Impressions

When you look in the mirror, it’s not really you. It just an image of the reality your brain processes from each of your eyes. I couldn’t help my mind from whirring through this fact and onto other tangents as I stroked the mascara brush over my lashes, as I traced the lip gloss onto my mouth, as I frowned and smiled to check the result.

I wasn’t entirely satisfied with the person I saw. One eye the tiniest bit smaller than the other, freckles a few fifty too many, an upper lip that curls under every smile. But first impressions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, are they? I had other attributes – third in my class at undergrad, one Master’s degree and another in progress. I averaged over 50 books a year. I could read ancient Latin and Greek and was passable in Spanish and French. I could quote movies like nobody’s business and had art skills that might merit at least a B+ among real art majors. Maybe he’d care about those things. Maybe not. I let my mind be ensnared in the net of possibilities for the coming evening.

…

It was the first blind date I’d allowed myself to be set up on. My new roommate, a girl from college I’d reconnected with when a mutual friend learned we both were looking for a place in Boston and a roommate – too expensive in Boston for a girl like me to live solo – had made me her project and I’d finally agreed to meet one of her guy friends.

“He’s perfect for you!” She’d gushed, “Trust me, you have so much in common. Or at least, you just seem like you would. Just trust me.”

Cassie had tried this before a few times, bringing up anyone she thought I’d be remotely interested in for whatever reason (this matchmaking need seems to be a common affliction among happily coupled women). There was the coworker who also had heard of Bruce Springsteen. A former classmate who lived just down the street and several blocks away. A distant cousin who wasn’t that much older (twelve years I found out later). A date of hers from a few years ago who liked Wes Anderson but didn’t quite fit the bill for her taste.

I appreciated her concern, but each time I’d made some excuse for a no. I honestly just didn’t feel ready for another let down after my last relationship had ended.

But this time she was adamant.

“He just started last week, but I feel like I’ve known him for a year, you know? Because I know you.” As if this reasoning made any sense. She kept bringing it up though. Even after about five of my best excuses.

Not dating right now. My grad course is my priority. Too busy with work. Trying to spend more time with friends and family. I’m just tired.

Ok, so maybe not the best reasons to pass on a date, but my best at the time. And she did not buy them.

So I found myself texting this number for a faceless Michael. Or rather, he texted me first and I responded. She’d relayed my number immediately at my first answer that wasn’t a straight no, and within a few days he reached out. He didn’t have any social media accounts, so I didn’t have a picture to reference. And he didn’t do conversations via text, so I knew next to nothing about him save that Cassie thought we would hit it off. I didn’t even know his last name.

…

As I drove to our chosen destination, I wondered what he’d be like. Cue the questions.

If he was so like me, was he a teacher/coach/grad student too? No, that was dumb. He had just started at Cassie’s law firm. Maybe a grad student though on top of that. Was he actually taller than my 5’10’’? Was he funny? Was he from a big Irish Catholic family? Was he into weird film or music facts? Did he hike? Did he have a dog or like dogs? Did he love running?

The questions escalated and slid into that ever-churning whirlpool of thought in my brain. Sometimes it’s impossible for me to slow it down, let alone stop it.

I parked and braced myself against the February chill as I crossed over to the bar we’d agreed upon. I’d suggested ‘drinks’ to make it a more casual, easier exit encounter than ‘dinner’. I didn’t say that of course, but thought he probably had the same idea.

I walked into McColgan’s, letting the heavy door clang behind me and soaking in the heat of the tavern. It was a warm place, not just the temperature but the atmosphere. I guess the best way to describe the vibe is that it felt like walking into a small room that huddled around an open fire. There was of course no open fire, but you get the idea.

As I pulled out my phone to check the time and panicked internally about how I looked just once more to get to my evening quota, the door opened to let in a gush of winter air and a tall, sandy-haired young man.

We met each other’s eyes and smiled.

“Hi,…Anna?” He asked.

“Yeah, hi. You’re Michael?”

I laughed lightly, and he smiled, crinkling his blue eyes. We didn’t embrace or shake hands or anything. He just kind of moved and gestured with his head towards the seating area, and we walked over.

McColgan’s was relatively empty at the early hour of 4:30pm, so we had our pick of tables and chose a high top close to the bar.

