Debra's Blog

(U.S. Edition) of Revolution. Author Jennifer Donnelly, Published October 12, 2010, 496 pages. Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children's Books.

Thank you for following me to these pages.  I just completed Revolution and was astounded by everything I’d learned from it.  If you read my book review at the Corner Cafe, http://debrahutchens.wordpress.com/ I gave an earful on this wonderful novel released by Jennifer Donnelly in October 2010. It speaks of the French Revolution but in a ‘novel’ way never before done.  At least, not in a way I’m aware of.  From the point of view of Alexandrine Paradis (who lived during its uprising) and that of Andi Alpers, who lives in modern-day New York and develops a deeper understanding of it through Alex’s words.  One that takes her beyond the pages of a history book, yet through the storytelling of a simple, heart-wrenching diary that Andi discovers while on a trip to Paris.  

I love historical fiction, especially young adult when it re-exposes history from a perspective that draws in new audiences for our changing times.  See the video below for an historian point of view that is sure to reignite your interest in the French Revolution.  

Poisened Tea - Photo credit and gratitude for permission of use is given to: Paper Doll. Visit her photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/hoshinohime/

I’d finally managed one good night after a long, strenuous week of unbroken aggravation.  All I asked for was some quiet time with a friend.  And that was what I got until Brandon showed up on the scene and breached in on my time with Cosette. 

What did he think I was going to do with her?  I totally understood his jealousy.  But that was when I spoke with men.  Other men.  And this was Cosette.  His cousin.    

Cosette and I had been sitting together, comfortably sprawled on her raspberry suede living room couch in a century old farm house on the northeast corner of Wickham Point, sipping a novel brew of  Moroccan tea.  The scene could not have been more perfect when Brandon, disrupting the tranquil rhythm, made an unexpected appearance at her doorstep.  He announced his arrival at her front door with with three hard slams of his fist.  He was strong enough to penetrate the solid oak as if it were nothing more than just a rickety screen door.  It sounded like cannons going off in the not so far distance.  If this were 1864, Atlanta, I would have thought the Union forces were closing in on us.   

Cosette, knowing the signature of his knock, calmly and without any sign of worry but a knowing smirk that scratched across her face, opened the door without hesitating.  Brandon swept past her, omitting the standard greeting, his eyes combing the living room area adjacent to the foyer until he found me.   

“How nice for you to visit Brandon.”  She crooned in that velvety voice of hers she typically used to slide under his skin.   

“Get your coat.”  He demanded of me with an effort to ignore her taunting.  His jawline was stiff, unpliant as a rigid strip of metal.  I knew better than to argue with him.  Not here.  Not now.  Not when he was in a determined and ‘not to be messed with’ frame of mind.  He wasn’t my father, nor my brother, not even a boyfriend.  Just a friend, albeit a possessive one at that, who came to stake his guard over me.     

In that split moment of his mandate, I had already made up my mind that I would follow him; do as he told.  I knew he had his reasons.  Knew well enough not to argue with him.  And with a look that was written so visibly in every feature of his face, one that warned I not defy him in her presence, I also knew it would be to my detriment not to obey.  But I had a reputation to protect, an image to consider.  Cosette was watching, testing me with her discerning eyes.  I didn’t want her going back to the other Scotts’, telling the rest of the family that when Brandon ordered me to ‘jump’, I was lemming enough to ask ‘how high.’   

So I purposely took my time before I slowly got up, careful to give the impression that this was my decision as much as his.   

Cosette wasn’t fooled one bit.  Only one person called the shots tonight, and it was obvious who that person was.   

“Sie nicht selbst ihr.” She hissed, provoked by my submission.  Her eyes were on me, her words directed at Brandon’s back.   

“Ich besitze, was mir gehört zu schützen.”  Came his reply, a language that, if I’m not mistaken, always seems strangely marked by anger.   

The moment I crossed over that three foot radius that neared him, he grabbed me by the hand and lurched me out of her house.  I hobbled after him, trying to keep up as if I were a feeble toddler learning to walk. His cousin only laughed, using her best defense mechanism tone, cackling like a hen, her voice breaking in sound bytes before she slammed the oak hard.  Seconds after, the front porch light flicked off, courtesy of Cosette’s bad manners to leave her departing guests in total darkness.   

“Brandon, wait!”  I ripped my hand from his strong grip when we reached his Yukon.   My wrist was burning from when he forcibly seized me.   The car sounded off in low beeps as Brandon unlocked the doors.    

“Get in.”  He ordered.   

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”   

“I will.  In the car.  Now get in.”   

“I’m not yours to push around, Brandon.  Now tell me or I walk home.”    

He studied me from across the roof of the car, each of us staring defiantly at the other person from our respective sides.    

“Get in.”  He held, but entreated on the last added word said in mercy, “Please.”     

This time he was humble.  Without even a touch of it he knew he wasn’t getting any cooperation from me.   But it was what I needed to hear, especially since I really wasn’t looking forward to walking home in 46 degree temperatures with low winds starting to come in at what felt like 20 miles an hour.    

I stepped into the front passenger seat and buckled myself in for the Busch Garden rocket boost of a ride.  Brandon usually unleashed his temper on his vehicles.   

I waited until after we’d exited Cosette’s neighborhood.  As if she had bionic ears and could eavesdrop on our conversation.   

“Why are you angry with Cosette?  What did she do?”   

“It’s not what she did,”  he said, his eyes nailed to the winding road that spun towards us with a speed matching the Gran Turismo series video game, “it’s what she’s about to do.  What she’s trying to do.”   

I paused to consider this for a minute, to process this article of fact.  I knew what Brandon was getting at, and felt irritated by his artful way of letting the suspense build in dramatic fashion before he would deliver the blow of truth at me.  But I didn’t want to fill the gaps with any assumptions of my own.   

“What is she trying to do?” I asked in that typical high-pitched voice that people regularly used when they acted guileless.  Brandon furrowed his eyebrows, and with a look of knowing cast a look towards me that told he wasn’t fooled by this counterfeit attempt.   

“She’s a witch.  Like me.  She’s trying to get a read of your energy.”   

“How could she manage that?”   

He shrugged, struggling to reach for an example, “I don’t know.  Anything you might have drank.”  He darted his attention back to me and held my eyes to his. ”Did you drink anything?”   

I shook my head, turning away from his probing eyes, ignoring the tremor that snaked its way up my spine.  “I just took a sip of some tea,” I said, leaving out the most significant part: that I actually engulfed two whole cups.  “You mean like use my spit for something?”   

