Plays Well

 

When I try to make the first contact through a dating site, I rarely hear back from those men. I must assume they are in a relationship or they check out my profile and have no interest in responding. I feel only mild rejection.

When men contact me through a dating site, though, they have seen my photo, read my profile, and have an interest. Phil contacted me first, so he and I were one step ahead of the game. He knew my age and preferences, but neither of us had posted photos to that particular site.

We wrote back and forth, and his notes showed intelligence and wit; another good sign. Soon we chatted on the telephone with no awkward pauses or gaps. More good signs: like me, he was Jewish, and like me, he was not a practicing Jew. I could almost shout, “Halleluiah!”

He was age appropriate and neither too tall nor too short, if I could believe the height listed in his profile, but we waited to evaluate each other physically until we met midafternoon at a quiet restaurant midway between us. Yes, the only drawback appeared to be that we lived about forty minutes from each other; longer during high traffic times in Atlanta.

I entered the lobby of the restaurant where we were meeting, and an adorable man in the waiting area stood and faced me, a question on his face. Could that darling creature be Phil? In addition to having a loveable face, he also appeared to have his original hair and teeth, admirable traits for someone of retirement age. To make things better, he had a sweet smile.

The hostess sat us at a table, and we ordered tea.

I had enjoyed our correspondence and then telephone calls, and the moment I met him in person, I felt drawn to him. We easily picked up where we had left off in our telephone conversations, never running out of subjects. As our discussion progressed, I felt chemistry building between us. Ah, chemistry is such a rare thing!

He revealed that after he retired from a career in nursing, he pursued his passion for the clarinet and succeeded in getting a seat on a local symphony orchestra. When I had been in junior high school, more than fifty years earlier, I too had played clarinet, although never to the level he had achieved. Still, I had progressed to first chair after two years of playing. Because of my trials and setbacks on clarinet, I understood the man when he spoke of his love of the instrument. I remembered issues with that beautiful woodwind instrument, particularly the reeds—even new ones—and notes that squealed instead of sounding melodic. I could grasp the work he had to put into achieving his dream of being in an orchestra, so when he spoke of performing, I listened and watched while his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

"Are you really sixty-eight?" he asked.

"Yes. Why would I lie?"

"I don't know; it's just that you have beautiful skin. You don't look sixty-eight."

"Well, you don't look sixty-six, either," I admitted. He could have passed for fifty-five or even fifty. "Maybe you don't want to date an 'older woman.'"

We both laughed before he countered, "That's where you're wrong. I have nothing in common with younger women."

After two hours that passed too quickly, we reluctantly agreed to part, but not before he asked, "How about an afternoon movie Saturday? Afterwards, we can go somewhere for a light dinner."

"Sounds great to me," I said with sincere enthusiasm.

He walked me to my car and hugged me warmly. I liked it. We talked a little more, and then he gave me an even longer hug. Hmm. Good stuff.

 

He called me the next day. "I know I should wait a couple of days so I don't sound too eager," he said.

"No," I assured him. "I'm flattered."

"I just had to call, because you're such a nice person."

"I thought that about you, too."

"I don't know if you'll understand this, but you play well right out of the box."

"What?"

"You're like a good clarinet reed. When I buy a new box of reeds, not every reed in the box is good. I have to soak some of them for a long time before they produce a good sound. Some play better after I've shaved or trimmed them. Some never play well, no matter what I do. If I'm lucky, though, one reed will play well right out of the box. You're like that. You play well right out of the box."

I smiled at the strangest compliment I'd ever received. Other men had told me I was a good listener. Some said I had a nice smile. No one ever said I played well right out of the box, but I understood him. We clicked; no doubt about it.

As he had in person, he paid me more compliments. "I love that you have a fresh, clean look; you don't wear a lot of makeup." He added, "I hope I didn't push you too hard about a date Saturday."

"You didn't have to push; I look forward to it. Besides, you couldn't push me. No one can push me anymore. That's what I like about being my age."

We chuckled.

My mind wandered. I already felt strong feelings for the fellow, and my heart ached a little as I thought what our life might had been like if we had met twenty years earlier. How much fun we could have had together!

Friday, when I was having dinner with a girlfriend, the man called and left a long voice mail message listing movies, times, and potential theaters. I appreciated that he had performed so much research, and I liked his choices. Our taste in movies was similar. When I got home, I called him with my choices, and we settled on a theater, movie, and time. Again we gabbed easily, and unlike some of my prior encounters with online dating prospects, he said nothing off-color or suggestive. I felt relaxed and eager to see him again.

 

Saturday while I drove to the theater, I realized I might have picked one that would be difficult for him to find, because he was not familiar with the area. I waited outside for a while, and sure enough, my cell rang.

"Okay," he said, "I'm at a theater, but you're not here, and the movie you picked isn't playing here. Am I in the wrong place?"

"Yes. There are two theaters on this street. Are you at the first one after the corner?"

"Yes."

"Get back on the road and go to the next theater on the right, about a half mile down."

"I'm on my way."

We still had plenty of time before Marigold Motel began, so I relaxed against a wall and watched people until he pulled up in his car, got out, and walked over to me. He still looked as cute as the first time I saw him.

We hugged briefly, and together we walked to the ticket window. He bought two senior tickets for the movie we were to see. He put his arm on my shoulder briefly as we walked toward the lobby, but he quickly removed it. Maybe it felt awkward to him, but I had liked it. When we tried to enter the room where the movie would play, though, someone stopped us.

