is peppered with groups of young women, tourists and teenagers on fancy dates.
She’s here already; I can see her from the distance. And I mean seriously see her. That sparkling fuchsia halter neck top is shredding my corneas from across the room. I’m praying it’s not her but her face matches up with the photo I’ve seen so there’s not much hope. As I waddle closer trying to weave around tables my maître d’ signals me in the direction of the glittery beast and turns away. I’ve been abandoned. I feel like a socially awkward 35-year-old on a blind date. Oh wait, I am a socially awkward 35-year-old on a blind date.
I give her a half-wave and end up doing some sort of semi-squat in the process as I walk over. She bursts out of her seat and I notice that her sequined top also doubles as a set of maracas when she bounces up and over to me. ‘Hi my name is Cleo, you must be Greg! So good to meet you O-M-G I’ve heard sooooo much!’ Oh dear God. I got this.
‘Yes, I am Greg, hello,’ I respond. I don’t got this. I sound like some sort of robot. I can feel the sweat coming on. I sit down hoping that she’ll follow; she does. Phew.
It is only now that in the light of our personal table lamp I can see her clearly. Her lip gloss is sparkling; it seems to match her maraca shirt in both colour and shine. What a delight. We get to talking and I kind of zone out, I can hear her saying something about her trying out some new gluten-free diet but my mind is going back to that box of Kraft Dinner and my old scruffy sofa.
I nod and agree and try to listen as she drones on about her girlfriends and their husbands. She’s actually giving me her real life examples of shit she’s seen on the Doctor Phil show. I can feel myself getting dumber as I sit here. I wish I was at home. My eyes are closing, actually closing. Oh wow, this is bad. I realise that this is going nowhere fast and just as she starts on ‘What I want out of a relationship is …’ I snap out of my trance and look around, alert like a meerkat.
Next thing I know I’m running, running through the tight-knit tables trying to weave my way back to the door repeating ‘I’m sorry’ every second. I’m not sure if it’s directed to Cleo or the other customers. I hardly know what I’m doing. The butt of my pants is sagging, I feel like a cheeky schoolboy who’s dodging an impending punishment. I tumble through the door and glide all the way to the subway station. There’s brief pause in the train carriage but a few stops later I soar right off again heading towards my seedy old apartment.
I burst through the door to see my glorious box of Kraft dinner waiting for me on my poo-green bench top. I let out a sigh of relief and plop on to my crusty old couch with my pot of macaroni cheese, grinning as I shovel the orange clumps into my mouth. This is definitely where I’d rather be.