The Perfect Dream Date

The Perfect Dream Date

Cain walked into the Italian restaurant, which had the usual ambiance. He perused the dining room noticing the guests who were enjoying the food and each other's company. He then noticed a woman sitting alone in the corner, sipping a glass of wine. She, too, looked around at the other dining guests, and she noticed Cain. He made his way over to her table and asked, "You must be Whisper?"

She smiled, nodded her head, and said, "You must be Cain."

Relief washed over him as he pulled out his chair and sat down. Cain was relieved that he hadn't been stood up. He didn't have much hope that this evening would go well after the difficult day he already endured. They spoke about their mutual friend who had set them up for a time, followed by awkward silence.

"So," Whisper took another sip of her Merlot, "I hear you are a writer. What genre?"

Cain shifted uncomfortably in his seat and answered, "I write mostly novels."

"Nice. What kind ?" She asked, seemingly genuinely interested.

Cain sighed as if he were annoyed with her question. "Speculative fiction." Cain realized he was likely letting his day affect his mood and gave Whisper his undivided attention. He leaned in towards her and continued, "It's similar to The Twilight Zone. Mind twisting stuff that makes you think about….," he paused when he saw her smirk. He realized she already knew what speculative fiction was but continued, "stuff, but you already know about speculative fiction." He leaned in towards her, "Sorry, I am used to having to explain it."

Cain picked up his wine menu. He noticed Whisper had already ordered herself a glass of Merlot before he arrived. "The wine list looks extensive. They should print the wine menu a little larger," he said as he moved the wine menu forward and backward.

Whisper said, "It's okay."

"Huh, what's okay?" Cain looked up from the wine menu, confused.

"About the speculative fiction, I mean," Whisper clarified as she sipped her wine. "My mother was a writer." At that moment, the waiter arrived at their table. "I am sorry, I didn't realize your date had arrived. May I take your drink order?" He glanced at Cain.

Caid said, "I will have what she is having."

"Clos Duv Val Merlot 2016. Very good, sir." The waiter then asked, "would you two care for an appetizer?"

Cain realized he hadn't looked at the menu at all since he arrived. "Did you want an appetizer, or are you ready to order?" he said to Whisper.

"I am ready," she said, "I will have the penne arribada with a house salad with Italian dressing, please."

"Very good, and for you, sir." The waiter turned to Cain.

"I will have…." He looked back to his menu, unable to read it without his reading glasses and blurted out the first Italian dish he could think of, "the spaghetti with meatballs." Cain felt somewhat sheepish because he didn't order something more sophisticated.

"Very bold choice, sir." the waiter said with dolling sarcasm. He took their menus and left after a curt nod and bow.

Cain continued, "So, your mother was a writer? What was her pen name? What genre?"

"Her name was Patricia Lamb. She didn't use a pen name." Her index finger circled the rim of her wine glass. "Novels mostly, and murder mysteries." Whisper smiled sarcastically, "You see, a murder mystery is a story where someone dies, and the protagonist has to figure out who the culprit was."

Cain chuckled and put his hands up as if he were surrendering, "Okay, okay, I deserved that one. So, was she published, or was she an Indie like me?" Cain smirked, "You see, an Indie writer is someone who self publishes as opposed to someone who publishes through a publishing company."

Whisper half smiled, half grimaced, unsure if he were being rude or if he lacked a sense of humor. The waiter arrived back at their table with breadsticks and then again turned and left them. She was grateful for the moment of distraction.

"Where is your Merlot?" Whisper asked Cain.

Cain towards the waiter, "I think he may have forgotten it." He looked back to her and continued their conversation, oblivious to Whisper's uncomfortable demeanor. "So was your mother published?"

"No." Whisper took another sip of her wine, hoping it would soon kick in and relax her. "She only self-published. She had offers from publishing companies, but those offers always came with conditions."

"Conditions, huh?" He asked.

"Yes, they always required that she use a pen name and modify her stories to make them more..." She paused as she tried to find the right words, "mainstream."

"So? The point of writing is to get published and make money. Not the mention, the recognition of being a writer." Cain continued, not realizing his tone sounded irritated because publishing companies had not sent him any legitimate offers. "It's just a pen name and a story. What does it matter if you have to change it to be more "mainstream?"

Whisper looked at him obviously annoyed. "I am not sure why she preferred it that way. Maybe because she felt that her writing was an expression of herself." She looked down emotionally. "Writing is just creating a story and putting it into words, right?"

Cain nodded in response to her question as their waiter returned and placed their dishes before them on the table.

"Bon Appetit," the waiter turned and left quickly.

Cain attempted to get their waiter's attention by raising his hand and stuttering, "Sir, I ah…" The waiter continued away from their table, having not heard nor seen Cain's attempt to get his attention.

Cain was clearly irritated with the waiter's disregard, "Okay… still no wine."

"I'm sure he will bring it soon. It looks a little busy here." She said.