“Something like that. But more or less to get your ‘prints’.  Only a print extracted in the form of energy.  Overlapping energy patterns of your aura, anything that will give her specific information on you.”   

“So you’re saying she can…”   

“Read your thoughts.  See your past.  Your present, your current status quo.  She was happy to let you go after you drank the whole tea.  She didn’t need you after that.”   

“I told you,” I blasted at him, leaning forward against the tightening seatbelt, insisting on my own lie, “it was only a sip.”   

“You drank the whole thing, Gillian, I saw the empty cup.”   

I nodded, embarrassed to be caught in my own lie. ”So what now?”   

“She’ll dip her finger in whatever liquid you didn’t drink, run it across her forehead, and whatever she sees in her dreams tonight will tell her something different, depending on the ritual.”   

I sank back against the seat, feeling defeated and rattled that Cosette would betray me this way.  I thought we were friends, that she had a genuine interest in wanting to know me.   

I could feel Brandon’s eyes on me as he threw one last glance in my direction, one filled this time with pity.

The Girl With No Shadow by Joanne Harris. Originally published in the UK in 2007 under the name The Lollipop Shoes, Doubleday. 464 pages. HarperCollins.

After finishing Incarceron, I’ve moved onto reading The Girl With No Shadow by Joanne Harris, a continuation of the international bestseller Chocolat, four years after they departed from Lansquenet.  The thing I love about this novel is that in every new chapter, the point of view alternates between three main characters; Yanne Charbonneau (previously under the fictitious name of Vianne when she resided in the former village of Lansquenet), owner of a chocolaterie in their new migrated destination on Montmartre Street, Anouk, her daughter of quiet rebellion, and a novel stranger, Zozie de l’Alba, who bears a peculiar yet fashionable edge to her style and who blows into their lives like a warm, exhilarating wind, equipped with an outward charm of goodwill but a devious intent of her own that will, unbeknownst to them, turn their lives upside down.  Though Vianne, engaged to her landlord, one who bears a straight-laced sense of propriety, is determined to have a normal life, Zozie de l’Alba (who, underneath an ornament of warm charm gives an impression of compassion) threatens to undermine and unravel it all. 

Several passages in this novel caught my attention that I just had to share:

Saturday, 17 November (point of view of Zozie de l’Alba)

“I didn’t care about karmic retribution.  I wanted my retribution to be real: for my tormentors to be laid low, not later, not in some future lifetime, but paid back in full, in blood and in the present.”

First of all, who hasn’t felt this way, when karma doesn’t seem to give each person their fair share of the boomerang effect?  So on this note, and only this one note, I can relate to her, but I find it exciting that it gives another glimpse, a sneak peak of what’s to come in the coming chapters.

Promotional picture for the CW TV series The Vampire Diaries

I always found it fascinating how some characters draw us into the fold of their drama, while others leave us feeling indifferent, so flat we hardly care to understand anything more about them.  The wonderful thing about fantasy fiction is that it transports us to a parallel universe where humans are stratosphered into the next plane of normalcy.  What do I mean by this? Well, in the world we live in, Vampires are based on folklore.  They’re mythical creatures who don’t exist beyond the television drama series or movie feature films we’ve come to love.  But in the world of Fantasy, they are very much real, and the characters that populate them (particularly the innocents and the humans) have to deal with these creatures on a daily basis.  Think True Blood and the Vampires integrating into human society after the Japanese invent a synthetic form of blood.  The human population isn’t exactly welcoming of this new breed.

The most important ingredient I found in fantasy fiction (especially when a story like The Vampire Diaries or Twilight makes a transit from novel to the big screen), are the actors who inhabit these roles, and the remarkable qualities they bring to these parts, regardless of the authors’ original intent.  Elena in the book series of The Vampire Diaries was self centered and defiant, always pursuing her own agenda, regardless of who she used in her means to achieve that end.  She was also blonde, with eyes the color of lapis lazuli; a deep, dark blue, an indisputable factor of seeming importance in L.J. Smith’s series considering her eye color supposedly matched that of the lapis lazuli ring the vampires wore to live life in broad daylight. 

So naturally, the choice of the brunette headed, dark eyed actress created a stir of controversy when she was cast for the role instead.  And producers were more than willing to take a chance on her.  Here’s the interesting thing, Dobrev not only looked different, but her depiction of Elena is much kinder, compassionate, considerate to those around her, more benevolent and less egocentric than the book series’ alter ego.   Yet surprisingly, the series took off, going on to earn an accolade of Favorite New TV Drama at the People’s Choice Awards.  And fans, including myself, continue to come in droves to watch the series.

So aside from what seems to be the obvious, such as our undying fascination with Vampires, let’s look deeper and decide; what is it about the series that’s helping to draw audiences?  It seems to me that although audiences love folklore heroes, people also gravitate to characters they can easily relate to.  Nina Dobrev (in her role as Elena), having beeen made the central protagonist, plays a critical role in drawing in this viewership.  She is the one who the storyline hinges on week after week, so all the boxes need to be checked:  brains, beauty, supplemented with a dose of nurturing, her humanity emerging as her most valuable asset in this series against the evil forces that flank her.  She’s not a vampire, not a witch, she’s certainly not a telepathic (at least, so far as we know) and she hasn’t transfigured into a wolf when the moon is in full sweep of its cycle. 

She’s simply human.  Breathtakingly human and wholly vulnerable.  An unlikely heroine in the folklore realm of fantasy fiction.  She’s one of the most vulnerable characters in a show littered with powerful creatures, and yet has emerged as a compelling heroine because, as many of us might have forgotten, there is charisma in goodness.  Simple as that.  We watch her, unstoppable, as she comes to someone’s rescue when duty calls her to defend.  Regardless of who becomes the victim; in the town of Mystic Falls, sometimes humans, in their call to vigilance against the forces that threaten to overtake them, can be more villainous than vampires.  She makes it her business when her friends are in distress (we’ve seen her do this for Caroline at the beginning of the series when she was in a blood-prey relationship with Damon). In their orphaned scenario, she takes on the role of parenting her brother and scolds Stefan when he considers going ”off the wagon” to reinstate his diet with human blood again.  That doesn’t include the recent rescue she made to thwart sheriff Liz Forbes and the other police officers in their attempt to stake Damon and Stefan, or when she retrieved Stefan from a well, loaded with vervain.

