Coreen was a friend to trust
if ever there was a friend to trust.
She lived next door, and we’d talk
over glasses of wine
on the back deck some evenings.
Coreen wore another woman’s ring.
But we’d been friends for forever.
We’d attended the same Washington high school,
and in our mid-forties, I lacked a life partner.
Coreen set me up with a gal from work.
I juggled my reservations.
Coreen gave her my first and last initials.
And she told me the woman’s initials. J.A.
I was to know nothing more.
Neither was J.A.
I lifted and then lowered my hands. “You win.”
“You’ll go?” Coreen said, more excited than I was to go on the date.
“J.A. is a good friend, single, and I owe her a favor.”
“I knew there was a catch to this.”
“Look at the bright side…”
“I’m waiting.” I shifted in my chair.
“Okay, there might not be a bright side,” Coreen said, touching a finger to her chin. “But there might be.” Coreen shrugged.
A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth, and I turned my head either way. “She an axe murderer?”
Coreen spat a mouthful of wine out. “Really?” She wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
“The woman will have a yellow wristband,” Coreen said.
I shook my head and took another sip.
“Oh, come on,” Coreen said, nudging my shoulder. “You can’t live like this forever.”
“I cleaned my house,” I said.
Coreen rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I blew out my lips and observed the eye-deceiving moon slip
behind thick, dark clouds.
We finished the bottle and ended the night.
The following day,
Coreen texted me instructions.
We’d meet on Valentine’s Day.
First, a Jackson’s Bar
for liquid courage
and loud music that would draw
a couple closer
to hear small talk.
My tight chest and knotted stomach
sent chills the length of my spine.
Insecurities bounced around my head
to a headache that pills tamed.
I planted both hands on the bathroom sink.
I fixed my gaze on my reflection in the mirror.
Get it together, I thought. You can do this.
If she isn’t what you want, just leave.
That’s what I’ll do. I sighed as the tunnel vision baked into my breath.
I took a shower and tucked
a blue Polo shirt into a pair of khaki pants;
the legs pulled over a pair of brown loafers.
I’d been out of the dating game for five years.
I settled for less than I deserved
and gave more of myself than I had to offer.
I studied my attire in the long bedroom mirror.
I hadn’t noticed that working out had paid off.
My toned arms and defined chest exchanged my doubt for self-confidence. I fit a belt through the loops in my pants and turned off the lights. I checked the locks and closed the door behind me.
I slid into my car and started the engine.
I placed my hands before the vents,
blasting cold air into warm air.
I let the car heat for five minutes
before reversing out of the long driveway.
I threw my arm around the passenger seat
as I looked over my shoulder.
Another group of teens took
a bat for our mailboxes.
The caved-in boxes spilled mail
over the accumulated snow.
The slanting rays of the setting sun
gave a warm orange tinge to the sky.
I shifted the park to drive.
The salted, winding roads weaved
onto a highway with fewer cars than I expected.
I cranked up the radio, playing Haim’s Gasoline.
I drummed my thumbs along the steering wheel’s edge.
I whipped into a crowded
parking lot and snaked
into a slim space.
I let the engine run
as I raked my fingers
through my thick, dark hair.
I licked my fingers
to straighten my eyebrows.
I sighed and shook my head with a grin.
I exited the car
and entered the bar.
People chatted and laughed
and lied about their lives to their dates.
Smoke jumped onto my skin and stuck to my clothes.
People ordered drinks at the bar,
and waiters served at the tables.
I mazed through the people
with my eyes peeled for my blind date.
I noticed a woman with a yellow wristband.
I saw the band before I adjusted my eyes
to inch up to search the window of her soul.
My chest tightened,
and I swallowed hard.
It was Jaki Anderson.
She relentlessly bullied me in middle school.
She’d belch when the teacher
taught on the chalkboard.
Ms. Patterson would turn around,
demanding the name of the class clown.
Ms. Innocent, aka Jaki Anderson,
pointed me out of a line-up of twenty students.
Jaki Anderson had a cancer stick
between both teeth.
Jaki winked at me
and puffed on a cigarette
with red lipstick imprints
on the white stick.
Jaki crossed her legs,
making me want to know what’s
between her tight jeans.
She wore long, brown boots,
and she tapped her foot.
She had a red Polo cardigan
over her shoulders.
The club speakers played ‘90s R&B
as I approached her.
“Funny,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“What?” Jaki arched a brow and took another drag.
“What?” I shrugged. “Haven’t you humiliated me enough?”
Jaki motioned with her free hand. “Take a seat.”
Whatever Jaki had to say had to be good.
“It’s like this…” Jaki placed the butt of her death stick in the ashtray, put her hands on the table, and leaned forward. “I didn’t tease you because I didn’t like you.”
“Then why?”
“Because I thought I could never have you.”
I paused, waiting for someone to dump a pitcher of beer on me or make another joke. But nothing happened, nothing besides the dancing over oval green eyes.
“I see you two are getting along well,” Coreen said, holding her wife’s hand.
“You,” I said. “And you,” I said, returning my attention to Jaki.
“She’s always loved you,” Coreen said. “I’ll let you kids alone.” Coreen gave me a cocky wink and a confident smile. She left with her lover,
and I spent the rest of my life with Jaki.