☀️Rita & Manny☀️

A light-hearted story I wrote before the pandemic, when we could meet old friends or a new love and clink our wine glasses together over dinner . . . .

RITA & MANNY

I slather sunblock on my arms and legs and pull my straw hat down firmly onto my head. I expect to mess up my T-shirt and shorts with dirt and my knees with grass stains, but no matter. I kneel on the lawn to attack the lawn with my trowel, unearthing huge pinwheels of crabgrass. Slamming my heel into the top edge of a spade, I excise a sharp line around the beds, creating the curving outlines I favor.

I take a break and splay myself out on the grass, resting my hat over my face and lying perfectly still. If the mailman sees me from the street, he’ll think I’m dead.

I’ve been in a rut lately, even though it’s summer and I get to work outside in the garden every morning. The lilacs have come and gone in May, so have the rhodies in June, but now the hydrangeas bounce playfully at the end of their arcing branches at any hint of wind.

I notice all of it. No Mr. Postman, I’m not dead.

Tonight I’m going out on my first date since my divorce. Our son moved to L.A. to seek his fortune in script-writing. Our daughter just applied to law school in New York City. We didn’t have grandkids yet. Just the two of us at home, bored out of our minds with each other.

Dennis loved boating and I didn’t. I loved gardening and would rather dig and plant and rake than bob on the ocean with my therapeutic sea bracelet, waiting for fish to bite and then die. I made some half-hearted attempts to join him on his boat of the year (too many to remember), filling a picnic basket with chicken salad sandwiches on crusty breads, chips and pretzels, and an insulated jug of iced tea infused with leaves of my freshly cut spearmint.

But did he ever bring me an iced tea while I labored in the garden under the blazing sun to make our yard more beautiful and our property more valuable? No. He never figured that out.

It’s not like I said I was taking the truck around the corner to the garden center for a yard of mulch and never came back. Nothing dramatic as that.

I looked up momentarily from my phone at breakfast and asked him,
“Dennis, are you interested in going to marriage counseling?”
No trace of hesitation before he answered, “Nope . . . are you?”
“Not really, just thought I’d ask.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Just out of courtesy, Den. I’m ready to make a change.”
Looking down at my phone again, I hid my smile under my sip of coffee.

Our marriage ended with an amiable whimper and three mandatory sessions of mediation. Settled. He kept his pension plan and his boat. I kept the house and related equipment, including my garden and power tools, the lawn tractor, the snow-blower, and Toyota pick-up. The mediator praised us. No one was hurt in any way. Dennis informed the kids with a veneer of sensitivity that he was moving out . . . and that was that.

Five years after our divorce, I woke up to a feeling of life and love passing me by and decided to explore online dating. Between then and now, I had morphed from whatever they called us in our fifties—Baby Boomers—into a bona fide senior on Medicare, in my mid-sixties.

My widowed friend Nancy had already figured out the scene for herself and helped me set up a profile, Active and fit walker, gardener, and museum-goer seeking caring gentleman for companionship and more. She made me take out the word eventually in front of more. “Too much of an obstacle,” she warned me. “Be prepared for a faster track than you ever imagined.” I knew exactly what she meant.

I’d been checking the dating app on hydration breaks from my yard work. After three days of non-stop attention as a fresh recruit, I figured out that men in my age group were seeking women at least seven, if not ten years their junior.

But I’m not disdainful of the process. I knew I’d have to clean up nicely and make an effort to learn new ways of engaging. Within a week of signing up, I accepted an invitation to dinner with a man seven years older. I am in his preferred age range and like the feeling of being desired for that very reason. During the final years of my marriage, I had become indifferent to desire of any sort, as it had never been fulfilled.

I exited my marriage with a full head of wavy brown hair. Now I color over the gray so I can wear the bright colors I favor. Tonight’s date, Manny, has pure white hair, but plenty of it, if his photo is recent and accurate. So we’re both still in the game, respectively.