Cain picked his fork and twirled his spaghetti around his fork, "So, you were telling me how writing is just creating a story and putting it into words? There is more to it than that, but please, continue." He said annoyed, obviously she did not know how much work it took to write a book.

Whisper ignored Cain's comment. She covered her mouth as finished a bite of her dinner and continued, "Think about it. You create stories and put them into words." She paused uncomfortably. "Some people feel that you put your very essence into stories. Don't you?" She asked.

Cain nodded, "I guess I can see where you are going with this."

"I guess?" Whisper asked with annoyance. "Writing is art. Writing stories, painting a picture, or creating music is an expression of who an individual is." She looked to see if he understood what she was saying.

"Sure, but what does that matter if no one buys or reads your book?" Cain chewed and swallowed his noodles. "I mean, sure you want to keep the story as original as possible, but that won't pay the bills if no one wants to buy and read it." He shook his head, confused that she didn't understand what he was trying to communicate. "Do you know how many people get rejection letters every day? The whole "don't call us, we will call you" bit gets old really quick!" He sipped his glass of water, while wishing he had a glass of Merlot. "I think it would be stupid to refuse a publishing deal because you don't want to modify your story or use a pen name."

"Stupid, huh?" Whisper said shocked. "Can you imagine what art would be if we allowed others to dictate how we express ourselves?" Whisper was clearly offended, "Can you imagine someone telling Van Gogh to change his painting to be more "mainstream?"

Cain realized he had offended her with the "stupid" comment and tried to salvage the conversation by making a joke. "Well, at least the stars would be clearer." He chuckled at his own joke but could tell by the look on Whisper's face that it was not well received.

"Look, let's change the subject." Cain paused, trying to think of another subject they could talk about. "Whisper is a unique name. Is it your given birth name or a nickname?" He hoped she would forgive his rude comment earlier and move on, but he was not that lucky.

"It's a nickname," Whisper said shortly.

"What is the story behind your nickname?" He ate a meatball and waited for her response.

Whisper wiped her mouth with her napkin then placed it on the table. "When I was nine, my parents died in a house fire," She finished off the last of her wine with a big swallow. "I was spending the night at a friend's house at the time."

Cain's face paled, and he went silent.

"I have no other family, so I was placed in an orphanage." Whisper sighed, not caring if Cain was uncomfortable. "I wouldn't talk to anyone for the longest time, and when I did, I only whispered. After a while, people started calling me Whisper, and it stuck."

"I am so sorry," Cain started to say, but Whisper cut him off.

"My mother's stories are all I have left of her," Her eyes watered, "and I am glad she didn't change anything." She wiped a tear that had escaped . "Thank you for the evening, but I am going to go." She got up, pushed her chair under the table, and started to leave.

"Please wait." Cain reached out his hand as he tried to persuade her to stay, and Whisper hesitated as if she was considering it.

Cain continued, "I am sorry. I have acted like the back end of a horse. I didn't mean anything saying it was stupid. I got another rejection letter today. I may have let my disappointment taint our evening, and I am truly sorry."

Whisper hesitated but let him continue.

"Let me make it up to you. Allow me to take you out again." There was a hint of desperation in his voice. "Please?"

Whisper, still visibly angry, said, "What's the saying you said a moment ago?" She looked down at him, "Don’t call us; we will call you.” She turned and walked out of the restaurant.

He looked to his plate of food and sighed. He chastised himself for ruining the evening.

Immediately after Whisper left, the waiter returned with Cain's glass of wine and said, “Here is your wine, daddy.”

Cain looked up towards the waiter, clearly confused, “I'm sorry, what did you say?”

The waiter responded, “Daddy.” Cain was confused; the waiter's words were not said in a male voice but a small girl's voice.

“Daddy! Daddy wake up!” the waiter insisted.

Cain sprang forward and opened his eyes. He looked around his bedroom and then into the eyes of his 6-year-old daughter, who stood beside his bed. Cain asked his daughter as he stretched and tried to clear his mind of the confusing dream. “Good morning, Patricia. What are you doing up so early?"

“Early? You slept in, daddy. Mommy has been telling me about your first date and how she almost didn't call you back because you were a, a,” Patricia paused, trying to figure out the correct words.

Whisper entered the room, interrupted her daughter, and finished what Patricia was trying to say, “The back end of a horse.”

Cain smiled, glancing from his wife to his daughter. “I really was,” He grabbed Patricia and tickled her tummy, “a horse's ass.”

“I let you sleep in. Now it is time to get up because it's beautiful outside, and we are going on a picnic today.” Whisper said to Cain.

“Yeah, a picnic!” Patricia said excitedly, still giddy from being tickled.

Cain smiled, “That sounds like the perfect dream date to me!” He looked to Whisper, “Honey?”

“I know, I know.” She smiled and shook her head playfully, “Don’t forget the Merlot.”