Do You Trust Me?

SS23: "Do You Trust Me?"

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This is my fourth dirty story holiday salute. Enjoy.

***

October 30th, 3:06 p.m.

Off the elevator, out of the medical building stepped 32-year-old Phil Dixon, following his most recent appointment with his therapist, Dr. Isaac Jameson. It'd gone okay, or as well as could be hoped for, Phil supposed, returning to his car. Most appointments were more or less the same nowadays. Now it was back to his house again to do...whatever. He'd decide when he got there.

Every other week he was afforded forty-five minutes to discuss his life and issues, which didn't consist of very much baggage, frankly. There wasn't a lot that could be considered wrong with him. He was securely employed at First Federal Bank, kept himself in reasonable shape, physically and hygienically, was about 5'10", 178 pounds, and didn't lead the loneliest social life. Yet for all his visible good points, he was alone. Oh, he always had his family, of course, but he'd never exactly been very good at meeting women.

It wasn't as if he'd never been on a date. He'd gone out with a handful of girls in high school and college, but that was all it was, nothing more. The percentage of the female population he met never seemed extremely keen on him. There were women in his bank who were attractive, who were nice, and who were both, but they were all very happily married. In fact, he was pretty sure his male colleagues were married also. And while he wouldn't want to date someone he worked with, he could do without the colorful stories of co-workers which began with "My husband..." or "My wife..." Having nothing to contribute, he felt a bit left out. On the rare occasion he met a woman he didn't know, about 99% of the time, she...no, make that about 100% of the time, she was married too.

And so his love life—well, lack thereof—was the subject that came up most frequently during his therapy visits. Dr. Jameson had mentioned to him that his chances of meeting someone would be undoubtedly improved if he tried a singles bar—a venue specifically designed, after all, for purposes of meeting someone with whom to strike up a romantic connection. He agreed with the logic, but, he didn't know. Much as he wanted to meet someone, his adult-long scarcity of female company had depleted his confidence—even if his solitude had little or nil to do with his personality. Even if the only reason he was alone was because everyone else had already been snatched up, it still didn't do wonders for his self-esteem. The environment of a singles bar seemed daunting to him. If it were lots of women and only he, with no other gentlemen around, he was sure he could get something off the ground, but he didn't think he could contend with other men. Here on familiar terrain it was safe, secure ground, but with no relationship prospects to seek.

The therapist suggested to him that it couldn't hurt to just go, walk around, peek about here and there and just get a feel of it; he wouldn't have to talk to anyone if he was intimidated, he could just have a look, and depart anytime he wished. It was essentially the romantic equivalent of window shopping for store merchandise. "Remember," he'd said, "Singles bars have raised a lot of batting averages. There are no guarantees; you may still strike out, and you may not. But it can't possibly lower your odds, and if you don't try, you'll never know. You miss 100% of the shots you don't take." Dr. Jameson was quite fond of his sports metaphors.

Phil was about to say something about having no idea even where the goal was, but the doc went on. "There're lots of women out there that're not only okay with meeting a man with a lot to offer like yourself; they want to. And besides, if you don't meet anyone today, nothing says you can't go back and try again tomorrow. You never know whose fancy might be struck by your presence."

You'll forgive me if I think that's just a little easy for you to say, Phil thought, as his doctor was happily married too. But the ol' shrink was making good sense. Phil was starting to think he should forget his apprehensions and inhibitions and just give it a shot. What the hell, he thought, allowing himself to be convinced. Really, what's the absolute worst that could happen?

Actually, he knew what was the absolute worst that could happen: he could be humiliatingly shot down at every turn, thereby utterly obliterating the few remnants of self-worth on to which he'd managed to hold. But he had a feeling that probably wouldn't happen. Like his doc said, he shouldn't have so much difficulty just getting a conversation started. Any woman he'd see could be looking to meet a guy just like him—otherwise, what was she doing there?

"Let me ask you something, Phil," said Dr. Jameson, "Just hypothetically: if you did meet a girl—at a singles bar, or anywhere else—and supposing she might be interested...what are you looking for? What do you want in a woman?"