In her brave deeds, in moments of sympathy and human frailty, she is someone whom female audiences can relate to, regard, and if neither one of these, aspire to.  She’s someone you can become if you so chose.  While characters like Stefan and Damon Salvatore, Mason Lockwood and now Caroline Forbes (after her recent conversion) will continue to be out of reach for us mere mortals with their distinguishing prowess and superior athletic abilities, Elena Gilbert remains well within reach of our human aspirations, at least, for those of us who aspire to do something good.

Promotional picture for the CW TV series The Vampire Diaries

Oh, the wonderfully delectable world of vampires.  It gets more sanguinary by the episode.  Remember the blog I posted on August 12 regarding unrequited love?  The torture it inflicts upon us?  Particularly Brandon Scott in his love for Gillian.  Well apparently, the supernatural world is filled with its share of pain and gloom.  I’ll admit, I’m a huge fan of the Vampire Diaries.  So much, that when it airs on Thursday nights, if I’m not in the right mood, (like last Thursday when I had a migraine, not a pleasant thing to have when you waited all week for this show) I’ll record it and save it for later… for when I’m obviously in a better frame of mind.  I thought the closing scene of this particular episode rebounded nicely to the theme of unrequited love. Evidently, Damon seems to be getting more than his fair share of it.  Wouldn’t you agree?  I also love the promo shot on the left, the composition of both love and lust (hand to the hair and the other to the throat) tied to a woman who, in both past and present, another juxtaposition, has caused torment, deliberately then later unwillingly, upon two brothers.  Pretty savvy symbolism.

In the Season Premiere of the Vampire Diaries, “The Return”, air date September 9, 2010, written by Kevin Williamson & Julie Plec, Damon and Katherine, reunited after over 100 years, are in a heated mid-kiss when Damon interrupts the moment with a question that has been burning inside him to get out.  In Season 1, Damon, after releasing the vampires from the prison under the church, discovered to his dismay that Katherine wasn’t there.  She’d been free and roaming the earth all along.  Anna, a vampire, had revealed to him that she last saw Katherine in Chicago in 1983, but never bothered to go look for him.  Understandably, Damon was stung by the news, enough that, during his reunion with her, he forces himself to interrupt the ardent exchange he’s having with her in order to get the truth of why she stayed away.  This episode was a shocker, simply because of the blunt honesty that was delivered so ruthlessly to Damon (for once he was vulnerable), it just left me with my jaw dropping.  And both scenes came in on us, (yes, there is another one that follows, as many of you well know) loading fast like a pile-up in a car wreck.  It went something like this:

Damon tears himself away from Katherine.  “Wait.  I have a question.  Answer it, and it’s back to fireworks and rockets and red glare.  Answer it right, I’ll forget the last 145 years I spent missing you…  We could start over. This could be our defining moment.  We have time and…the beauty of eternity.  I just want the truth.  Just once.“  He’s so desperate to be relieved from this anguish.

Meanwhile, Katherine watches him with a hard look of annoyance.  Until finally, frustrated, she tells him “Stop.  I know the question, and it’s answer.  The truth is, I’ve never loved you.  It was always Stefan.”

The love was one-sided all along.  He waited over 100 years to hear her say that.  She tells him this with the same tender expression you would use when you tell someone you love them.  We’re now beginning to see the cruel side to Katherine, (okay, stabbing Stefan with casual brutality after he replied that he didn’t love her, was the awakening point of this awareness), a woman, or rather, a vampire, who is easily predisposed to inflicting pain, not excluding on those who love her, and whom she loves (if you piss her off…look out!).  She not only admitted she never loved him, but that she loved his brother instead.  But I guess we shouldn’t compare the basic code of conduct of the average human to a vampire whose diet consisted of feasting on human blood for nearly 150 years.  He was so stung that she literally had to pry his hands off her face when he froze at her answer.  And she tells him this with a cold, frank look into his pained eyes before casually stepping away.  

If only she’d told him in the beginning, instead of playing them against each other, she would have spared him a century’s worth of loving her, something which needlessly grew in vain in her absence.  But Katherine is selfish and carries her own motives.  We see Damon standing there for the first time ever, injured, hampered at this cruel offense, with the most suffering look in his eyes that we’ve seen so rarely practiced on him.  It’s enough to make you realize, piece that part of the puzzle together as to why Damon is so ruthless.  He’s lonely.

Is there anyone out there who can’t relate to this disappointment?  That was a heartbreak of colossal proportions.  And it doesn’t end there.  Damon surprises Elena by making a surprise visit to her bedroom that night -(you’ll see in the video below Nina Dobrev playing both roles, the wavy haired, pouty faced version portraying Katherine).  I wonder at this point if it’s in desperate compensation from the sting of Katherine’s rejection.

…”there’s something going on between the two of us and you know it.”  He tells her.  But despite this intense emotional display of grief, she delivers the same blow…”…I care about you…but, I love Stefan, it’s always going to be Stefan!”

I don’t know which was worst.  The first rejection, delivered with willful cruelty. Or the second, when Elena gives it with love and a desperate plea of unflinching honesty.  The kind of honesty that vows not to lead a friend on, not to be unfaithful to a loved one.   

Much credit is given to the creator of this video, Sierralim91, for producing and reassembling such an awesome piece of fan fiction.  Many thanks to the writers of this series for giving audiences something to sink their teeth into, especially as we approach Halloween.  Copyright of video is owned by Outerbanks Entertainment, Alloy Entertainment, CBS Television Studios and Warner Bros. Television.   Enjoy the show!

King's Crossing by Debra Hutchens. Published on August 11, 2010, Paperback, CSBR Press.

I’m excited for the release of my new book, King’s Crossing.  I love the art work cover shot, Gillian’s eyes, made more aglow with green against the deeply shading of eyelids.  It tells the tale of unrequited love of a young boy who, throughout the course of his life, falls hopelessly, shamefully and endearingly in love with this one girl who won’t give him the satisfaction of loving him back. 

Before you blame the girl, remember, we’ve all been there.  Ever have that happen to you?  Ever experience the agony of love gone unrealized?  Or even been that person that someone else is madly in love with?  I do realize that what I just described seems an extreme case, but believe me, I’ve seen it many times over in real life.  Some people might qualify these types of personalities as being obsessive, maybe a little ‘touched’, but even if it’s true, it’s a painful, needless suffering, one of the fewest that people will cope through.  On behalf of these hopeless devotees, they would like nothing better than to cut their losses and move on, sever the ties of this pointless enslavement, but their minds are chained by some unknown force into having to have this one person who’s since been objectified beyond reason.  And sometimes, as we’ve seen, obsessive, addictive love can become perilous. 

