~This story first
appeared in The North American Review
(2011).
How he had
knocked, Francine could not guess. But here he was. Or at least here was his
head. Floating in the hallway outside her apartment, as if it had wafted over
on the aroma of Mrs. Singh’s stir-fry. Here was the sun-kissed face from his
Match.com profile. The broad forehead and faintly hooked nose. Somehow, though,
it had seemed like the head would be attached to an equally rugged, sun-kissed
body. Had it been presumptuous to assume, at the very least, a torso?
The two of them blinked
at one another. Why hadn’t she thought to use the peephole? Then again, would that have painted the
picture? Maybe the best thing to do was to back into her apartment, real easy,
pretend she hadn’t noticed anything out here, go back to listening to big band
music in the living room and waiting for her date to show up – her whole date.
“You can’t send a
guy flirty emails for two weeks and then close the door in his face just
because he’s different,” he said. He slurred his words, and he sank as if deflated,
hovering over the carpet. Against its Persian pattern, he was like a genie. She
caught a glimpse of his bald spot – another thing the photo didn’t reveal. No
wishes to be granted today, it seemed. Down at shin-level, he tilted his face
to look up at her, eyes bloodshot.
“Are you… drunk?” She felt a flush of shame about
their electronic repartee, the quick-fire IM chats about politics and old
flames.
“I don’t know why
I bother with dating,” he muttered.
It now seemed
significant that he’d left blank all of the slots for physical characteristics
on his Match.com profile. Francine had assumed that he was simply too busy
(i.e.successful) at his job as a trial attorney to bother. Or at worst, that he
was unusually short. Which would have been okay – Francine had dated a jockey
once, when she lived back in her hometown of Smoky Ordinary, Virginia. But
this….