The conversation flowed relatively normally at first. Very first date. We ordered a round of beers. I chose an IPA I knew I liked, and he went with a lager. I knew a bit about beer since my last serious boyfriend had ben a beer enthusiast. So we talked beer and brewing for a bit. We each knew a bit, enough to pass a good fifteen minutes in conversation.

And we had the mutual friend, so we each explained our backgrounds and knowledge of the dynamic being that is Cassie Reynolds.

He asked a lot of questions. What I did, where I went to school, what I liked to do. We did the exchange of information in a way that wasn’t scripted but just flowed like two television hosts who know each other well doing an improv. I guess the improv sensation came from the feeling I couldn’t shake that this was a setup and not natural in some way. It wasn’t like meeting a stranger on the street or even in this very bar. It was someone I’d been told to meet, to talk to, and to like.

But it felt…right? I guess that’s the best word. I liked talking with Michael. He wasn’t quite what I’d expected, given the fact that he was friends with Cassie. I’d expected someone almost as upbeat, talkative, and high energy as she was. Someone with the gift for gab, who can just talk like it’s a job.

He was quiet, reserved, thoughtful. He spoke slowly, not obnoxiously so, but as if he were carefully weighing each word and idea before contributing it. It made me wonder, I admit, if he were a slow thinker or just unsure of what to say next.

When I mentioned grad school for English Lit, we got onto the topic of books.

“So what kinda stuff do you read?” He asked.

“Right now we’re reading Paradise Lost in my course. That’s definitely one of my favorites. I think I’ve read it like eight times.”

“So what did Paradise lose?” He asked it dead pan, with a look of mild interest but no indication of a joke.

I wasn’t sure if I should carry on the possible joke or correct his mistaken assumption by explaining the plot at the risk of sounding like one of those nerds without a humorous bone in her body.

Well, actually, it’s John Milton’s account of the fall of the angels and how Adam and Eve lost their residence in the garden of Eden, twelve books all written in verse written while he was blind!

No way I could say that. I admit I’m a nerd, and I can go off when I’m talking books that I love, but I don’t take myself too seriously. I couldn’t read his tone though. And he wasn’t dropping any hints.

I smiled and took a sip of my beer, hoping for some brilliant line to come to mind that would resolve the question without showing that I’d read the situation wrong. I settled for, “You ever read it?”

“I haven’t,” he responded. “Maybe in high school.” He paused thoughtfully, sipping the remains of his beer.

So maybe his question was serious. Okay, well that was understandable. The average twenty-something doesn’t casually read Milton or even study him.

“I’m also teaching Animal Farm in one of my classes, so been rereading that one,” I put in, thinking we’d move on from the Paradise Lost predicament into more familiar territory. Orwell was a safer category in my mind.

He let out a single tutt sound, like it was a joke that wasn’t worth a full laugh but merited some acknowledgment of the humor.

“Didn’t know they were reading Old McDonald books in high school these days. It that bad?”

I smiled with a small breath of a laugh, “High school is the new kindergarten these days. All about the fundamentals. Where will they be in life if they can’t spell the big words like ‘communism’?

“Spelling’s all a scam anyway,” he responded after a small pause. Pausing to think?

I shifted gears. “So what do you read?”

“Oh, not much. Street signs. My dog’s mind. I’m working on a memoir that’ll change the world.”

“Really? How’s that going?”

“It’s all in here.” He tapped his forehead seriously.

Somehow, I found this hilarious. If this guy was messing with me, he was delivering these lines in the exact way I would attempt my occasional BS to gullible students before laughing and revealing the joke. Only he wasn’t laughing. Maybe he wasn’t the laughing type.

Maybe he really wasn’t kidding.

“Want another drink?” he asked. He wasn’t just saying it to be polite; his eyes had a look of something in it that made me believe that about the question.

“Sure,” I responded. Why not.

I decided to get the same, but he wanted to switch up his order. He looked over the drink menu, commenting on some of the bizarre craft beer titles as we made up silly stories for the origins of said names.

Stumpy Duck, Monkey Fist, Fluffinity, Unicorn Rides – to name a few. Some pretty imaginative brewers in the Boston area, for sure.

He ordered a stout when the server returned and continued to peruse the menu, flipping to the short list of wines on the other side.