When you care deeply and affectionately for someone who just…well, they just don’t feel the same way as you do.   They care about you.  Emphasize it over and over again how much they wouldn’t want to see you get hit by a truck or anything, but they just. Don’t. Love you.  This is Brandon Scott’s dilemma.  He loves Gillian to a fault and believes to the depths of his soul, or rather in his case -his psyche- that destiny calls her to take her place at his side. Naturally, she refuses, rejects him repeatedly with an open honesty that sounds gentle from her end, but cruel as it reaches him.  Yet Brandon won’t quit. She is his Psyche and he, her Eros.

This is King’s Crossing, and things that happen here, happen for a reason.  Brandon Scott loves Gillian so much- is so forcefully and turbulently connected to her, he can’t help but to ‘see’ things that affect her.  Or to receive flashes of insights that touch her, torment or come to harm her.  You see, Brandon is not just in love, he has a psychic talent that he can’t control.  So in his mind, and almost convincing to hers, he is her guardian and her protector.  But the Crossing delivers more than just their story.  They are surrounded by friends (all offspring of the Crossing), and each with problems of their own.  Each of them who are trying to find their way through life.  Each one of them misguided in their own quest for love.

Photo Credit: Tree Image (vladstudio, http://www.vladstudio.com/home/)

This weekend was a whirlwind of fun.  Long overdue, but never too late in its arrival.  I finally caught up with some really good friends, gathering to meet up with them in New York and having such an amazing time.  Where does the time go?  And I don’t mean the days, I’m talking the years that seem to fly by, unnoticed and inconspicuously. 

Lately, I’ve taken a huge break from writing.  But not entirely so.  There are periodic breaks and often times, I find myself writing down on a scrap piece of paper random thoughts and sentences that float through my mind, usually the dominant mood dictating the sentence I write.  That’s it.  Just a sentence that means nothing to anyone.  It’s a thread that’s part of a larger theme of thought.  Anyone reading it can make of it what they will.  But they will have to find it first, because I usually tear these notes to shreds before there’s any chance of them being discovered.  It’s a diary of thought. One slip of note betraying my feelings in that instant.  I need to write it because it’s a spiritual and mental purging.  Writing has always been this for me.  So even though I haven’t been officially engaged in any writing that is soon to turn Manuscript, I’ve been keeping those words juggling in my head.  Flexing and muscling them into coherent ideas.  And that party I went to this weekend?  Well, it will serve its purpose in the long run.  Someday, something in there will make it into one of my story lines. 

Similar to when I completed the video book trailer.  I had taken hundreds of pictures through the years, many were nominated, but only few made it to the stage to be given the Oscar at the Podium.  All these memories I make with my friends will go into the Chamber of memories, few will be nominated for storylines, fewer will get hired to make it into the final cut. 

Meanwhile, for those of you living in the Northeast, this summer has been incredibly humid, and yet so tortuously dry:  we went through a prolonged period of no rain that resulted in everything turning yellow.  Just nature’s way of reminding us why rain is so important.  But I haven’t been pushed to the brink of complaint.  We earn our summers here in CT, as the winters can be a little too unforgiving at times.  And it’s taken its toll on my ability to sit still in the heat, focus and commit myself to a lateral, surreal world that runs parallel yet in-congruent to this one.  I’m still reading though.  Right now I’m revisiting two classics; The Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger on my morning commute and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, in the evening at home.  The Catcher in the Rye makes an immediate impression, whereas Jane Eyre has a delayed effect, but no less powering in its reach to my subconsciousness.  Jane Eyre evokes outrage from me in so many ways.  I’m revisiting this storyline as an adult to see what I get out of it now that I’m no longer twelve years old, and if the lessons or stories portrayed in the novel make a different impact.

(Artwork: Artist Unknown. Valentine-cupid-cherub-with-swallow)

You know that I love you, right?  But you know what really makes me mad? The fact that it’s always been so damn one-sided with you.  I used to believe that maybe someday you’d come to see the error of your ways. Realize that we were right for each other.  Cut from the same cloth.  As true and binding as a covenant burned onto a stone tablet.  But I need you to see it, too.  I’ve recently had a feeling that something soon will come between us.  Remember what I once warned; ‘I’ll be devastated, but you’ll be the one with regret.’  I know it sounded cursed, but it was a warning of what I saw coming.  I’d like to say I want you to be happy, but I’m not going to lie.  I do want to see you content, but feel the misery without me.  I’m too selfish to want for your happiness without me there to have it with you. There. I said it.  Sorry if this rubs you the wrong way.    Brandon 

Any girl would be ecstatic to receive a letter as emotionally charged as this (outwardly enraged, but inwardly flattered, secretly delighting in the fury steaming from an infatuated admirer).  But this is Brandon we’re talking about.  And I’m not just any girl.  So naturally while reading through it, I react with that all too familiar feeling of worry and annoyance that has plagued me since the beginning.

      Brandon, please.  Don’t do this to yourself.

      We’ve been through this so many times already.  And don’t talk about fate.  For one thing, I’ll decide my own fate.  It’s bad luck to assume something is destined before you’ve seen the outcome. It’s like mocking Providence. Only in hindsight do things appear to be preordained.  It’s another thing to assume you’ve won the grand prize.  It only dooms you the opposite.  Almost analogous to proclaiming the next engineered cruise ship to be unsinkable, then deigning to name it Titanic.  In life where the gods keep vigil on our egotism, rarely can we afford to esteem ourselves in such high regard.  

      Starting from our teens, my friend Brandon and I developed a tradition of writing letters that has lasted to the present day.  Whenever one of us had something raw to share, you can be sure we’d end up losing sleep over it scripting an epistle.  We held fast to this method, un-swayed by the convenience of modern Email, each of us refusing to let the Internet age intrude on the habit.  A letter, scripted by your own hand felt permanent.  It committed you to your actions.  The very effort sent the message that you cared.  That you meant business.

      Brandon had been my next door neighbor and best friend since our early teens.  For that reason, it was easy to pop letters in each other’s mailbox whenever one of us had the ‘urge’ to ‘purge’ and get something off our chest.

      You can tell them off.  You can say all the things you wouldn’t have had the guts to say if you’d had them standing in front of you. 

     I knew he’d seen me kissing Devin from the front porch, a man I wouldn’t torture him into meeting at this point.  The swift drop of the curtain from behind the arched window told it all.  The spectacle instantly starving any hopes he’d nurtured on me for so many years.  I’m guessing it prompted him to write this letter where he poured his guts out for the umpteenth time. 