Nancy told me to meet my date on neutral ground and just for coffee, in case he was physically gross or talked only about himself for the first half hour with no sign of changing the subject. “But he’s treating me to dinner (he insisted) on the deck of a harbor front restaurant. What’s wrong with that?”

Good friend that she is, Nancy refrained from expressing concerns at my stubborn naiveté. I got myself into this and needed to ride the learning curve for myself.

I spent a very long time looking through every item in my closet, realizing that a number of items were unworthy not only of the upcoming date but of my ownership as well. I decided on a dress that’d been hanging there for a couple of years, never worn, tags affixed. I bought it on a whim because I loved the color of California poppies, more orange than red, an enticing shade for petals. It was sleeveless, not a problem because my arms were toned and tanned from digging and raking.

Do I wear sandals? Yes, it’s summer, and I will.

Nancy told me how simple it would be to pick out a lipstick, “Bring a photo of the dress with you and match the color of the material close as you can. Look for glossy, not matte.”

Late Friday afternoon, I slipped into the dress and appraised myself in the mirror, a slim sixty-five year old woman standing tall with her shoulders back, something I’d learned to do in eighth grade gym class and never forgot.

I approved of the way the V-neck revealed a bit of my summer tan and how the cut of the dress shaped into my waist before flowing to my knees. I don’t remember where, or when, or even why I bought it, but it saved me a shopping trip with a tight deadline, three days lead time to my date.

I rummaged through the few random pieces of costume jewelry I’d accumulated over time, but hardly wore, and would not wear that night. I preferred to collect garden tools with their form following function, a balance that gave me pleasure almost as much as using them.

Before I closed the jewelry drawer, I noticed a tortoise shell barrette tangled in a necklace. I swept my hair upward from the left side of my face and fastened the clip. There, my useful touch, but interesting too. I viewed my exposed profile in a hand mirror. The barrette had added something . . . a signal that I was ready.

I texted Manny:
FlowerGirl.830: Look for me in the orange dress.
ManOverboard: Thanks. I’ll be holding a yellow and white bouquet so you’ll know it’s me.

On the drive over to Seaside Bistro, I obsessed about measuring up to the burst of color and vitality that my look suggested. Then, an alarm went off—it occurred to me that I had better be prepared in event of a no-show. Nancy had advised me to wait no more than twenty minutes and then leave.

“Rita,” she warned, “it’s happened to me.”

Then what would I do, all dressed up and not even feeling exactly like myself? I envisioned my refuge, the shady corner of the yard with hostas lined up along the fence, and calmed a bit.

I had no time to think about my options. Manny with the bright white hair, dressed in a pale blue checked shirt and chinos with a raffia woven belt, waited for me at the reception desk. He held out a small bouquet of Shasta daisies in my direction. His white hair emitted this zing of lit neon that didn’t show up in his photo. I was charmed even before he said a word.

“I know you’re Rita. You were true to your promise of the orange dress!”
“Yes Manny, I’m reliable that way. And the flowers . . . you keep your promises too!”

We followed the maitre’d to our table that Manny had reserved on the deck overlooking the harbor. The waiter handed us the drink menus. Manny asked if I’d like a glass of wine, but thankfully, he didn’t suggest one. I was familiar with a few and wasn’t interested in case he was an oenophile’s feeling the need to provide a detailed recitation of the finest, if that was his gig.

And in turn, I wouldn’t show off my knowledge of plant genus and species. I could easily chat with a random seatmate on a train, but this was a “getting to know you” date. I felt my mind working in overdrive, assessing everything I would say or shouldn’t say before letting it out.

During dinner, I felt the wine turning my limbs to sand and my brain to mush. I admitted to Manny that gardening was my passion . . . “but that it was worth it to tear myself away to meet you tonight!” Another alarm buzzed in my head—what was I doing, trying to be a charmer and make a play for him, oh jeez, that’s not me!