Good question. Phil had to think about it awhile. He wanted to say, "Well, everything guys usually look for in a woman," but he didn't think that'd be a good or narrowed-down enough answer. He wanted someone who was sweet, kind, pretty, funny, with a good personality, a good heart and a good sex drive, at least for starters...but it seemed to him those were pretty standard on the checklist, basically par for the course. He thought those were just "givens." But as he pondered it for a bit, he finally arrived at the conclusion that besides these givens, he wanted someone who could...challenge him, in some way.

"Challenge you how?" asked the doc.

Better question. He admitted to this being an opinion to which he perhaps wasn't exactly entitled, but...frankly, he had grown just a little weary of historically doing all the "work," as it were. In the case of each date he was lucky enough to have in his teen years, it was he who'd laid the groundwork, initiated things, pushed himself to follow through and set up all the arrangements. And being that none of these encounters went anywhere, he speculated there was something he wasn't doing right. And it also seemed to him he couldn't get a girl to show any more enthusiasm than she felt obligated to. It seemed they only regarded him to keep him from thinking them impolite. He had no way of knowing if they were actually interested in him or not. And he was losing the will to try. It was a fair deal of pressure and trouble to go through each time, he told the doctor—not the women themselves, that was to say, but the whole exhausting courtship ritual—it was taxing on him, as well as his wallet, and it wasn't paying off, so...why bother?

This pattern generated frustration through its consistency. Life became a bit duller with each passing day of loneliness, and the more tedious things became, the more he desired someone to come along, lift him from the rut and spice things up. That was what he needed, some spice and pep to get his love life up and running. Being the aggressor proved a fruitless solution. Something of a catch-22, as girls liked to be pursued and play hard-to-get, which he found cute and charming...at first. Why shouldn't they like this feeling, he thought. Clearly, on the receiving end of attention, having the signal raised that someone is showing intrigue, who wouldn't enjoy that? One day he thought, what if I were the one to be initiated and picked up on? What if someone actually showed interest in me first, or asked me on a date? What if I was given the choice to accept or reject an advance? Not only would it finally indicate to him that a potential mate was (or thought she might be) interested, the dating ball would for a change be dropped into his court, for him to do with as he would. It was quite a feeling to imagine, but he couldn't see it actually happening. Even so...

What if someone were to challenge me for once? he thought. Traditional societal norms and abnorms aside, he saw nothing wrong with a woman making the proverbial first move, if she saw fit. At this point in his life, that he would find charming. Supposing (theoretically, of course) a woman approached him, began conversing and opening herself up to him, leading perhaps to something more than just this encounter. What would happen...he had nary a clue. It was something he'd have to experience to find out.

And so as Dr. Jameson said he'd see him in two weeks, and Phil left, on the way back home, this cycle of thought—just how sick he'd become of boredom and solitude—repeated, over and over, until producing just enough courage that he decided...Y'know what?

Why not? Why the gosh-darned hell not? What really have I got to lose, after all? He made up his mind to find a local singles bar and go. He had one personal errand to take care of, and then his path would be clear. He just hoped he didn't chicken out on himself.

***

October 30th, 5:39 p.m.

He felt his heart beating harder on the way, following printed-out directions. He was nervous, even though he hadn't arrived. He had his suit and tie, was freshly shaved, cologne'd and empty-bellied. He'd wait on eating, at least until something happened...or didn't.

There it was, Chance Romance. A semi-original name at best, but sounded promising. He double-checked the address, even though he could clearly see the sign. 4708 North D. Street. Yup. Okay, no excuse left now. He located a space, paralleled in, took out some change, fed the meter and locked the car. He took a breath, straightening his suit, and made his way across the street.

Once he got inside, he was a little surprised to see just how crowded it was—not particularly so much because it was a weekday, but because...well, he just guessed he didn't expect to find this many single people in town in the first place. Wow, he thought, Are there this many people here every night? There were probably even more on the weekends. For a moment he considered going back outside to make sure he'd come into the correct establishment, but he wasn't that addle-brained.

