Detour

Part II of Fail-Safe

As usual, she was running late. Time wasn't of the essence to her; it was more of a buzz-kill, a hindrance to spontaneity. Maybe I should cancel. Deliberately unhurried, she checked to make sure there was nothing stuck between her teeth, erasing the post-workout shine from her face with a swipe of translucent powder once she'd secured her twisted-up ponytail with a plastic tortoise-patterned clip. Yeah, she was going there. Nothing says "I'm not interested in making an impression" on a first date quite like showing up in a banana clip, an old T-shirt, and worn out jeans. 

 Hippie freakness notwithstanding, California Boy was into appearances, although he desperately pretended not to be. Flicking off the bathroom light, she recalled one of her visits to L.A. where he'd insisted upon picking out all her clothes before a Sparklehorse concert at the Fonda Theater. She'd mistaken this ploy, designed to ensure their swift passage beyond the fashion-police door guards of the trendy new Hollywood dance club he intended to hit after the show, for a gesture of affection. Another ostentatious detour. 

The concert let out around 11:30 pm, and she was ready to call it a night. Sleep deprivation, at least the kind acquired from an exhausting divorce and one too many interminable nights of operating room call, didn't magically resolve itself with a few measly days of vacation. A club? Now? In the middle of the night? You've gotta be kidding me! Bed was calling, but instead she found herself waved inside the thumping, grinding bowels of a seizure-inducing dubstep inferno, adrift in ambient hipsters, watered-down chocolate martinis, and simmering neglect.

Hmm...could these mini-sombreros double as OR scrub hats?

Her girlfriend, Julie, with whom she'd survived anesthesia residency, hadn't met him in person yet. She'd be flying into San Francisco from Iowa for the convention next week. Despite a detailed, and perhaps even TMI awareness of their unconventional liaison, Julie remained supportive. Divorced, financially independent, and as intelligent as she was attractive, she was one woman who never hesitated to cut her losses early. She didn't cry over spilled milk (or anything else that remotely resembled it). Julie knew about Kickboxer Guy, too, and clandestinely, her money was on him. "He's hot!" she'd remarked upon seeing his match.com profile pic. "What's not to love about a handsome, athletic, corn-fed boy from Michigan?"

Allen, in one of his "I'm not amused" moments.

On the other hand, Allen, her faculty office mate and partner in crime, had already met California Boy at a cookout she'd hosted that summer. He was less than thrilled. "Sweetheart, he's taking advantage of you," Allen's refined Charleston drawl warned lovingly as her pulled her away from the grill. "He treats you like crap. I've never met anyone so self-centered. You deserve better!" Allen was probably her biggest fan. He'd encouraged her to start dating again after her separation, helping her tweak her online profile. "No, no, no, honey! Your body type isn't 'about average'-click click click--it's 'fit and trim.' Average means you're five to ten pounds overweight! What are we gonna do with you? By the way, we're going shopping this afternoon for some clothes that actually complement your frame. Say bye-bye to those baggy cargo pants and ill-fitting tops!" He was arriving at the conference early, where she'd be meeting his lawyer boyfriend, Bryan, for the first time. She and B, as Bryan was affectionately known, had been corresponding by e-mail, and he'd already won her over. She couldn't wait to meet him in the flesh. Oddly enough, Allen was later revealed to be an occult conspirator in Julie's Kickboxer Guy cheerleading effort. 

Should I stay or should I go?

Procrastinating only detours time as long as there's time to spare. It was well past dark-thirty, and Kickboxer Guy was probably waiting at the coffee shop. It's now or never. Sliding into her Birkenstocks, she collected her purse and armed the burglar alarm, driving off into the touch and go of that perilous First Encounter wilderness, making sure to park her car as far away from their meeting place as possible in case things went south. She spotted him immediately, sitting at a table outside, coffee in hand. Casually cautious, she approached the patio, at once captivated and perplexed by his easy smile. Was it trepidation...or relief?

Part I: Fail-Safe
Part III: Marvelously Fresh, Decidedly Vague Part IV: From Cupcake Epiphany to The Future Now