The Adventures of Saffron Sally

“Mrs. Kramer is turning out to be quite the Internet sensation,” Ken Fallon said, his dark eyes shining with approval.  He was resting his chin - a manly chin, square and with just enough stubble - on his hands.  Manly hands - just a few black hairs sprouting from the back of his long, tapered fingers.  I liked hands like that, I had a weakness for them, ever since I’d dated a Lebanese guy in college who had more body hair than I had ever imagined, having grown up in Farm Country, USA, and its plethora of blond Norwegian dairy boys.  Boys who could pick up a milk truck in one hand, boys whose muscles rippled tantalizingly against the soft, thin cotton of their T-shirts.  But boys devoid of any significant body hair.

Then I dated Sebastian, the Lebanese student with his slight body, hardly taller than myself - but sprouting thickets of fine dark hair in all the right places.  Particularly on the back of his hands, hands that could not grip a milk can or farm implement of any kind but that could do unspeakable things to me that made my breath run ragged and my eyes roll back into my head.

And I admit, I was thinking of exactly those things as I stared at Ken Fallon’s hands.  I felt my cheeks burn and lips grow dry and I wanted to lick them in the worst way but then I worried about how he might interpret that, so I had to content myself with shoving my face into a glass of water.  Which, of course, did nothing good for my makeup.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I finally sputtered when I came up for air. 

“I like the way you’ve been interacting with the comments.  That’s what’s making this different than other corporate blogs, I think.  You’re really participating as Mrs. Kramer.  I think people get a kick out of it.”

“Well, thanks.”  I smiled, proud as heck.  It was satisfying to know I was good at something again.  It was good to hear praise, appreciation.  My boys never gave me that, of course.  Stephen rarely did either.  And Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum certainly hadn’t, back at the paper.

I wonder why people think that once we reach a certain age, we’re supposed to be beyond needing positive reinforcement.  We lavish it on Kindergartners but on forty-five year olds?  Nothing.  It’s all supposed to be about how much we earn and what cars we drive - that’s supposed to be enough.  But you know what?  I just don’t think it is.  I think gold stars and free ice cream cones should be offered to everyone, regardless of age.

“So keep it up.  Everyone’s pleased - I know I am.”  Ken reached across the table - we were at Vitorio’s again for lunch - and patted my hand. 

I looked at it.  At his hand with the manly black hairs, the tapered fingers, the memories of Sebastian and all his wild Lebanese love making, and my skin felt so hot, so vulnerable yet explosive, that I thought he might leave burn marks on it; my stomach turned to water and I squirmed on my seat, every nerve ending, particularly the ones concealed in my innermost folds and crevices, singing in anticipation of consummated pleasure, and I blurted out -

“So - do you want to be set up on a blind date?”

“Do I - huh?”  Ken looked startled.  As well he might.  So startled he forgot to remove his hand from mine.

“So, I was wondering, do you - that is, well, have you any interest in - dating?  Other people?  Female people, that is?  Your own age?”

“A - date?  With someone - else?”  Finally he removed his hand.

“I don’t know - I don’t know how long you’ve been divorced.”  I blushed, looked down at the crumpled napkin in my lap, stained with the Rose Petal blush of my lipstick, precise little kisses of rosy pink scattered across my lap.  “You’ve never said.”

“No, I haven’t, but then again you’ve never asked.  Two years.”

“Ah.  Well, then - do you date?”

“I have.”

“Anyone seriously?  Like a relationship?”

“Not at present.”  His voice was suddenly cool, measured - a CEO’s voice, the voice of a man who needed to gather all the facts and figures available before committing himself.

“I have this friend,” I said.  Still looking at my lipstick-stained napkin. 

“A friend?”  Now there was a different shade to his voice, a command, a request; whatever it was, I found myself looking up, across the table, and into his gaze.  His dark eyes asked a question, too; a different question than the one on his lips. 

And even though every fiber of my still taut, still singing body was daring me to answer the unasked question, really, I had no choice but to address the other one.  The easy one.  The one that propriety and loyalty and fear and familiarity and safety and Catholic schoolgirl training insisted was the only question I could answer, after all. 

“Yes, a friend.  A friend of mine - Tricia.  That’s her name.  She’s single, my age, beautiful, and really tall.”  I didn’t know why I said that last - except it was probably the thing I envied the most about Tricia, and I felt like I needed to really sell her, like she was the last, lonely used car on the car lot.  Which, of course, wasn’t at all true and did her a great disservice and made me feel just awful. 

Which, of course, prompted me to then add, “And she’s a natural redhead.  Trust me.”

And then I wanted to dive under the table, so mortified was I for all of us.  Tricia, Ken, and me.

Of course, I didn’t dive under the table.  I simply stared at Ken, desperately, and watched as his face underwent a carnival of emotions - eyes wide and startled at first, then a boyish, gleeful grin flitted across his face, manfully reined in with a stern little shake of his head as he remembered, the lone adult at this table, that he could not ask just how, exactly, I knew this last. 

I had to admire him.  I really did.  It takes a lot for a man not to giggle like a twelve-year-old who has just discovered his father’s stash of Playboys, when confronted with a piece of information like that. 

“Well, Sally, I’m flattered that you would think of me,” he finally said after a very long, very awkward silence.  “Really.  I’m not sure, though - I haven’t been on a blind date in a long time.  I’ve never had one turn out well.”

“Oh, I know - believe me, I know!”  And I did, and as much as I wanted to dive into a friendly little game of “Horrible First Dates - Top This!” I knew this wasn’t the time.  “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I hadn’t thought - if I hadn’t thought you two would be perfect for each other.”

I’m afraid I didn’t say this very convincingly, though.  It’s not that I didn’t think they would be - it’s that I didn’t want them to be.  Perfect for each other.

“Really?”  And his voice sounded so sad, I knew that I had just answered his unasked question, too. 

Which made my own voice sound just as sad as I replied, “Yes, I really do.”

We sat there, staring at each other for a long minute.  My hand still felt the warm, sure touch of his, even though his hands were politely, respectfully back on his own side of the table.  His dark eyes narrowed, as if trying to sum me up, trying to figure out what, exactly, was I doing here, what was my purpose, what was my reason.  I felt he was trying to convince himself that he had either made a great mistake in choosing me to write his blog - allowing me into his life - or had made the best, most life-affirming decision ever.    

But ultimately, I felt that he came to neither conclusion, as he finally just signed, leaned back in his chair, and accepted the business card - Tricia’s business card - that I shoved across the table. 

It was this - this unsatisfactory feeling, that I had neither ruined his life nor made it complete, that I was just another person he had to deal with on a regular basis - that made me regret this entire lunch. 

Because I didn’t want to be that to him, to anyone, any longer.  That nameless, faceless person who had to be dealt with, but only in a vague, uncomplicated kind of way.

I wanted to be complicated.  I wanted to be specific.  I wanted to be the cause of ruination for someone - or the cause of unspeakable, unimaginable joy.

I had a moment - I could have reached across the table and snatched that card back and told him that I didn’t have a friend, after all. 

But I didn’t.  Of course, I didn’t.

And I both hated, and applauded myself, that we ended our business lunch with the card safely in his pocket, my mission for Tricia accomplished.

My mission for myself, though - still on hold.   

* * * * *  

Join other seasoned women as they discuss Sally and her adventures (and maybe their own!) here!