      And my heart ached for him now as it did from the very beginning. 

Layla stormed ahead of me into the house, slamming the door behind herself, forgetting in her tantrum that I was just a moment in her wake.  The door would’ve banged hard against my face with an explosive strike had I not reached my hand out in time to stop it.   The momentum she threw into it found another circuit, my arm of course, sending a jolt of pain that spiraled its way up my neck, catching the pinched nerve that cramped my herniated disk.  Bitch.  That one really hurt.

I know that relationships can be hard, which is why I kept my judgements in check.  Not to mention, even if by all rights I criticize her, it always comes back to me in the worst way.  I take a deep breath and steady my anger, careful not to throw the lighted match to the puddle of diesel fuel.  She didn’t slam the door at me.  In spirit, she slammed it at that jerk Tommy Skade.  She was imagining the wooden door busting hard and fracturing against his smug face.  She was rightfully pissed, especially after what he did to her earlier this evening.  Seriously, he is a repeat offender.  When will she ever be done with him?  She was so used to his constant disappointments that she no longer cried.  Her tears, like molten lava erupting from deep beneath the earth’s crust, hardened like volcanic resin.  So instead of crying, she got angry.  On the upside, I saw it as progress.

The night started off promising enough.  Layla and I met up with Marlene and Dorna to watch FourPlay (if you can believe the name) perform at Rottweilers in downtown Elmont.  The line was long, snaking its way around Church Hill Road.  Fortunately, Layla knew Merill, the bouncer who’d been tending the door.   He took one look at her platinum red, fire engine hair, recognized the long-legged girl he’d been crushing on since last summer and nodded her in, the gesture instantly accomodating the rest of us into the invite.  Her beauty was like a VIP boarding pass, giving her free admission wherever she made an appearance. 

Standing ahead of us in line were eight people who, from what I’d gathered, had been waiting to get into the pub for at least twelve minutes prior to our arrival.   But Merill knew Layla, was utterly besotted with her, and like all fools who throw caution to the wind when love pollutes their judgment like an oil spill in the Gulf, didn’t care for the gripes they hurled at him when he let her pass through.  It lasted only briefly.  Merill was 180 pounds of Gold’s Gym and Whey Protein, with a bull-dog face to match, the ugliness suiting him handily in his line of duty.  No one wanted to risk angering him too much, so the insults traded were kept to a minimum, just enough to make their point.  They complained within their rights, but stopped just short of pissing him off.  Layla walked by them with an air of confidence, secure by the watch of Merrill’s guard and grinning with depraved humor as the women she passed hissed and bared their canines like jealous felines.

That was early on in the night; when the evening was in sharper focus and full of promise.  It always is in that first half-hour on a Friday or Saturday night, take your pick: when you’re freshly dressed in your sassy-ist attire (whatever in your wardrobe gives you the guts of confidence), perfumed spritzed, and strutting the cat walk of aplomb that only the spike of a three inch heel Manolo can deliver.  

The vibe followed us from The Crossing all the way to the bar in Rottweillers.  We’d taken our first salutory sip of our Martinis, the buzz effect whirling our minds when Tommy came in on the scene.  I was the first one to spot him, and like the good friend I am, pretended not to see him.  In my aim to find my own crush (another story altogether), my gaze landed on Tommy by accident.  It always seems to happen that way, doesn’t it?  The ones you want are never around, but the ones you try to avoid never seem to leave your radar.  Somehow, Tommy navigated by use of his own sonar, because he managed to spot us.  And he always brought trouble with him, along with several accomplices to carry out the undertaking.  From across the room, he’d spotted me, and with his sly, trademark tilt of the head that he mistook for sexy, grinned cunningly at me with a smart wink.  Code for hey cookie, tell Layla I’m here. 

My eyes darted away, retrieving another, more distant object in the room to gaze at before I slowly pirouetted around.   Selfish as it seemed, I wanted her to myself tonight.  I didn’t want to deal with the intrusion of male company, especially not his, which, I do realize, defeats the purpose of going out at all.  I mean, part of the whole gambit is the social interaction dancing between the two sexes, which is why women spend hours getting ready.  Yet interestingly enough, once I’m out there, I find myself in swat mode, spraying on the attitude like an insect repellent to keep the guys from biting.

We were hanging out, enjoying ourselves, when the cool, circumspect greeting of “Hey, Layla” sounded off from behind.

Tommy, bringing along his posse of friends.

Dorna, Marlene and I looked uneasily at each other, each of us awash with a cold apprehension as Layla, ravished by his presence and smiling widely with unabashed pleasure at seeing him, gathered him in the welcoming fold her arms.  Tommy, realizing the rest of the female pact was more discerning and feeling the arctic chill draft his way, regarded each of us with a tight-lipped smile that bordered on humility.  Eventually, Layla pulled Tommy aside, much to his satisfaction at having usurped me, and went to work on her.  As usual, and in his bidding to deploy his envoys, he left behind two of his friends who introduced themselves as Ernie and Al, neither of which had anything interesting to say other than to warn Marlene not to get citronella up her nose when she used the nearby mosquito-repellant candle to light her cigarette.  Smoking was something she did on social occasions, though Marlene was never avid in pursuing the habit outside the scene.  

Ten minutes later and still, no Layla. Followed by an even longer period of about twenty.  I looked up and around Rottweilers, crowded to the hilt, finding no sign of her or Tommy.  I darted my attention between Ernie, whose rambling of mucus congestion from a bout of bronchitis he just kicked, has tranquilized me quicker than an overdose of Tylenol PM, to a futile scan of facial recognition for her in a crowd of over two hundred people.  Forty minutes later and Layla is still MIA.  Whenever she’s alone with him for any length of time, it never ends well.  Naturally, I worry, since her dilemmas become an inevitable part of my problem. 

At which point I interrupt Ernie with an “excuse us”, taking both Dorna and Marlene by the hand and leading them to the doorway. 

“I think they left,”  I announced, setting a new purpose to mind, “let’s go look for her.”  No one argues to the immediate plan of action.  We head past Merrill and out onto the sidewalk where the line of patrons (convinced that Rottweilers is the only game in town) has since stiffened and stretched up and around the curve of Church Hill Road.

“Where do you think she is?”  Dorna asked, clapping her heels loud against the pavement in similar dedication to find her.

No need for an answer.  Like a mother on instinct, I rounded the corner, heading with determined purpose to the Auto Repair Shop parking lot where Bikers park their Harleys on weekends after hours.  Sure enough, there was Layla.  And Tommy. 

