Save One Bullet

Chapter 7

I was sitting at the bar waiting for a table to open up at Ruby Tuesdays when a very young, good-looking man asked me if I was alone for dinner.

Responding that I was, indeed by myself, he looked me up and down and said, “That’s a shame. A pretty woman like you should never dine alone. May I join you? I hate to eat in restaurants by myself. Honestly, you’d be doing me a favor,” he added wistfully.

It made me a bit uncomfortable to be getting hit on like that. Uncomfortable in a tingly sensation sort of way though. So, I replied, “Sure, why not?” as if I dined with strangers all the time.

He ordered another white wine for me and a cocktail for himself while we continued to wait for an available table. After a few moments of silence, he said, “What brings you to this town? I’m here on business.”

“I actually live here. My mother is in a nursing home, and I just got through visiting her and thought I’d stop for a bite before I headed home,” I explained.

Why I felt the need to explain myself to this man I had no idea. It’s just that I didn’t get out that much and maybe I felt guilty. Although I shouldn’t have felt too guilty, as Tom was probably already pounding his secretary on his desk by now. All I was doing was having drinks and dinner with a very handsome man, who was a bit younger than me by about a dozen years.

I should introduce him to Miss Boobies. my husband's mistress, he’d like her, I thought. Maybe before going back to the hotel tonight, I’d write down her name and number on a piece of paper for him and tell him to call me sometime.

“What problems does your mother have that put her in a nursing home?” he asked, making me do a double take, wondering if he was checking his phone and making conversation or if he really was interested.

“She’s got memory problems and some muscle motor problems,” I answered briefly, knowing he couldn’t possibly care about my mother.

“Really? Like Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s disease?” He asked.

“No, just dementia and the typical breakdown of muscles when we age. She’s seventy-seven years old. It’s probably just normal. I tried to take care of her at home until last year when she took a bad spill. She needs round-the-clock care,” I awkwardly explained, expecting him to be checking out the door for more attractive tablemates or checking his shoes for dog shit. Anything but listening to me drone on about a woman he doesn’t know and will never meet.

Instead, he surprised me by asking for more details, “Did she break any bones last year? I’ve read that is the worst thing for elderly people. Broken bones seem to be the start of failing,” he commented.

“No. Thank God. She just got bruised up. I couldn’t spend all my time at her house, and we didn’t have room in our home. It seemed like a good idea at the time to have professionals care for her,” I burbled on, testing the conversation boundaries.

“No, anyone could certainly understand you did the best you could for her. You seem to care for her deeply,” he assured me, “That’s refreshing to hear. Most grown kids just push their parents away at the first sign they need help. It’s so sad,” he stated, looking directly into my eyes, instead of at his phone.

My little wait timer started buzzing and my new friend grabbed both of our drinks and the hostess seated us, being glad to save a table, I’m sure. After we were seated, he asked, “So, we’ve talked about our parents before we even know each others' names. I’m Rick, and you are?”

“Tanya. It’s so nice to tell someone about my mom without them tuning me out. It might be fresh ears, you know? I’ve probably made my friends and co-workers sick to death with my tales of Sunny Side Care Home. My husband? I don’t even bother telling him things anymore,” I lamented, sounding whinier than I had planned on.

“What? No. Seriously? You can’t talk to your husband about your mom’s problems? That’s not right. You should be able to talk with your spouse about things you can’t talk with anyone else about. I’m sorry to hear that,” he opined.

“No, it’s not that he isn’t interested. He’s just, um... I guess he’s just not really interested,” I started giggling, realizing Rick had hit it on the head. Tom simply was not interested in anything I had to say about anything. Especially about my life.

“Oh, boy! Well, I’m glad I helped you sort that out,” he laughed with me. Lord, it felt so good to laugh with a man again.

“I think I’ve been waiting for the day Tom would sit down with me and really listen to my day, instead of talking about insurance quotes and clients, eating and going to sleep,” I said sheepishly.

“What a waste of a beautiful woman,” he replied, “If I was married to you, I would be taking you out on the town every chance I got to show you off. You are so beautiful and classy. Every man in the place noticed you when we walked over here from the bar.”

“Stop. No. That’s silly,” I stuttered, embarrassed by the compliment.

“Aha! I knew it. You don’t even know how gorgeous you are, do you? My love, you have been neglected in the most serious of ways. A man who doesn’t appreciate the woman he’s got will soon not have her anymore,” he said solemnly, as he reached across the table and gripped my arm gently.

Then, the tears began. All of his words hit me deeply, and I realized he was right. Here was a man who didn’t know shit about us, and he told me more about my marriage than I had been willing to admit up until this point.

Embarrassed by the waterfalls I excused myself for a trip to the ladies’ room. I asked him to order for me, as I wasn’t fussy, and loved trying new things. At that statement, his eyebrows shot up and his big, blue eyes lit up.

As I pulled myself together in front of the mirror that damned fog began again and the finger scrawled out, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ Well, I hadn’t been wishing for anything. But it was nice talking with a man who seemed to appreciate me and care. Be careful what I wish for, indeed.

When I returned, refreshed, to the table, there was another glass of wine for me and water for Rick. He had ordered a steak and seafood combo meal for us both and we began to eat like starving dogs as soon as the waiter delivered them. When we finally looked up from our plates, embarrassed at our mutual stuffing of faces we laughed, unselfconsciously, over chunks of meat and scallops.

“Looks like the zookeepers forgot us today, right?” I giggled, wiping tartar sauce off my lips.

“Looks like,” he replied sardonically. “I want to see you eat a meal when you’re really hungry though- that was hot!”

“Sorry. I’ve been running all day and forgot to eat lunch. I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t let my husband see me eat like a pig until our honeymoon,” I chuckled.

“I love a woman who eats and doesn’t pick at a little salad complaining about her weight. You look perfect to me, and you can still enjoy food.” He announced as if I was going to get the blue ribbon for being the best little piggy in the place.

The third glass of wine was making me feel warm and fuzzy. Rick picked up on it right away and ordered another for me before the effects wore off.

“Dessert?” He asked.

“Oh, no. I don’t want you to watch me demolish a dessert. If you think I was bad with dinner, desserts end up all over me, the table, and the floor.”

“Good, I love messy eaters and I love watching your lips as you devour food. Whoops, did I say that out loud?” He murmured just loud enough for me to hear.

Turning bright red, I giggled and said, “There’s a first time for everything. My husband says I have no manners and that’s why he doesn’t like taking me out.”

Rick scooted his chair around to the corner of our table, close to me, and said, “I don’t know who you’re married to. But I do know he doesn’t deserve someone like you. You’re authentic. You aren’t a phony. You say what you mean, and you like to laugh. If I had a woman like you at home, I would find a local job and spend all my time spoiling you.”

I had to pull myself together or this was going to lead me down a path I should not be on