"We're still cleaning in here; give us another ten minutes, please," a fellow with a broom said.

"No problem," my date said, and we walked to a nearby bench. We sat down and chatted, but he did not make much eye contact. When I realized I had plopped my heavy purse between us on the bench, I moved it to my other side and slid a little closer. He did not move. While his eyes wandered everywhere but on me, he told me about a movie in which his symphony played a part, and he explained that he had wanted to meet early, to see the coming attractions. He said his orchestra might be in the trailer. Hmm. Still all about his passion, but I understood.

I missed the compliments he had paid me on our first meeting, but he didn't have to repeat himself. Worse, though, was the fact that I simply didn't feel the warmth we had shared on our prior meeting.

We finally entered the theater and watched all the shorts and the trailers for the coming attractions. Nothing referred to the movie he had mentioned.

Our plush seats had arms we could leave up or pull down. I liked that he had not pulled down the arm between us; the better to cuddle, I assumed.

The movie began. We watched it. I kept looking over at him for any sign that he recognized that I sat only inches away. Would he put his arm around me? Would he rub against me? Would he even lift his elbow two inches and bump me during the funny parts? No. Two hours passed, and we had shared oxygen in the same room, but nothing else. I hoped our dinner would be more intimate, because we would get to look at each other and talk more.

After the movie I climbed into his vehicle. We easily chose a restaurant nearby that we both liked, and again we had no difficulty talking on the way there. At the end of the salad bar, I offered my credit card to pay for our light dinner.

He said, "Why?"

"Because you paid for the movie. It's only fair."

"Okay," he said with a shrug.

We found a seat, and our conversation continued, but again, we had little eye contact. At one point he questioned me again about my age.

"I'm sixty-eight," I said. "I don't mind telling the truth."

He shook his head. "I can't believe it.

I thanked him, thinking he meant my face looked young.

Instead he pointed. "Look! You can't be sixty-eight. You have no age spots on your hands."

I laughed. What an odd observation! Okay, if he wasn't looking me in the eyes, at least he looked at my hands.

We talked more, after we had finished our meals. Eventually he revealed that a few years earlier, he had survived testicular cancer. "I'm fine, now," he said, "but it was a scare."

"I understand," I said. "In fact I haven't told many people, but I just had a hysterectomy because I had endometrial cancer."  

He pursed his lips but said nothing, so I added, "I'm doing great, though. I don't need chemotherapy or radiation. The first day we met marked one month since my operation, and that was the first time I was allowed to drive."

He pushed his chair back and stared at me. "You just had an operation? You shouldn't be out. You should be resting."

"I've rested for five weeks," I said. "I'm finally able to get around and get back to life."

"You should be sleeping. I'm a nurse; I know that when you're sleeping, you're healing."

"I healed for weeks. I'm ready to resume where I left off."

He shook his head, leaned forward, and said, "I wish you were resting."

I thought it dear of him to be concerned, but then good nurses do feel compassion, and he had spent his life as a nurse.

He glanced at his watch and looked at me. "I guess it's time to go."

"Okay." I gathered my jacket, stood, and we walked to his vehicle. He drove me back to my car in silence. I knew things had gone terribly wrong, but I wasn't quite sure when, where, how, or why.

When we reached my car, he did not get out of his vehicle. He did not walk me to my car, as he had done the first time we met. He reached over and gave me a cursory hug, not nearly as warm as the first ones he had given me after our first meeting. "Take care," he said, when I climbed out of his vehicle.

 

The next day my sister asked, "Did you have fun on your date?"

"I did, but I don't think I'll hear from him again."

"How can you know that?"

"I can't, for sure, but I have an odd feeling about it. He didn't make much eye contact, and he hugged me good-bye as if I was nothing to him. He didn't even walk me to my car. He didn't ask for another date. I don't think I'll hear from him again."

"Sure you will," she assured me.

I didn't.

He had given me his card. It had only his name, his number, and clarinetist on it. I used it as a bookmark in the book I was reading, and every night I saw his name, his phone number, and clarinetist. My heart ached a little each time I saw it, and my mind mulled over everything that happened. Did I forget to flirt? Probably. Should I have nudged him while we sat in the theater? Maybe. Did he get offended when I put my purse between us, when we first sat on the bench? Perhaps. Did I upset him by paying for dinner? Apparently. Did he get put off by the fact that I had been diagnosed with cancer? It appeared so. Was he looking for someone completely healthy and strong to take care of him, in case his cancer returned, and if so, had I failed the test? Who knows?

After a week, I sent him an e-mail and asked where things went wrong. I said knowing the truth would help me the next time I met someone.

He did not respond.

After a few months I threw away his card and used another bookmark in my reading material. Finally, a few months later, I couldn’t remember his name if I thought about him, but more than a year later, my heart still yearned a little, wondering what happened.

How could something that played so well right out of the box have gone so wrong? I will never know.

Oh, and for those who want to know, my cancer was only stage one. I caught it early and the operation removed it all. I’ve been cancer free ever since, and I’m fine, except I will always wonder whatever happened to Phil.

 

For more stories about my many encounters with the opposite sex, subscribe to this blog by clicking on the Follow button next to my photo. Watch for the book Neurotica: One Woman's Lifetime of Lust, Love, and Letting Go. Most of the stories in the book will not appear in this blog and vice versa. Disclaimer: Many names have been changed to protect people’s privacy. While these stories are true, I have resurrected dialogue as best as I can recall it.