Page 6 of Saber Stalked


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The man is about an inch shorter than me but wears lifts in his shoes. He thinks I don’t know, but I caught him readjusting them at a different restaurant the other night. Oh yeah, nothing sexier than a man adjusting footwear at the dinner table.

His black hair has that “just for men” quality to it. His brown eyes are darting all around the restaurant. Everywhere but the woman in front of him. You know, me, his date. The date he hasn’t even acknowledged is sitting right in front of him.

Dr. Wendell Baumann has been too busy talking to whoever is on the phone to recognize I’m now on my second glass of wine.

Yep. I’m living the dream over here.

So, you’re probably wondering, why don’t I get up and leave?

I can hear you thinking:There is plenty of fish in the sea.

Well, that’s a complicated question. When you’re over 40 and flailing about in the dating pool, you kind of have to take what you get. Eligible men my age are usually a hot freaking mess. They’re divorced and bitter. Or they’re single and bitter. They’re set in their ways and don’t know how to be around someone anymore. And, also bitter. With a side of angry at womankind.

And bitter.

Did I mention - bitter?

I’m 46. Never been married. No kids.

Am I bitter? Oh,probably.

But I have hope.

I have hope for a happily ever after. Eventually.

I mean, I don’t think it will happen with Dr. Wendell Baumann, but I’d just settle for The Sex at this point.

And that’s why I’m sitting at a table in a ridiculously overpriced trendy restaurant in Washington, about to order my third glass of wine because I need The Sex.

“Me too,” Dr. Baumann nods.

My head snaps up. Did I say that out loud? I squint my eyes at him. No. He’s talking to his phone buddy. Or phone date.

And then, he wraps it up, hanging up and placing the phone face-up on the table.

“Hey.”

I know you’re jealous of his way with romantic words.

“Hey, Wendell,” I use his first name just to annoy him.

He looks me in the eye for the first time since I arrived but says nothing. He snaps his fingers at the waiter, who scurries over quickly.

“We’ll both have the filet special - medium-rare. Wedge salads. Blue cheese dressing for me, fat-free balsamic for her, and a bottle of the Laffite Pinot,” Wendell snaps at the waiter, then dismisses him.

I watch the waiter grumble and head toward the kitchen. Dr. Baumann is going to get Loogie Dressing with this salad.

“Wendell, I don’t like my meat rare,” I fold my hands on the table. “And not a fan of balsamic dressing. Also, are you going to drink that pinot noir all by yourself? I’m more of a Cabernet fan.”

Dr. Baumann ignores me as he answers a text message.

I consider my half-full glass of delicious Cabernet Sauvignon. Then, I look through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the restaurant. It’s raining cats and dogs out there.

Should I stay? Or should I go?

I could have a rideshare here in 15 minutes, be home and in my pajamas by seven. Then, I’d order pizza. A pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, because why get all those stupid toppings when you can have a classic?

“So, how was work?” Dr. Baumann breaks me out of my thought spiral.