He shyly wandered in, relieved to see a healthy percentage of folks in attendance this evening dolled up like himself. Being the only gentleman in a suit, he'd feel a little out of place. He noted a pretty balanced male-female ratio. He passed around a few friendly smiles and waves as if to say, "Hey, yeah, I'm new here, what's goin' down," so forth. He made his way around the bar, looking for a place to sit. Another pleasant surprise presented itself as he noticed comely women here and there smiling at him as he passed—some quite flirtatiously. Eventually, he located some unoccupied stools, next to one of which sat a very cute blonde mademoiselle in her 30s, close to his age, sipping provocatively from her glass. Her brows arched cordially, making eye contact with him.

"...May I?" Just loudly enough for her to hear, Phil halted beside her and unassumingly motioned to the vacant stool to her right.

She smiled and nodded without hesitation. "Please!" she welcomed enthusiastically. Wow, this might be easier than I thought, he told himself. But just as quickly, he added, Yeah, but whatever you do, Phil, don't get cocky. Don't get overconfident.

Hey, this is me I'm talking to, remember? he reminded himself as he ordered a soda. Cocky? Overconfident? Me? Be real. And at the same time, don't get nervous, or underconfident either. Try to keep it at a good, balanced medium.

"My name's Phil," he said, matching his introductory tone and offering his hand.

"Hi, Phil!" she called to him, returning hands with a sitting curtsy. "Mine's Veronica."

"Oh, pretty name!" he smiled back, thankful he couldn't go wrong with sincere compliments.

They exchanged idle chitchat, which was easier said—no pun intended—than done over the din of the crowd. Her full name was Veronica Anna Upland, and she lived fifteen minutes from the bar towards the southeast end of town. She was a freelance writer-calligrapher, and was just about to turn 33. Wow, they were almost the same age, remarked Phil, his own 33rd birthday approaching in January. The more he looked at her, the more he thought, she's a lovely girl. She had soft blue eyes, her blonde hair flowing in locks around her cheeks and ears, slinking down her shoulders and back. And she was wearing a bright red cocktail dress which beautifully offset said hair and eyes. And when she turned to the side, something about the shape of her nose and cheeks made him think, ...My God, you're Heather Locklear. Being a reserved introvert, Phil wasn't prone to approaching the deep end courting a woman, but after a few more flirty smiles and coy glances, he might go so far as to call this woman a babe. To himself.

He couldn't help wondering if she thought he was attractive at all. But he told himself not to get his hopes up. They were still only chatting, after all. And he kept the thought fresh in the back of his mind that even if nothing played out with this foxy lass, there were plenty of others here. But eventually they finished their drinks together and ordered a couple more, keeping the conversation going. Phil was liking the direction in which this was headed. He decided he'd underestimated the advice Dr. Jameson had given him about coming here, as well as his own worth as a person. This girl Veronica really seemed to genuinely like him. Still, much as he wanted to, he made himself refrain from pressing his luck. Wait and see, he told himself. Just wait for more conclusive evidence that things might proceed in your favor before you push. Look before you leap, Dixon, just look before you leap.

In the meantime, it was sure fun getting acquainted with her. She'd moved here from Canada when she was 18, and spoke fluent French—"Je parle la langue de l'amour." He had no idea what she said, but was enchanted by it nevertheless. Her career spawned from her love of not so much language itself, as the written letters, numbers, symbols and diacritics used to transfer written communication, and she could expertly craft any alphabet in a hundred different handwritten styles. And so now, she explained, she designed fonts, as part of her "craft," and did written body art and tattoos.

"...Wow," said Phil when she'd finished. "And I'm just a teller at the bank."

"But I'll bet you make a good living," she offered. "And it is solid, honest work."

Gosh, this lady had charm, he thought. And class. He noticed a pattern in her speech, that her eyebrows tended to raise at the midpoint of every sentence, and lower back down by the time she got to the period—or full stop, as she called it. The way she smiled curled the edges of her lips up, forming lovely matching dimples at the corner of each cheek. He had to admit that when she smiled at him, he had more than a little trouble concentrating on what she was saying.

