MM&I

Clara's POV

I was twelve minutes early for a blind date scheduled at eight.

I considered this a personal failure.

I sat at the bar and ordered a Sauvignon Blanc because sitting at a bar without ordering anything felt like a statement I wasn’t trying to make. The restaurant was called Marisol. Candlelight, white tablecloths, a pianist in the corner playing something quiet and unobtrusive. The kind of place that cost more than it needed to.

Betty had said he was great.

Betty had also said the new project management software was intuitive. So I wasn’t expecting much — but keep an open mind, Clara.

I checked my phone. One message from Betty: He’s so excited!! You’re going to love him!!

Three exclamation points. Two more than any sentence ever needed.

I typed great and put the phone face-down.

I’d worn the green dress. Not a choice so much as an occupational reality — I owned mostly dresses, the unavoidable consequence of working in rooms where presentation was part of the deliverable. Senior Project Manager at Aldren & Cole, four years, good title, the kind of role where you learned quickly that structure was everything, before or after you’d opened your mouth.

The plan had been change.

Last November, three weeks after ending a four-year relationship I’d ended myself — calmly, correctly, with the particular exhaustion of someone who’d seen the ending coming for a year and spent that year hoping she was wrong — I’d walked into a salon I never visited before and told the colorist I wanted something different.

She’d shown me a Swatch book.

- How different? She asked?

I’d sat there for a moment, looking at the swatches, and then I said: green just because it was not there.

-We don’t have green, she said. – I can order it. Come back next week.

The fact that I’d waited a week and still wanted it – that was how I know it was mine.

Patience is not something I’m known for. In my line of work – project management, deadlines, deliverables, the specific art of making sure seventeen people do seventeen things in the right order before a date nobody is allow to move – timeline is everything.

I have been described, by people who know me, as relentless. Which I’m fairly certain was a compliment wrapped around an insult, not that I really care.

I waited a week for green hair dye and when it was done, I’d stared in the mirror for a while.

I’d decided it was fine. Better than fine, actually. Perfect.

I’d gone back the following months and kept it — touched up, maintained, deliberately chosen. The kind of thing that starts as an accident and becomes a decision.

The door opened.

The man who walked in was tall, well-dressed, and had the expression of someone who expected the room to notice his arrival. He scanned the bar, found me, and smiled — the smile of a man who considered himself a reasonable reward for whoever was waiting.

I picked up my wine.

Here we go.

— Clara? He extended a hand. Firm grip, half a second too long. — Brian. Great to finally meet you. Betty talks about you constantly.

— She talks about you too, I said, which was true. Betty had said he’s so well-traveled and he really knows food and he’s done very well for himself — all phrases that, I had learned, were Betty’s way of saying please like him, I need this to work.

— Great place, right? He settled into the seat across from me with the ease of a man who’d been here before and wanted me to know it. — I got us a reservation here. Not easy, by the way. I had to call three weeks in advance. They know me here, but still — three weeks. Worth it though. The chef does this thing with the tasting menu that’s just — he made a gesture that suggested the English language had failed him. — You’ll see.

I was pretty sure that was true.

The oysters arrived at 8:15.

I had not ordered oysters.

— You have to try them, Brian said. — Best in the city. I did a whole exploration of oyster bars last year — there’s something about the brine-to-butter ratio that most places completely miss. He lifted one with the confidence of a man knowing what to do. — The key is not to chew.

— I know how to eat an oyster.

— Right, right — he swallowed his, nodded with the gravity of a man who had opinions about this. — But do you know why you’re not supposed to chew?

I looked at him.

I looked at the oyster.

I thought about Betty’s three exclamation points.

— Texture, I said.

— Exactly — well, partly. It’s actually about the full experience of the — he paused. — Have you been to the oyster bar in Grand Central? Because I had a moment there last March that completely reframed how I think about —

— I was going to say, I started, — that I read something recently about sustainable seafood sourcing in the Midwest, and Chicago restaurants are actually —

— Oh, totally. Brian nodded. — I had a conversation with a chef in Copenhagen about exactly that. Private dinner, twelve courses, and he explained the whole supply chain — fascinating guy — and I said to him, I said, the problem with American diners is they don’t ask enough questions. He completely agreed.

I picked up my wine.

I placed Brian into a mental folder I labeled, with some precision, Oyster Guy — filed it, closed it, and decided to finish my glass before finding a polite way to end the evening.

By 9:20 we had covered: Brian’s trip to Tokyo (the food culture there is just on another level), Brian’s opinion on Chicago architecture (people underestimate this city), and Brian’s philosophy on communication (I think the problem is most people aren’t direct — I always say exactly what I want, I think that’s rare).

I had completed four sentences.

I knew because I’d counted.

— What do you do for fun? Brian asked. First question directed at me since have you been to the oyster bar in Grand Central.

— I read, I said. — I run. I’ve been learning to make pasta from scratch, which is harder than it looks. And I recently —

— Oh, I took a pasta class in Bologna, Brian said. — Three days, full immersion. The instructor was this eighty-year-old nonna who didn’t speak a word of English. What I learned is that the egg yolk to flour ratio is everything. Most people get it wrong because they —

I set down my fork.

Quietly. Carefully. The way you set something down when you’ve made a decision.

— Brian, I said. — This has been lovely.

He blinked. — We haven’t had dessert.

— I have an early morning.

— It’s Friday.

— I know what day it is.

I signaled for the check with calm, and then said:

— When you invite someone on a date, I said, — it might help to also let them talk. Or, I don’t know. Send a brief in advance so they know it’s more of a listening exercise. Helps manage expectations.

His face went through several stages. It settled somewhere around red.

— I — he started.

Fortunately, the waiter came with the bill and after I left my half of the bill on the table, put on my coat, and stood.

—Again, this has been lovely. Let’s not repeat it, I said.

Outside, the wind came off the lake like it had somewhere to be — direct, no apology, thoroughly Chicago. I turned up my collar and walked toward the L with the particular lightness of someone who has sat through a thing and is now, finally, on the other side of it.

My phone buzzed.

Betty: How did it go?? 🥰🥰

I looked at the message for a moment.

He’s very well-traveled, I typed.

I put the phone in my pocket before she could respond.

Behind me, through the windows of Marisol, Brian was still at the table. Still red, probably. Still with half a tasting menu to go.

I turned the corner.

The wind followed me half a block, then found something more interesting to do.

Inside Marisol, Brian signaled for another drink and pulled out his phone.

He scrolled to Matthew’s name.

Disaster, he typed. Tell you tomorrow.

He set the phone down and looked at the door. He’d thought the oysters were a good move. He’d read somewhere that women liked men who ordered oysters. He wasn’t entirely sure where. Something online, probably.

He flagged down the waiter for the dessert menu.