And Serena.  Dear Lord, did she have to be here tonight?  Tommy’s on-again, off-again girlfriend.  It’s never good when she makes an appearance.  I wonder where and when she came into the picture tonight.  Apparently, somewhere in between the time from when they parted ways in Rottweillers to this moment. 

Layla’s eyes are bloodshot red, her chest heaving as she struggled to control her temper between each round of slur she pummelled at him.  Every colorful, adverb of insult pointing to the most conspicuous explanation of what had transpired in our absence.   

“You bastard!”

“You prick!”  The p shooting spittle from her lips.

“Liar! Cheat!”

Marlene stepped forward, using the same courage as one would an untamed tiger still in training, and took hold of her flying wrist.  The one she was about to level hard across his face.  Dorna and I stood close on cue, allowing her to empty her final round of ammo before my soothing voice of, “Let’s go Layla,” brings her back to reason.

Not even ten minutes pass, and we are piled in Marlene’s car.  I am sitting in the back with Layla, my lap pillowing her head, whereupon collapsing into tears once again, she’d since sprawled across the back seat.  Dorna and Marlene take the bow of the ship and are seated in the front: Marlene at the wheel, tasked to bring us home, leaving me to manually labor to Layla.  Dorna glanced over her shoulder every twelve seconds, unnerved by Layla’s vehement reaction, uncertain how to initiate the proper response in this crisis. 

Her grievance only escalated by the time we reach the Crossing.  Fresh tears continue to spill forth -two hours worth from when Marlene dropped us off.  We were both sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, leaning up against her bed, a scattering of sodden Kleenex tissues collecting on her carpeted floor.  She leveled herself with a deep breath that seemed to assuage her misery before plunking her head on my lap again, grabbing a throw pillow from atop the bed and using it to cushion her head.   

There was a soft, patter of knocking on the bedroom door to the strokes of my finger tips on Layla’s scalp.  The kind of knock that feels awkward in making its intrusion.

The door tentatively opened.  Alfred.  Layla’s older brother stepped forward.  One of the many benefits of being Layla’s best friend. Being the genteman that he is, he stops short of entering, choosing instead to stand within the door frame.  He is visually appealing, so evocatively attractive you could develop an instant crush by just one glance.  The kind that could lead to an obsession if you’re not careful, or a heartbreak if you’re not his type and disillusioned enough to think he might still consider you.  Every time I looked at him, my thoughts wandered in a scandalous detour down ‘fantasy’ lane.  Dorna once admitted to this tendency as well.  The imagery becomes so vivid, you feel ‘caught’ when he looks right back at you.  Depending on what, exactly, you were thinking when he cut a look your way.

He is a parallel rendition to his sister.  Each of them was blessed with a generous portion of beauty bequeathed upon them through their geneology, neither one of them more genetically favored over the other, as mother nature tends to do so often to siblings on cruel occasions.  This time, she doled an equal portion, making both brother and sister exquisitely and equally comely, yet not without allotting the curse of being envied and admired, rivaled and supported by peers and foes alike. 

Tonight his light hair altered his irises to a shade of jade, the Tiffany lamp on her bureau coloring them to an amethyst.

“Is she okay?” he asked, his sympathy of emotion on his sister, his eyes pinned to me.

Oh Alfred, with you in my backyard, why look elsewhere?

“Tommy.”  I mouthed.

His brow-line crunched,  “Who?’

“Tommy.”  I said aloud, causing Layla to sob harder and louder at the mention of his name.

After successfully coaching her to calm again, she straightens her posture, and her vision, once crossed-eyed with grief, becomes instantly aligned as she fixes her eyes across the room.

Gillian Hale

After selecting the two most favored ones of me in that beaded gown, I took a deep breath, holding it as I clicked upload.  

Then I waited to see what happened.  

In the days that followed, it was flattering to see the level of response generated by those photos.  I felt like a movie star; divine, an icon whose image could only be found between the pages of a magazine.  I now understood why people typically got carried away when drafting their online biographies.  Here was your chance to enhance your image.  Just as people have a tendency to elaborate the details of their experience on their resume, their online profile was no exception to this technological game of social survival.  On a deeper consciousness, it tapped into our primal instinct, that imaginative game of make believe.  As little kids, we did it in our backyard.  As adults, we do it on our resumes and dating profiles.

 I played Charlie’s Angels when I was nine-years old with two of my cousins.  Kelly Garrett was my favorite Angel and the first Private Investigator I always snatched up for myself.  Instantly.  Before anyone else could claim her.  In the world of make-believe, it meant everything.  If you were stuck inhabiting a character you didn’t like or respect, your afternoon for playtime was ruined.  I wanted to be like her; seductively beautiful, yet street-wise, empathetic and perceptive.  Her features, literally, made for an uncanny rendering to that of a department store mannequin.  My cousin always nabbed Jill, likening herself to the vulnerability she displayed, whereas a neighboring friend took Sabrina; the one uninhibited by beauty.  The smart one who always figured things out and who always had to rescue them.  The one least likely to fall victim to any villain’s ploy.  Each of them was beautiful; lovely, valiant daredevils.  Each woman representing qualities we either possessed, wished we had or knew we could never be.  Playing them was the closest we’d ever get to those dreams.

        A surge of excitement rolled through me as I perused through my inbox.  It was the cyberspace equivalent to fan mail.  It was amazing to see how gallant men were when they thought they were in love.  And to think all it took was a pretty picture.  One guy remarked “Damn you’re beautiful!” another exclaimed “I didn’t know women like you still existed.” 

         Then there were the occasional ones who prided themselves on being idiosyncratic. One guy wrote “You’re hot.  Do you have any pets?” at which point he tagged on multiple images of himself with a parakeet on his outstretched arm, the parakeet dominating the photo shoot.  I wasn’t sure who was doing the dating; him or the parakeet. 

        It was obvious they had read my profile.  Their response mirrored my criteria perhaps a little too closely.  They postured themselves to be the very person who fell within the standard of what I’d been searching for.  I made it clear that I was looking for someone who I could take seriously.  Stating that if anyone was going to contact me, they should do so with the best of intentions; if not, they should just move on.  Tired of being played and having men disappear after wasting my time in a deceitful, pomp show of interest, I patently wrote I realize sometimes people are just looking to have fun. But I’m not here to play games.  I’m ready to find someone real. If you’re just looking for someone to have casual fun with, then I’m not the right person for you. It just simply would never work and you need to move on.

        Embarrassingly enough, I later realized how closely it corresponded to Layla’s bitter essay when she took her first stab at writing her own profile.  She sounded ridiculously feminist.  Having remembered this, I signed on to change that one paragraph, only to discover it actually yielded sympathy from my admirers. 

        One player (and I could tell he was a player by the imperious way he modeled for the camera on the beach), took the first stab at making his play.  He was dressed in a wet suit, a boogie board in one hand, the waves breaking against the shore in the background.  He tried to woo me with soap opera theatrics with his words of “I know exactly what you mean. I feel your pain. I’m looking for someone special, too. I’ve been hurt so many times myself.  At last, someone with who I can relate, someone who can understand me.”  I didn’t buy it.  He certainly didn’t appear a broken man.  I try to avoid passing superficial judgments, despise when it’s passed my way, but he really did look like a cad; too indifferent to care about any of the women he left in his wake. 

        Then there were those who refused to take no for an answer.  It was almost as if they had a fixated image of what they were after and that the world hinged on the brink of decay if they couldn’t attain it.  The online dating equivalent to the celebrity stalker. 

       After politely declining one guy’s offer to meet up, he began emailing me relentlessly.  Every day it was something new.  One day it was “You don’t like the way I look, do you?  Is it my greased back hair style? My retro fifties look?  The following day it would be something else “If only you just got to know me.”  Leading up to “What’s wrong with me?”  At first, I tangled myself with trite exchanges, trying to explain myself, soften the blow.  Until I realized that in so doing, I was being dragged further into wasted dialogue.  When his stinging words finally escalated to a mini temper tantrum of “I know what you’re kind is all about.  You’re snobbish, arrogant, and full of yourself, you think you can do better. Well I’ve seen better than you. You’re not all that. I hope you’re happy with whatever pompous, jerk you pick for yourself”, I just ignored him completely.  I didn’t give him the satisfaction of snipping back, which I was quite sure had been the intended objective.  As far as I was concerned, his sharp words were fragments of debris in the wind. 

       After three weeks followed with no luck in finding anyone, I’d finally been contacted by someone whom I reckoned to be the most agreeable of the bunch.   I didn’t find him to be particularly striking at first, but relative to the general populace who’d been banging on my cyber door, he seemed to be the most normal.  There was no pretense, no charade.  He didn’t over extend himself to impress me.  He came across friendly, pleasant enough and easy-going.  He was real, plain and simple.  He lived in Norwalk and after a few exchange of e-mails, we both agreed on the best middle point to meet.  We decided that that place would be Archie Moore’s in Fairfield on Saturday morning.   

        On the day we planned to meet, I decided to dress in my pale blue, wide-leg jeans and wine colored crinkled gauze top.  The one that Jackie disdained as looking like a bib.  Jackie and I didn’t always share the same taste in clothing.  Our ideas of sexy were completely divergent.  While she preferred plunging V-necks, I favored feminine styles that leaned slightly more to the conservative, skimming  several hundred feet of prudish.  Rarely was I ever comfortable venturing into the scabrous or the risqué. 

        It was October and unseasonably warm, so the delicate fabric would still make for comfortable wear even for middle fall.  Besides, the waistband on my jeans had an embroidered stitching that I wanted to showcase.  They went perfectly together.  And the top was the ideal companion to these pants. 

        I finished by sliding into my favorite black boots with the pointed toe and 3-inch heels.  Then I stopped in front of the full length bedroom mirror for one final inspection of my overall look and makeup before leaving to meet with him.  I wasn’t the glitzy model that I posted online, but I trusted that DB8, or so he called himself, would be realistic enough to expect casual wear at the neighborhood bar and restaurant that served Buffalo Wings.

        When I arrived there, I pulled into the first available parking space and waited in my car.  I considered dialing Layla to ask for her advice.  Should I go in and wait?  Should I wait outside until he arrives?  But then decided against making the call.  I wanted to be completely aware of my surroundings when he arrived.  I didn’t want to risk the chance of missing him as he walked by me, headed straight into the restaurant, then wait half an hour with livid annoyance while I remained occupied in conversation, out in the parking lot, chatting away on my cell with my girlfriend.

        In less than ten minutes, I noticed a Mitsubishi Galant steering into the parking lot from off of Route 1.  I knew it was him by the way he vigilantly edged his vehicle down each row of parked cars.  I kept my eyes glued to the rear-view mirror, noticing with a growing distaste that he drove through warily. It was as if he was geared to gun the accelerator if he saw anything short of Medusa twisting across his path.  Eventually, he turned his car down the row to where I was parked.  I braced myself as his car passed mine, his head making an obvious and sudden jerk in my direction.  That motion of the head made me instantly dislike him.  There was something juvenile about that move.  That was a judgmental look, one that left me feeling as if I were on exhibit. 

        I decided it was time to make myself known.  I opened the door and whacked my head against the door frame as I clumsily stepped out.  I was painfully superstitious; latching onto the notion that it signified an omen for what was about to roll out as a date from hell.

        DB8 slowly wheeled into a spot on the other side of the lot to park his car.  He stepped out awkwardly, wearing a navy blue blazer with his white button down shirt tucked into his pants only halfway.  The other half was pulled out and draped sloppily over his trousers.  Everything about him lacked ambition. He walked towards me lethargically, giving me a once over as he drew closer. 

        “You Gillian?” His eyebrows pulled inward in a rather condemnatory look.  His upper lip curled into a demeaning snarl.  Translation: This is it?  This is what I drove all the way down to see?  I was beginning to think that maybe the snapshots of the chiffon gown weren’t such a hot idea.  Maybe Jackie was right after all. Or maybe I should have just worn it here.

        “That’s me.”  I answered cheerfully, determined to set the tone right.  “Are you DB8?”

        “Uh-huh.” 

        It was never a good sign when their reply was sluggish; when they become too lazy to form complete sentences.

        “What does that stand for?” I asked.  He didn’t seem too eager to give it. We started heading towards the main entrance.

        “What does what stand for?” He asked, perhaps a little too acridly, ignoring the obvious reference.

        “The D.”

        “Oh…”  He replied neutrally.  “Darren.” 

        I nodded. “I see.  And the eight?”

        “I was born in August.”   He shot back, as if appropriately annoyed by something I should have figured out.  “The eight represents the eighth month.” 

        It wasn’t entirely obvious to me.  Not to mention not all that creative either.  The eight could have represented anything. And nothing.  The eighth day, the eighth month. When he was eight years old.

        He reached for the door and held it open for me to walk through.  At least he had the bare minimum of manners, though somehow I got the feeling it was going to end there.

