Fail-Safe

     Swatting at the stray strand of hair that insisted upon skimming her right eye's sparse fringe of lashes, she sighed, waiting for the drive-thru barrista to fill her coffee order, a "tall latte with just enough milk to make it tan." Same order, different day. She closed her eyes, melting into the upholstery, bathed by the ribbons of warm October sun that managed to stream through her hopelessly grimy windshield. Her breathing relaxed and slowed itself. The palpable crescendo of blood rhythmically pulsating behind her eardrums triumphed as the tension from another hectic day in the operating room gradually dissipated. She could almost hear her poor, supratentorial-space starved neurons congratulating her.

Haight-Ashbury, October 2007

     She'd been a hot mess for some time now--a contained one, thankfully--emotionally disarrayed, but physically confident. This time next week, she'd be in San Francisco. With him. The American Society of Anesthesiologists accepted the problem-based learning module she'd submitted for publication, scoring her a week of departmentally-funded professional leave, the tail end of which she'd arranged a wine country tour for two. "Here's your coffee, hon," purred the silky-voiced barrista. Careful to avoid the claw-like acrylic nails that were clutching her 40 percent post-consumer recycled paper grail of caffeinated rejuvenation, she pressed a couple of bucks into the woman's waiting palm. Driving home, she wondered why she wasn't more excited about her upcoming trip. Same shit, different day.

     Despite the infidelity, narcissism, and lack of reciprocation, he was safe. Familiar. Predictably disappointing. She'd settled for the kind of less that's incapable of ever being more, a languid déjà vu of unilateral apathy which absolutely crushed any possibility for true affection or spontaneity. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose, n'est-ce pas? Idealism was her Achilles heel. Their reunion after two mostly incommunicado decades was proof that, unlike a reliable Napa Valley vintage, some things are better relegated to the past; they simply don't improve with age.

"Kick-boxer Guy"

     Stepping onto the treadmill, she contemplated the other issue at hand: tonight's blind date. The nature of her long distance relationship warranted keeping an active online dating profile, even though the pickings were disgustingly slim. There was no harm in having a fail-safe, was there? She didn't know anything about the surprisingly handsome guy she was meeting this evening except that he had nice teeth and enjoyed kick-boxing, the Detroit Red Wings, and drinking coffee. After a couple of e-mail exchanges, he suggested they meet for a cup of joe. Java love was something they had in common, safe yet satisfying, a buzz guaranteed to be uncomplicated by regret. Maybe indifference would cure her ambivalence.

     A week ago, she'd had a semi-disastrous first and last date with a physics professor. He seemed so normal online. They'd met at a wine bar, and within the first few minutes of conversation, it was apparent that he was still enamored with his ex-wife. A total yawnfest, indeed. When the check arrived, he searched his wallet, mournfully declaring, "I'm afraid I can't cover my half...I've only got twelve dollars." You've gotta be kidding me! Clearly, he was testing to see if she was one of those grateful 40-something professional women who'd cheerfully foot the bill in exchange for a mercy fuck. Settling for less hadn't made her desperate. Whipping her head around in Exorcist-like fashion to look him squarely in the eye, she countered graciously, "Well, I'm sure you've got a credit card you can use." He hesitated, pulling out one card, then another. If this loser was looking for a sugar mama, he was certainly barking up the wrong tree. Placing his card along with hers inside the check cover, she summoned the waitress, murmuring with the steely-sweet lilt of a Georgia peach, "I think we're done here."

"She Likes Her Dress...But Will He?"

     Forty-five minutes of running left her invigorated, yet relaxed. The kids were at her ex's house this week, so she didn't have to worry about cooking dinner or helping them with homework. Luxuriating in the time she had to cool down before her shower, she studied the art gracing the walls of her living and dining rooms, all of it original, her own work as well as that of her father and an artist friend. Her eyes were drawn to the inscription on a mid-80s ceramic piece made for her by her girlfriend, Elaine: "She Likes Her Dress...But Will He?" How apropos. Somewhere between figuring out what to wear and deciding not to wash her hair, her thoughts returned to San Francisco, the deflated anticipation of next week's trip contrasting sharply with the delicious apprehension of tonight's unknown. Maybe coffee wasn't so safe after all.

Part II: Detour
Part III: Marvelously Fresh, Decidedly Vague
Part IV: From Cupcake Epiphany to The Future Now