But I thought better of myself and decided that was a rather nice thing to say. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled, and it was then that I noticed how they matched the light blue of his shirt.

Wow.

He said nothing about liking to sail, fish, or even swim. Good. He had listed his interests as hiking and skiing, a cappella singing in a men’s choir, movies and travel. But not on cruises or tour groups. Even better.

We covered what I supposed were obligatory revelations on a first date between adults. Manny had practiced dentistry with his younger brother but sold out his interest three years ago to retire and settle matters with his ex. He worked two days a week at a dental clinic in Dorchester, a section of the city not yet gentrified. I explained that I planned to retire by the end of the year as manager for a pediatric office, when it was due to merge into one of those unwieldy health care conglomerates.

I wondered out loud if being in charge of only myself was what I really wanted. Manny jumped in right away, “Rita, you deserve a break. Be good to yourself, my friend.” Thanking him, I took in the generosity of his comment. It felt sweet to me, caring, wise.

Do I talk about my family next? I decided on some basic information about my New Jersey hometown, two older brothers still there, women’s college, son in California, daughter in New York, and some tough years caregiving for in-laws and parents, now gone.

I didn’t mention any family estrangements because they don’t exist, but I did tell him about the time I got fired from a summer job at the lunch counter when the strawberry malted canister flew off and careened along the row of customers. He put up his hands palms out in front of his face and let out a “Whoa!” We both looked at my wine glass filled with Cabernet and broke into laughter.

Manny reciprocated with his own life story—native to Boston, state college, marriage before graduation, Tufts Dental School, twin boy and girl, three grandchildren. And a few adventures of his own, playing stickball on city streets, getting beat up by the gang of tough kids, pumping gas and cleaning windshields at his dad’s gas station.

It was a relief not to talk about divorce, the status that had defined me in my recent life. Manny didn’t probe and neither did I, just confirming the time frames we’d already disclosed on our profiles, five years out for me, three for him. A safe enough distance from the past.

We ended our evening over decaf, no dessert. I had no clue where this would or should go, but I wanted to satisfy my curiosity about the new dating world I’d signed up for. “Manny, how long have you been on Match?” He chuckled, “I’m by no means an expert on this stuff. My sister-in-law fixed me up with a slew of her single friends. She must’ve thought I was a big bargain or something,” he laughed. He added that his sister’s enthusiasm as a matchmaker was too much for him to handle. “So I took a break until about six months ago.”

I felt as awkward as a junior high schooler, self-conscious at my lack of experience after five years completely on my own. I confessed, “Would you believe this is my first date since before I got married? Let’s see, that would be . . . hmmm . . . a mere thirty-five years ago. How’m I doing?”

He looked at me for a few moments . . . endless to me . . .then burst out, “You are amazing!” He admitted, with an endearing hesitation in his voice, that he was wondering what I thought about him in return. I blurted out, none too smoothly, “You are a lovely man!”

I held onto his elbow as he walked me to my car. He wrapped his left arm around my waist and his right around my shoulder and we hugged, somewhere in the zone between more than briefly but only slightly less than longingly. Just enough to make me close my eyes and feel womanly.

The warmth in my chest surrounding my heart told me so.

I rejoiced in the good fortune that came to me when I found the orange dress and chose the tangerine lipstick, a magical pairing. I loved the high I felt on a starry summer night in the presence of a sweet and attentive gentleman while my garden rested peacefully, on a break from my perpetual poking and prodding.

When I arrived home at midnight, my phone pinged with a text from ManOverboard: I enjoyed meeting you, Lady in Orange. I hope your garden grows nicely in the rain tomorrow. Can we get together for lunch and a walk along the Shore Drive on Sunday?

It occurred to me that I should call Nancy to recount my first date in thirty-five years at the age of sixty-five and ask her advice on how and when to respond with the optimal tone of sincere but not too desperate interest.

But I didn’t.

FlowerGirl.830 answered right away.

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Copyright Barrie N. Levine 2020 — Not for Reproduction