        We walked directly to the hosting station to be seated.  The hostess greeted us warmly and reached for the menu rack.  We followed her to one of the booths in the dining area by the window that faced out to Route 1.

         We read our menus in silence for several minutes.  There was a pervasive feeling of discord between us.  I reassured myself that it didn’t have to be this way.  That even if we were not each other’s type, we could still enjoy a nice lunch. 

        I launched tentatively with my opening line. “So your profile said you like scuba diving.” 

         “Uh, yeah.” He trailed.  His eyes stayed rooted to the menu.

        “Where did you learn to go scuba diving?”

        His tone similarly distant.  “Antigua.”            

        “Oh. That’s interesting.” I managed, despite the awkwardness. I thought back to Brandon and Cody’s scuba diving lessons in Long Island Sound when they were nineteen. “I know some people who took lessons in the Northeast.  They say if you can learn up here where the waters are murky, you can learn anywhere.”

        “Really?”  His eyes still grounded to the menu.

        “Yup.” 

        An uncomfortable silence ensued.  The waitress arrived shortly after and asked if we would like anything to drink.  I told her a Coke.  Darren asked for the same and she left us again to our awkward silence.  I considered all the effort I put into my appearance; my outfit, my boots, my hair, and how it was all going wasted on this guy. 

        I stormed through the clumsy silence.  “How long have you been doing online dating?”

        With a labored sigh, he closed the menu, set it to the edge of the table and folded his hands in front of him.  He looked down, wringing them tightly before glancing up to me. 

        “Five years.”  He said.  No surprise there.   

        “I just started doing it recently.” I rattled, falling prey to my self consciousness. “Although my girlfriends have done it off and on through the years.  They tell me the funniest stories.”  I didn’t know why I even mentioned this.  If he didn’t care about me, he certainly was not going to care about my friends.  Ignoring his cues and against my better judgment, I rambled on in a fraught attempt to rescue the void of unease. 

        “Yeah, they meet the most interesting people.”  Then remembering the parasailing incident in Daytona, previously reminded to me by Layla, “Say, you also said you enjoyed parasailing.  Where did you go parasailing?”

        He shrugged.  “Different places.”  He turned to look behind himself, as if anxious to eat and run.

        I continued babbling, the involuntary reaction usually stirred when I was in the company of someone who made me jittery.  He nodded vacantly and shifted around uneasily.  At one point, he stared past me.  The distraction caused me to look over my shoulder to see what he was looking at.  Nothing but a posted sign that pointed to the restrooms.

        Given his lackluster interest in my life, I decided to move onto more practical talk.  “Have you decided on what you want to eat?” I asked.

        His face twitched. “I thought maybe we could share an appetizer.”

        “Well,” I admitted, tempering my patience as I studied the selection of hamburgers on the menu. “I’m kind of hungry.  I’m just going to go with a burger.  You can go with an appetizer.  You don’t have to share it.”  I couldn’t help the sneer that took possession of my voice in that last sentence.

        “Look, I think I should warn you.” He said, looking directly at me for the first time. “If you want to get something, it’s on your own tab.”

        “Excuse me?”

        “No offense, but,” he exhaled with exaggerated relief, “there’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to say it. You girls don’t realize, but dating gets pretty expensive.  I don’t know about you, but I try to meet with a few girls a week, and it gets costly always having to be the one to foot the bill.”

        His words eventually sank in my ears in a drowning tide of rubbish.  As he explained his position to me, I stopped listening, muffling out his words.  I wasn’t born yesterday.  I knew a cad when I saw one.

        His mouth was moving, but his words were no longer registering.  Something about what a long journey this has been for him, even going so far as to imply his disappointment that I looked nothing like my photo.  I felt my chest getting hotter by the second, my blood pressure rising to a boiling point.  I dressed casually but perfectly feminine, perhaps above average for a first meeting at a hamburger place.  He had the most shocking nerve I ever witnessed on a date.  He could have easily recommended a coffee shop if he felt that painfully conscious about his budget. 

        It was Buzeo all over again. I could already see the fire catching behind Layla’s eyes, her astringent response to this scenario. Her words whizzed through my head like a high-speed train racing dangerously over a railroad overpass.  I knew I would be held accountable for how I responded to this.  When I later relay this story back to my friends, particularly Jackie and Layla, (and no doubt I will) they will look at me squarely in the eye and ask And what did you do? What did you say?  Expecting to hear that I had taken a stand.  For myself and for womankind.  But I will be ashamed to report a feeble Nothing really, what could I say? 

       They will look at me disappointedly and with disdain.  And all the rightful comebacks that should’ve came to me in this hour of indignation will be floating around in my head, torturing me on the drive home and perhaps the rest of my life.   

        The memory of Michael Corleone flickered through my mind in that heady scene in the Godfather where just seconds before, he and Solazzo and the police chief McClusky were in the Italian restaurant sharing a nice dinner over veal.  This is the most pivotal, most momentous scene the movie, including that of Michael’s life.  I knew there was a right moment for me to take a stand on this.  Just as there was for Michael; that one split second where you bolt out of your seat when you’ve realized you’ve had enough. 

        I grabbed my purse and slid to the edge of my seat.  Nothing melodramatic like Michael Corleone leaping out of his chair, but my exit still applied as a stand nonetheless. 

        “Save it for your other dates.” I interrupted him. “You are the worst date I’ve ever had.  And by the way, you have a lot of nerves with your high expectations on a woman’s appearance when you dress like a rag. You’re not so attractive yourself.  No wonder you’ve been at this for five years.”

        “Well next time put a more practical picture.”

        “I was at a wedding, you dimwit.” I retorted, not the least bit phased that he would use this. “How else am I supposed to dress?  Did you honestly think I would show up at a hamburger joint wearing Versace?”  Then I stood up from the table and left the restaurant, leaving him behind, alone, shamefaced and wholly embarrassed.  I passed the waitress on my way out the door, avoiding eye contact (suspecting she oveheard), but still refusing to give anything further away regardless. 

         Shockingly, I felt strangely giddy as I stepped into my car.  I wasn’t about to chastise myself for that photo.  Yes, I should have taken Jackie’s advice, used the one she suggested.  Put out one that was more practical, but the one I used was only three years old.  It’s not like I was twenty one in it. 

        I turned my car towards the onramp to the highway and dialed Layla’s cell.  Having taken the righteous stand, I could now face her.  When she answered, my words flew out breathlessly.

        “Guess what?  I just met with my first online date.  And you’re not going to believe what happened.”