Page 15 of Brain Damage

“This,” Brigid says, pulling a short, clingy black number off the rack and shoving it in my direction. “Try this one on.”

The price tag is swinging in my face, and it makes me feel almost nauseated. But I don’t say no. The truth is, I haven’t been this attracted to a guy in a long time. I want to look hot for this date. No, not just hot, I want to look hawt. I want Clark to see me and do a wolf howl.

“Okay,” I say.

Brigid smiles triumphantly. “And then,” she says, “we’re going to look at shoes.”

I don’t want to admit how much money I’ve spent in preparation for this date. Let’s just say it’s a lot. I could feed a family of four for a month with that money. I could cure over a hundred children in a developing nation of parasitic infections all for what I paid for an outfit I very well may never wear again.

I miss the Charly who showed up to dates in jeans and a blouse, and said take it or leave it.

The little black dress is sexy though. It’s perfect. It somehow makes me look like I have this gorgeous hourglass figure and it even makes my muscular calves look dainty. It’s a magical dress. (It ought to be for what it cost.)

I wish I had a little black dress for my face. I blow a layer of dust off my bag of makeup and examine the contents critically. I only left myself half an hour to work on my makeup, which isn’t nearly enough time. Really, I could use hours, and possibly a plastic surgeon. I do my best to use the tricks I know to make my lips look fuller, and I even dig out my eyelash curler. But then again, it’s an eyelash curler, not a magic wand. Kitty watches me the whole time I’m painting myself, with an expression on her face that seems to say, “What are you doing to yourself?”

Good question, dear cat.

When Clark rings for me downstairs, I am in full on panic mode. I start looking around my apartment, wishing I had time to clean it better. Not that I’ve got dirty socks lying around or anything like that, but I’m really paranoid that the apartment has a cat odor that I’ve become immune to. While I’m waiting for Clark to make his way upstairs, I desperately start spritzing cucumber-scented body mist everywhere. By the time the doorbell rings, my armpits are sweaty.

Clark is standing at my front door, holding a single red rose. He’s wearing a dark dress shirt and tie. Jesus, he looks good. And that rose is admittedly a nice touch.

“For you, mademoiselle,” Clark says, grinning as he holds the rose out to me.

I take the rose and make a big show out of smelling it, although I’m not sure what to do with a single rose. I’m not really into flowers—the only life I can sustain these days is Kitty’s and possibly my own. I toss the rose on my dining table, where it will probably die within a day. Or else Kitty will eat it.

Clark is smiling at me, and my knees start to wobble. Honestly, I’ve never dated a man who looks like him before. They may not have been ugly, many were even passably cute, but Clark is in a whole other category of handsome. If somebody were making a movie about my life, Clark could play himself. That’s how handsome he is.

“I’m ready to go,” I tell him, clutching my purse. I’m desperate to leave before he stumbles on some pantyhose I forgot to throw in the laundry, or a box of tampons I left lying on the bathroom sink.

Clark sniffs the air. “Are you making something with cucumbers?”

“Uh, no.”

Clark glances over my shoulder. “How about a grand tour?”

Damn it. “Sure, I guess. I mean, if you want.”

Clark follows me around as I lead him into my small kitchen, followed by the living room, the bedroom, and the second bedroom that I have converted into a study. I went through the third degree from my real estate agent, who couldn’t seem to get it through her head that the two bedrooms were just for me.

I watch Clark run his finger along the side of my armoire, which I purchased on sale from Ikea. As nervous and excited as I am about this date, somehow I’m certain that he will not be the bearer of any children for my empty bedroom.

“You own this place?” he asks.

I nod. “I bought it two years ago. I wanted to wait, but I figured…”

I stop myself before I inform him that I figured I might as well buy a place myself since I obviously wasn’t getting married anytime in the near future. That’s not a first date conversation topic. When you’re a single woman in her mid-thirties, the goal during the first date is to pretend like you’ve never heard of the word marriage.

Marriage? Gee, what’s that? Is that a drink? A new Internet start-up company?

“What’s the square footage?” he asks.

I look at Clark sideways. I swear, if I didn’t know he was a lawyer, I’d guess he was a real estate agent who was only going out with me to convince me to sell my apartment.

Oh God, is he a real estate agent who’s only going out with me to get me to sell my apartment?

“I can’t remember,” I say as I squeeze my fists together. I’m not used to feeling this nervous on a date. I hate the way that Clark is making me feel. Hate it and love it.

Clark walks over to the window, and gets so close to the glass, I’m worried he might leave smudges. “You have an incredible view of the park.”