“Ah, the Merlot. Never been a wine guy, but I love a good Merlot.” [MER – LOT] – hard ‘t’ – is how he pronounced it, as if to rhyme with Camelot.

I smiled at that, looking up to meet his eyes and hear whatever funny comment would follow, but he wasn’t smiling. Just pensively glanced over the rest of the items and pushed the menu back to the middle of the table.

Well if this was a joke, I was going to go for it. If not, I’d have a bit of fun for myself.

“Oh, same,” I said, nodding. “You know, even if I didn’t like the taste, I’d choose Merlot for the backstory alone.” I kept his warped pronunciation.

He leaned onto both forearms across from me. “I’m intrigued.”

I mirrored his move. And I began.

“In Ireland, in the older days, there’s a legend that the dark people of the sea, the merfolk, used to capture the Irish people and pull them deep into the water, drowning them. But after a while, the mermen and women began to realize that drowning wasn’t serving their purposes, so they began to seduce the people by the coast but let them live on land. What came of it was a race of Irish who were part merfolk and part human. They were known disdainfully as the mer-lot. The lot who came from the sea. They had webbed toes.”

Here I paused dramatically and took a sip of water before resuming.

“They were banished to Australia and took up the business of growing vineyards and making wine. So they called the product Merlot to honor their lineage. They made it dark like the sea.”

I stopped there, surprised that I’d been able to go so long without breaking character.

He’d stared into my eyes the whole time, with a look of seemingly profound interest, like he was listening to a strange new fairy tale. Even when I’d paused or finished, he looked into my eyes as if searching for some answer or more of the story. It was then, when I stopped talking, that I really noticed his eyes. I’d thought ‘blue’ when I first saw him, but now I saw the different glints of green and darker blues in the light blue. Like the surface of a lake.

The server came by just then with our beers, breaking the spell, and I quickly looked up at her, not sure if I was thankful for or disappointed at the break from his eyes. We both thanked her and sat a bit in silence when she’d walked away.

Michael smiled, “Quite a story. I had no idea.”

Even if he was clueless (I still couldn’t tell), he was charming. I smiled back.

“We should get a glass together sometime?” He raised an eyebrow.

I’d never met a grown man who couldn’t pronounce Merlot before or who didn’t at least know what Animal Farm was, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. But I felt a pull to say yes to the question. I didn’t even think of one of my regular excuses. I raised my glass.

We clinked a stout and an IPA to seal the promise of Merlot.

Something about it made me loosen up a bit. He clearly liked something about me, and even if I was unsure of his level of intelligence and didn’t see much potential that we’d be a good match in the long run, I enjoyed his company. Without my conscious realizing or giving permission, the safety jacket of judgment slipped off and let me just float on my own with him.

The conversation took every side road available. Places we’d been and lived. He had been in California for a few years a while back, and I’d been in Vermont before returning to Boston. He cured me of my hesitation to finally splurge and invest in my own espresso machine. I asked about his dog, and he showed me a video of a brown and white hound mix uttering strange child-like noises as he scampered about a room holding a stuffed bear. He talked about the little guy like a proud father. It was freakin cute.

By the time we’d finished our beers, I was feeling good about the prospect of another date with this guy. I’d always pictured myself with an academic type, but this would be a fun short term thing if anything.

After leaving McColgan’s, he asked where I’d parked and nodded when I pointed across the street. “Alright. Shall we?”

Taking that to mean he was over there too, I started walking. We walked in silence for a minute before he said, “This was fun. Thanks.”

“Yeah, I had a great time. Thanks for coming out.”

We had about reached my car, and he hadn’t yet veered off towards his own car, so I stopped.

“Well, I’m right here,” I said. “So I guess I’ll see you?”

He’d stopped walking too, looked at me with a pensive expression. At this he smiled, but still in silence, in that same slow way of responding that I’d been getting used to.

“You know, I wasn’t too sure about you, Annie.” He used the nick name without running it by me, but I kind of liked it.

I wasn’t expecting that comment either, but didn’t really know what to say, so I waited. Giving him one of those questioning brow raises that says things better than words sometimes.

He smiled back, shrugged the tiniest bit.

“I guess I’ll see you for that Merlot. I’ll text you.” And when he said the word, I knew.

He smiled, gave a half wave/salute sort of gesture and sauntered back the way we had come to where his car was parked far from mine.