Second First Impressions(2)

Every night when I check the padlock, I look at the lights and apologize to him again.

Melanie is looking at me with such naked empathy in her expression that I scramble to try to cover up how much that word yes means. “I mean, everyone hopes they find— ”

“Shush, shush, shush,” she repeats until my face-saving caveats fade away. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

In the three weeks that she’s been here, Mel’s had at least four first dates, all at a tapas bar she calls “the Thunderdome.” Before each one, she puts in an excessively long black ponytail extension and makes me check it from all angles. She also writes down the details of each date, “in case I’m murdered.” She trusts me to be her police witness? I’m conflicted about how honored I am.

I recheck the calendar. She really has only been here three weeks. Maybe I should take the opportunity to consult with this seasoned professional. She’s like an electrician for my love life. “Well, what’s your dating profile say?”

Her phone is always in her hand. She can open the app without having to glance down. “Mine says: ‘High-maintenance twenty-two-year-old half-Japanese princess who makes no apologies. Take me on adventures. No weirdos, little dicks, broke dudes, or fugs.’ ”

I can’t categorically say any of those would be a deal breaker for me. “What if your soul mate is one of those things? A … broke weirdo, or …” I study the banana and the ChapStick on my desk. The world is full of a lot of variables. My neck is getting sweaty under my ponytail.

Melanie shakes her head. “He won’t be. You believe in soul mates? I wouldn’t have picked that.” She studies me with an Aaww expression. “You secret l’il romantic you.”

“You don’t need to help me, I’ll work it out myself.” I try to backpedal but it’s too late— she’s taken the case pro bono.

Melanie turns to a fresh page in her sparkly notebook. “Name: Do you prefer Ruth or Ruthie Midona?”

“Ruthie’s fine.” Less rhymes with it. The teachers used me as their airplane black box if they left the room and came back to chaos, hence my school nickname Truthful Ruth. I was the church girl with thrift store shoes; my classmates had ponies and Jet Skis.

Melanie is also distracted. “Oh, got a message. I’d give that a four out of ten. See? A dick.” She holds up the screen to me; it is indeed a dick. I need a banana or ChapStick for scale. She smirks as she prepares a response. “I always reply with a photo of a zebra’s dick. Gives them some perspective.” She shows me that too.

What human dick would get a ten out of ten? It dawns on me that this is the first page of a lawsuit. Dicks in the workplace: Sylvia would be furious. “We should do some work. I really don’t have time to date.” I file some paperwork under B for Boring.

“You’ve definitely got the time, let’s be real. How have you worked here for sixteen years?”

“How old do you think I am?” I see her eyes lower to my clothes. “Mel, I’ve worked here for six years. Not sixteen.”

“My contract goes until Christmas and that’s an eternity, no offense.” There’s complete desolation in her tone.

The only reply I can give to that is, “I’ve got a spare yogurt if you want it.”

“God, yes, please.” We find the strength to carry on.

“I’m twenty-five,” I say, feeling weirdly embarrassed by the fact.

“Twenty-five” she says in a marveling tone as she writes it down. “Only three years older than me, how’s that possible? But you have great skin,” she amends, realizing how that sounded. “You’re just so grown-up, running this place. That’s all I mean.”

I’ll follow her suggested profile format. “Low-maintenance twenty-five-year-old peasant who makes a lot of apologies.”

She snorts in amusement and taps her pen. Her dark eyes assessing me critically, she asks, “How do you know that you’re low maintenance?”

“Look at me.”

“It’s not just about looks.” Melanie is charitable. I’m okay-looking but I’m not fancy. “Do you like the guy to be all over you? Texting you all the time, taking you out places, giving you presents? Do you want him obsessed with you, or someone who gives you space?” She thinks of something. “Oh, whoops. If you’re not into guys, that’s cool too.”

“I’m really not sure.” I watch her blink several times and clarify, “I like guys. But I don’t know if I want him all over me.”

(Liar. I’d love that.)

(I think.)

“What was your last boyfriend like?”

“He was …” I can’t think of anything except very religious. I make a praying shape with my hands and hope that’s enough. “A long time ago.”

She narrows one eye. “How long ago, exactly?”

I cannot answer that without opening myself up for a total crucifixion. “Quite a while ago.”

If this were a teen movie, they’d intercut a couple of scenes here: Me in a prom dress slow-dancing with a Devout Young Man, literally named Adam. Cut to us in a single bed, partially naked. Adam is facing away from me, his shoulders shaking with sobs. If you think that memory can’t get any worse, what if I told you that: