Then there was one night in Vegas, and everything shattered. Right down to the dog. We adopted Ms. Pac-Man three years ago from the San Francisco Humane Society, picking her out at that same jinx-you-owe-me-a-coke moment when she tilted her blond head to the side and won us over with those big brown canine eyes. We were a threesome, a little family unit.
Now, she’s some pawn to him.
My chest heaves, and I bring my hand to my mouth, shaking with sadness. Embarrassed that this is who I am now.
Alone with a soda and a letter from a lawyer.
I try so hard to be tough, to be impervious to the whole f**king world.
But moments like this?
I miss, and I miss, and I miss.
I miss being cared for. I miss being loved. I miss being considered. I wipe a hand across my cheek, my mascara streaking. I used to love him so goddamn much. I didn’t stop loving him the second he took up with Amber. And now he’s with her, really with her, and I’m here in my kitchen, with only the first sip for comfort as he tries to take my dog from me.
As if she’s some sort of toy for his new wife, his new kid, his new life without me. Ms. Pac-Man hears me and ambles on over to sit at my feet, looking at me as if to ask if everything’s okay. I tell her yes, even though it’s not true.
I sniffle, reach for my iPod, and pick Sailboat in the Moonlight by Billie Holiday. I might as well just stick my finger in a flame, but I can’t resist the way she sings about tender lips, about dreams coming true, about all the things I ever wanted.
I may be hunting for a boy toy, but somewhere inside of me I am still longing for someone to sail away in the moonlight with.
Only, I no longer have that luxury. I can no longer ask for or expect those things. So I take a breath, I dry my tears, and I crush the empty can of soda in my hand.
Crushing my dreams of a love I can’t dare to hope for.
* * *
Steely Dan Duran isn’t much better. For starters, we’re dining at Baby Doe’s all the way in Marin County on the other side of the bridge. I don’t go to Marin often. There’s not much need because the city has everything I want. But let me tell you all you need to know about Baby Doe’s.
Baby Doe’s is where you took your prom date in 1977. It hasn’t changed a lick since then. It’s the same dimly-lit restaurant, with the same red pleather, same puckered booths, same orange chandeliers, and probably serving the same steak and baked potatoes and garden salad.
Steely Dan Duran loves this place. Had I known he was taking me here, I would have found a gentle way to nix it. I would have perhaps delicately suggested something more interesting, like sushi, Japanese, Thai. Heck, a pizza joint or even a taqueria somewhere on Fillmore would be better. But Steely Dan Duran wanted to surprise me. So he picked me up, wearing dark brown slacks, a striped shirt, and a tie of all things, and kept the location a secret as we drove down the 101 in his sky-blue Buick. When we arrived, he came around and opened my car door – I will concede he gets points for that – and said “Ta Da!”
“Your baked potato, ma’am.” The waiter lays the side dish on the table for me, complete with a sprig of parsley and a pat of butter. Then he presents a baked potato to Steely Dan and heads back to the kitchen to retrieve my date’s steak and my chicken.
I gesture to the spud, my right index finger adorned with a flashy pink stylized ring in the shape of flower petals that complements my maroon lightweight sweater, one of those wrap-around numbers with a super slim tie around the waist and a low-cut neck. I’m wearing a white lacy cotton camisole underneath it and black capri jeans with ballet flats. I lean in and say playfully, “Maybe we could get bacon bits for the potato too.”
Steely Dan stops his fork in mid-air. “Would you like me to ask for some?” He’s so earnest, so thoughtful, but there goes another joke, falling to the floor with a dull thud. “I was just kidding. I don’t like bacon bits.”
He looks at me quizzically as if I have just told him I have three ears and one of them is on my forehead. “You don’t? Why not?”
Um, because they’re gross?
“Just not my thing,” I say lightly. Then I happily spear a hearty glob of potato innards and smile broadly to show I am enjoying every second of our evening. Just as I am about to taste the spud, he reaches for my wrist and stops me.
“We have to say grace first,” he says.
“Oh.” I place my potato-filled fork down.
He lays his hands out on the table, gesturing for mine.
“Maybe I could say it,” I say, sort of teasing him. Because I wouldn’t know the first thing about saying grace. I’m all for religion, but have never been into it personally. My parents were completely non-religious. He shakes his head. “The man should lead.”
“Excuse me?”
“The man should lead. That’s why I was the one to make sure to ask you out. Because the man should be in charge. Guide all the decisions. For the woman. For the family.”
“About everything? Like dinner? Like work? Like where to live?”
He nods. “All of that. And also, what a woman should wear. For instance, I would never let my wife leave the house until I had approved her outfit.”
I crack up into peals of laughter. “You are a funny guy! That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
His face is stony. “I wasn’t joking.”
Oh. That’s not going to fly. I think I’m about to officially walk out on a date for the first time. Yep. I definitely am.