SINGLE

A MIDLIFE DATING FAIRY TALE

A slim, blonde woman in pale grey slacks and a flawless white cotton shirt with three-quarter length sleeves and elongated cuffs was completely exhausted. It felt like she’d been traipsing through the woods all day. Night and day, really. She desperately needed a little rest, a little time out of time. Then she’d be fine again. But it was so hard to find a place where she could truly rest. Everywhere she went she noticed little imperfections, little things that needed her attention.

Walking towards a tasteful colonial with a white picket fence lowered her blood pressure. The fresh red paint, the antique wooden door, and the floral wreath threaded with moonbeam daisies combined to make her believe that maybe, just maybe, she’d found a place where she could rest.

“Is anyone home?” she called out in a neighborly voice. She knew this street. People left their back doors unlocked here. Perfectly safe. This is one of the reasons she had moved to the area. No answer came back.

Upon entering the kitchen, she smiled the comfortable smile of a woman who recognizes quality brand names on every single household appliance. Everything sat in its place. The counter tops begged for applause which she gave—three loud claps, then her hands remained in a praying position. She hesitated before ascending the polished wooden stairs partially covered by a delightful carpet runner that ensured both safety and cleanliness.

It was a diabolical liberty, of that she was well aware. How would she feel if she returned home to find some well-dressed woman asleep in one of her bedrooms?

But, as if trapped in the middle pages of a fairy tale, she knew the only way was forward and so she climbed the broad staircase, soon delighting in the little cherry table that seemed to be serving afternoon sunlight. Surrounded by oodles of tasteful outcomes, far, far from the horrendous screaming pinks and oranges of Dunkin Donuts, she finally felt able to let go a little. Her shoulders relaxed. She gazed out a leaded window to the town green with its oaks and maples trees and wondered why the green didn’t need a leaf-blowing service. How miraculous! She was sure she had never seen men blowing leaves off the green, and yet it was immaculate. What a wonderful little town!

I can rest now, she told herself, I know I can, and then she pushed open the first door on the right. “Jesus Christ!” she said out loud, “What the hell! A teenage boy’s room! Did the parents never dare look in here? The floor resembled the worst corner of a public park in New York City: misshapen, unrecognizable paper scraps; soda cans, take-out cartons, raggedy clothes, broken DVD cases. Would syringes be next?

She had to straighten this up. Just a little, otherwise how could she possibly rest? She pulled up an armful of clothes from the floor and went in search of the laundry room. She knew these colonials. It was probably in the basement, but no, this was an upmarket renovation—the laundry would have been put upstairs. Bingo! The room across the hall had an empty wicker basket. Much as she hated turning her back on a full load of laundry, she drew the line. From the size of those jeans, the boy should be doing his own laundry. She mustn’t contribute to the problem, mustn’t coddle him.

Although the whole point had been to grab a little shut-eye, this bed was out of the question. For one thing it was wired. A speaker sat half-exposed under a duvet—a beautiful Austrian, duck feather-filled duvet, by the way. And he hadn’t even turned off his laptop! It glowed, a little smugly, she thought. Glaring at its light with disapproval changed nothing. Fine. She sat on this bed. She dealt with the misplaced technology. She knew laptops. She clocked out; she closed down; she damn well turned the thing off and sat it on the lovely cherry desk in the corner. Another twenty minutes, the room looked respectable enough and she was no longer ashamed to be seen there. But the room needed a far deeper going-over so she closed the door behind her.

The next room she tried was more promising. A younger child who loved monkeys, she figured. Curious George watched her with his eyes—or so it felt. Lemon walls. Afternoon light. The bed was a confection of lime green with watermelon pillows. The bedding pleased her, but there was a funny smell, just not her at all. She could never sleep there. She would just lie there trying to think what the smell was.

One more room, a door at the very end of the hallway: “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, upon entering. Martha Stewart herself could kick back in here—all the elegance of an Edwardian mansion: striped, flocked wallpaper with a briar rose detail, silk slippers, a robe, and an adorable chest at the end of the bed standing ready to hold her clothes if she’d care to slip between the sheets for a nap. And she did.

A man who would never be seen out wearing sweatpants pulled into the loose gravel driveway of this historic home and left his Prius running while he ran in the backdoor. He had forgotten something. What had he forgotten? For a minute, he couldn’t think. Something had distracted him, but he didn’t know what. He had come back to pick up his daughter’s overnight bag. She was going to a sleepover and had forgotten her things. He took the stairs two at a time with the greatest of ease, as if he worked out on a regular basis and had no health issues whatsoever.

He flung open his son’s door, grabbed a black hoodie, then entered his daughter’s room, picked up her pink bag, and was about to fly back out when it occurred to him to use his bathroom which was crystal clean and en suite to his own bedroom at the very end of the hallway.

The flushing of the toilet awoke the blonde woman who had been dreaming of a politically correct eco-vacation in Costa Rica which had been sold to her as “the first six-star family resort in the world.” It was clean. It was organized. Everything was color-coordinated. It was heaven, and the sound of the flushing toilet had blended with the sound of a rainforest waterfall . . .

The well-groomed man stood beside his high-end bed. He noted the wave upon wave of rich blonde hair, the peaches and cream complexion, and the neatly folded clothes on the Captain’s locker at the foot of his bed—a piece of furniture he particularly liked.

She opened her green, green eyes, stared hard at him and couldn’t find a single thing wrong with him.

With the finesse of Robert Redford in his heyday, the man said: “Have we met?” and she let loose the most unaffected and endearing laugh he had ever heard.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his bed, rested his strong, manicured hand, the hand of a plastic surgeon, very lightly on hers, and brushed her cheek with a gossamer kiss.

“Mmm,” she said, “that was just right!”

And they lived happily ever after because they were both divorced and totally sick of online dating.

by Annabelle Howard

copyright author, November 2009