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By Lisa Brock
It was six o’clock on a Saturday in June. The dishes were done, the laundry was done, and apparently the garden was watered, also. I glared out the just-cleaned bedroom window at the rain spattering like yucky children’s kisses all over it. I could feel the eyes of my Cocker Spaniel, Cruzer, staring at me as though it were possible for me to cheer up on a day like this. Not only was it raining, but it had been raining for the past three weeks—my poor geraniums were drowning. I felt the inescapable urge to go out and stand over them with my oversized umbrella, but my neighbours already thought I was crazy. With a tear in my eye I stalked down to the kitchen for some tea. I hadn’t raised the cup to my lips when my cell phone rang.
“Veronica, I know you’re sulking,” chirped my supposed-to-be best friend, Shellie Newbury. “But I want you to stop right now because I know what we’re going to do tonight.”
Uh-oh. Not good. Shellie’s ideas of what to do at night always involve men or fast cars. Neither of which I was too fond of. But did I ever learn my lesson? No, of course not. Shellie had a way of convincing people to see things from her perspective, and then of making them think her perspective mad any sense. Because its never going to be like last time, according to Shellie, even though it almost always was. Exactly the same.
“What now, Shellie?” I asked cautiously. Cruzer whined at my feet.
“Oh, come on, Nic.” Shellie sounded hurt. Good. “I promise its not going to be like last time. honest. And I didn’t even come up with this one on my own. And you’re always just sitting there in your house like a strange hermitess or something and sometimes I just—”
“Spit it out, Shellie.”
“Okay. Get this: blind dates! But its not just a blind date; it’s a double-blind date! Doesn’t that sound fun?” I couldn’t believe her. She actually sounded excited.
“Define fun.”
“Do you really want me to?”
“No, not really.” Shellie was a non-fiction writer for Dream & Co. magazine. She slept with her dictionary as a pillow. “And by the way, I’m not doing it.”
There was a smile in her voice. “See you at eight. Oh, and your date likes orange. That nice dress you bought in Italy will do.”
“Shellie, I’m not going to do it!” I said, but I was speaking to the dial tone. This day was just getting better and better. I felt the burn of the Earl Gray as I chugged it down.
I went upstairs to shower.
2010-07-19
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We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.
― Anais Nin
Lidi 