“Work,” he said. “I came to Seattle several months ago to interview some ex-Sonics players who still live here, and they showed me around a bit and told me how much they love Seattle. So, I decided to come up for a while. Try something different. Experience changing seasons again.”
“I see. So, where did you go to school?” I asked, expecting him to say San Diego State or something.
“University of Iowa.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he replied with a nod. “One of the best, if not the best school in the country for creative writing.”
“Yeah, I think I read that once.”
“So, how about you? Why UW?”
“I wanted to live on the West Coast,” I said matter-of-factly. “Well, and they accepted me.”
We’d walked around the park once and had to decide whether to go around again or go back.
“I usually go around at least twice, but if you need to go …”
“No, I’m good,” he said, smiling broadly.
We went around again, talking about politics, climate change, trips we’d taken or would like to take someday. We seemed to agree on most everything. I had this odd feeling that I’d known him for some time.
“So, have you met the couple that just moved into the building?” I asked. I was referring to a couple who’d moved into a unit on the second floor. I was intrigued by them. He was seventy or so, balding and rumpled but kind and always smiling, while she was a beautiful Scandinavian model who looked to be in her forties. She had a haughty demeanor. I didn’t believe I’d ever seen even a hint of a smile from her.
“Yes, briefly. He seems nice enough.”
“And she’s so not. They seem an odd match,” I said.
“Yeah, exactly. It’s baffling. Maybe he has money.”
“He must,” I said, smiling at him. “I mean, why else?”
“I tried to initiate a conversation in the elevator with them one time,” Jeff added. “I asked what had brought them to Seattle from Virginia, and before he could even get two words out, she blurted out that there were some health issues. That shut him right up. And me, too.”
“Something strange there,” I said, shaking my head.
We left the park and headed back. When we entered the building, Jeff’s phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it.
“Oh, I really need to take this. Excuse me,” he said while tapping his phone. He began a conversation so, feeling like a third wheel, I began to back away toward the elevator.
“Bye, Jeff,” I said quietly. He glanced at me briefly and half smiled, raised his hand toward me, and then went back to his conversation.
Crestfallen, I entered the elevator and returned to my flat. What the hell just happened there? I thought he was into me, and then to end so abruptly? I couldn’t figure it out. Hadn’t we gotten on well? Had I said something to annoy or insult him? Did he not like that I wasn’t into Agatha Christie? Or was it my overall tendency to repel men kicking in again? I assumed the latter. I let myself in, slipped into something more slovenly, plopped on the couch, and ran the events through my mind over and over again. I concluded again that I was simply and irrevocably cursed when it came to men.
I began to think about various men I’d dated. They’d all had one thing in common, which was that they ultimately had not been interested. One nice young man had taken me rollerblading (back when that was a thing). I’d exaggerated my abilities in that area, telling him that I knew how, when, in reality, I’d only ever been on the four-wheel kind and that had been as a kid. I had also ice skated, but rollerblading had proven to be rather different. On a nice fall day, we had been skating past a daycare with several little kids outside playing on the jungle gyms, when I’d lost my balance, my feet coming out from beneath me, and I’d fallen hard right on my ass. I’d yelled, “Motherfucker!” really loudly. He’d never called me after that.
A year or so later I’d met another guy at the park while we were walking our respective dogs. He had asked me to dinner after we’d had several conversations over the course of a week or so. We’d talked about his work—he’d been a partner in a large law firm in town—and about my writing. He’d been amiable, smart, and very handsome, and I’d looked forward to having dinner with him. However, during the course of the meal, I had somehow managed to ingest something with crab in it, something I theretofore had only been moderately allergic to. This time my arms and hands broke out in a red and itchy rash, and my lips and tongue began to swell until I looked like a Looney Toons character. “I’m not worried,” I’d said, trying to be nonchalant while inwardly screaming.
“I’d be a little worried,” he’d responded, clearly horrified.
Ultimately, they’d called an ambulance, and I’d been carried out on a stretcher and whisked to the hospital. The guy did call me once but merely to see that I was okay so he could feel noble. He never called me after that, nor did I ever see him at the park with his dog again.
I’d had some dates that had not gone so awry, of course, and I’d had boyfriends, but they’d never seemed to be the guy for me. Andrew, a fellow writer for the comedy show, had been my longest relationship. He’d been cute and funny and charming but also a little reckless and slothful. Our relationship had lasted two years, and when it ended I’d cried, not because of the loss of relationship but because I didn’t really feel much of anything. I didn’t want him back, and I didn’t miss him. Based on the fact that he immediately began dating his future wife, I thought that he evidently hadn’t felt much either.
Yes, it was hopeless. I was hopeless.
Chapter 4
Just as before, many days went by without my seeing Jeff. I began to think he was avoiding me, so I decided it would be best to forget about him. I launched myself into my work, writing ten to twelve hours a day but taking short, brisk walks every two to three hours to reinvigorate. I wouldn’t acknowledge it to myself, but I secretly hoped to run into him when I went out, and I always wore something comely in lieu of the disheveled, unbathed look I’d been sporting of late.
I debated getting another dog, someone to keep me company and distract me from my life. “You have Scout,” I told myself. Cats are fine, but they’re not like dogs. Cats tolerate you. Dogs live for you. I really missed my dog, Bo, and I decided to start looking in a month or two, when it would be nearly summer and a much more agreeable time of year to be constantly taking a puppy outside.
My mother was coming for a visit in a week, so I decided to spruce up the place a bit, do a little spring cleaning. She’d been to my place before but not in a while, and it had been noticeably neglected since then. I did have a cleaning lady who came once a week, but she only did the basics, no deep cleaning. So that’s what I began to do. I pulled everything out of my closets, sorted out the things I didn’t wear anymore, and reorganized the rest. Then I did the same to my kitchen cupboards and my desk. I found many things I’d lost track of, such as old writings, some lame awards, things like that. It felt like a trip back through time, and it left me feeling melancholy. I was happy to have the place refreshed but saddened by the undeniable passage of time.
My mother came, and it was wonderful. We talked like old girlfriends and shopped like aristocrats, coming home with armloads of shopping bags. We watched old movies and drank coffee and took walks, and when the time came for her to go, I cried as I’d never cried before, cascades of tears. She cried too, only not as profusely.
“Won’t you consider moving back home?” my mother had pleaded. “You could find your own place. I miss having my daughter around!”
“I’ll think about it.” I’d said and, for the