If You Only Knew(56)

I walk to the front of the restaurant. One of the busboys wiggles his eyebrows at me. Great. I am now that woman who wants sperm. Indeed, there is a murmuring as I walk past. Leo, however, fails to acknowledge me. He certainly doesn’t come to my rescue. Not that I need rescuing, but if he jumped up and said, “Hey, Jenny!” and kissed my cheek, that would sure be nice.

The maître d’ isn’t at his station. I wait, feeling the eyes of the entire restaurant on me. Ah. Here comes someone. Zoltan, the nametag says. He makes my waiter look like an adolescent.

“Everything delicious, yes?” he wheezes.

“Yes. Thank you. I just need to pay for my half of our bill.”

He sighs. “Your waiter? Who?”

I have no freakin’ idea how to pronounce my waiter’s name. Indeed, trying to picture his nametag just results in a blur of consonants. “I’m not sure. His name had a C in it. And an S. And a Z.”

Meanwhile, Jimmy is delivering a fiery speech on how men are no longer needed or valued in society except for their tiny little swimmers, and how if women had their way, all men would be chained in cells and only taken out when a woman was ovulating. Which actually sounds pretty good about now.

“How about if I leave sixty bucks?” I suggest. “Will that cover it?”

“I come back soon,” Zoltan whispers, then shuffles away.

Yeah. I forgot how bad dating sucked.

And now Leo and Red Dress are approaching. I stare stonily ahead, hoping Leo can read the “piss off” message I’m trying so hard to convey. I scratch my nose with my middle finger in case he misses the point.

“Well, it was so, so great to see you again,” Red Dress says. “You look good.”

“You, too,” Leo says. “Uh, why don’t I walk you to your car?” He darts me a look, which I pretend not to notice.

“Just go to a sperm bank, why don’t you?” Jimmy shouts.

The blonde puts on her raincoat (Burberry, so boring, and does she have to be so damn pretty?). Then she takes Leo’s face in her hands and I stiffen, bracing for their kiss.

They don’t kiss. Leo takes her hands and sort of holds on to them, keeping her from moving in closer. She doesn’t seem put off, just gazes at him. Tears fill her eyes.

“Leo—” she says.

“I know,” he interrupts. “Thank you. Beth, thank you. Really. I’ll walk you out.” He gives me another look and holds the door for her. Who cares? I don’t care.

“Get a turkey baster, bitch!” Jimmy shouts. Several elderly Hungarians have Jimmy by the arms and are slowly dragging him toward the back, where hopefully they’ll beat him with rubber hoses or empty sour cream containers or whatever other weapons they may have at their disposal.

Szabolcs, my old friend, creeps up to the desk. “Dinner on house,” he whispers.

“Okay. Great. Thank you.” So standing in front of the entire restaurant, being shouted at, that was just for fun.

I go outside, where the rain cools my hot face. I take a few deep breaths, then get into my car.

You know what? A turkey baster is looking better and better.

I’ve been on five dates since my divorce. Two guys were very nice, said they’d love to see me again and failed to call. I waited the appropriate amount of time (six days, according to my dating books), then called (but didn’t text) John, and then later, Marcus, and told them (again, according to the dating books) that there was (in John’s case,) an exhibition at the Museum of the City of New York on subway tunnels (male-friendly topic), and (in Marcus’s case), a craft beer-tasting (same), and I was going to go, (demonstration that I had interests outside of work), and would they like to come?

Both times, I got their voice mail. They never called back.

The other three dates consisted of a man who told me, in great detail, about the first time he saw his mother naked and how it made him feel—way, way too good, for the record. Guy #2 was nice enough, but our date took a nosedive when, right as we were finishing dinner, he found a tooth in his fettuccine. A human tooth. That was enough to have me dry heaving, but I had to give him credit. He was very cool about it, and the restaurant comped our meal—not that we were eating anymore—and even gave him a gift certificate for $250 to apologize. When we were about a block from the restaurant, my date started laughing and told me it was his tooth, and he did that all the time. He’d had a molar pulled and kept it for just this purpose. And Guy #3 came in, sat down, took a long hard look at me, then checked his phone and left.

And now we have Jimmy of the Fluids.

I have to wonder sometimes how I ever got Owen.

We met at a party; he was a resident, I’d just gotten hired by Vera Wang and was so buzzed on the fact that Vera Wang hired me, I would’ve hit on Robert Downey Jr. I was feeling so confident and fabulous. There was Owen, handsome and funny and so cute, so normal, so kind! He listened when I talked, laughed at my jokes, called when he said he would, and I had no idea how rare and wonderful such a thing was.

I’m thirty-six years old. I was twenty-eight when I met Owen. Maybe it’s that. My age.

At the moment, I don’t even care.

Except, of course, I do.

Leo’s lights are off when I get home. Fine. Good. Let him go get laid. Looking the way he does, he’s not gonna be celibate. I get that. He’s recreation only. He’s not interested in me. Not like that. He’s gay where I’m concerned.