My goodness, he thought, are there more women like this? Is every girl in this bar so friendly? Have these women been here this whole time and I never knew it?? Right now, though, he wasn't concerned about any other women, here or anywhere else. To Phil, who, again, hadn't enjoyed his share of lady companionship to this point in his life, enthusiasm at locating a woman who seemed to fancy him was overwhelming—whereas to the casual common dater, such a rendezvous would be merely a little exciting. Despite all the things he told Dr. Jameson, he wanted to ask her out. But the intimidation of being rejected remained standing in his way.

Amazingly enough, he didn't get the chance. He'd been enjoying himself so much in Veronica's company, he was losing track of the time, and when Veronica consulted her phone for this very information, he only studied her magnificently sculpted face. It was more than safe to say that the next thing that happened blew his mind.

She turned back to him. "Listen, Phil, would you, uh...maybe like to go back to my place?" she asked.

His own eyebrows leapt to attention, his mouth dropping open. All that went through his mind was, ?!?!!

He couldn't believe he'd just heard those words come out of her mouth. It was as if the most recent time he'd ridden this particular train of thought—desiring for a woman to hypothetically ask him out for once—fate actually heard him, and stepped in to lend a hand. Against all odds, he was, in real life, being presented with this fantastic question he only imagined before! Unbelievable.

He had to make sure he'd understood her correctly. "Did...you just ask me if I wanted to go to your place?" he repeated.

"Yeah," she nodded matter-of-factly. "But, I mean, if you don't want to, that's fine too."

"Don't WANT to"??! "YES! Yes, I definitely do want to!" he insisted, trying not to sound overzealously eager.

"Okay, great!" Veronica smiled. "Let me just run to the ladies,' 'kay? I may be a little while, but don't worry—I promise I am coming back." She giggled and patted his hand, trotting off.

Ten minutes later, she returned, all set. She unsnapped her purse and said, "Lemme just pay for my drinks here..."

Phil quickly reached for his own wallet. "Oh no, please, let me," he insisted, standing to dig out some cash before she could decline.

"Oh, why, how sweet!" Veronica thanked him. "Just one thing, though. I came with someone else, but I'm pretty sure she's long gone by now. Would you mind driving us, and I'll show you the way?"

He could barely believe this was happening; it was almost too good to be true. "Well, of course!" he automatically agreed. They joined hands and threaded their way back out to the now half-dusky, chilly exterior.

WOW, he thought breathlessly. My first time visiting a singles bar, and I'm actually going home with someone! His doctor had been absolutely right; he never knew whose fancy might be struck by his presence!

***

October 30th, 7:12 p.m.

Phil led Veronica across the street to his car. She gave him initial directions to her house. They opened the doors and started in.

"Excuse me, sir? Is this your vehicle?"

Phil stopped in mid-climb and turned in the direction of the voice. He saw something startling.

A meter maid had appeared, right in front of his driver's side mirror.

"Uh...yes?"

"Sir, you inserted only an hour's allowance in the meter. You're more than half an hour over. I'm gonna have to write you a ticket."

"What?!" he exclaimed. "But that—...that's impossible! I...I could've sworn I put in enough for two hours!"

The maid directed him to look. "No, I'm sorry, sir, you see?" She indicated to him that it had in fact expired. "One hour."

It was getting dark, but the streetlights were on, and he could make out the "expired" status on the meter. Oh, geez, he thought. Well, that's just great; something happens that I've been waiting so long for, and then this. But still, again, I could have sworn...

He sighed. "How much is the ticket?"

"Sixty dollars."

"Sixty D—" Unbelievable, he repeated to himself, this time in disgust.

Veronica noticed what was going on and got back out of the car. "Uh, ma'am?" she addressed her. "Could I have a word with you?"

She took the maid aside for a few moments. Phil couldn't hear what they were saying, but after a bit he thought he noticed the maid raise her head with a different expression on her face. What exactly was happening now, he wasn't sure, but another moment later, they returned to him. The meter maid now looked a lot friendlier.

"Okay, sir, I...think I can let you off the hook—this time," she amended, to Phil's visible astonishment. "Just don't let it happen again. Drive safely," she called, heading in the opposite direction.