Tag Archives: dating

Parental Deception; chapter eleven, part two

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“Hey, babe.” Rembrandt materializes out of the blue, a huge yawn splitting his face. He’s wearing a robe, and he ties the belt before slipping an arm around me.

“Hey, boo.” I kiss him on the cheek and am surprised to find my cigarette has burned out. I light another one so I can have a few more puffs.

“You had a pensive look on your face when I came out. What’re you thinking about?” It’s a simple question, but I’m not sure how to answer. Do I give the safe answer of that I was thinking of that man? Or do I tell him about my feelings about us? I decide to start with the former and work my way to the latter; it feels safer that way.

“That man. The imposter. I can’t stop trying to figure out why he did what he did.” I take a draw on my cigarette so he won’t see my face. I’m not lying to him, exactly, but this isn’t the more pressing issue, if I’m to be honest. Rembrandt looks at me for several seconds before answering.

“You may never know,” he finally says. “He’s dead, and his wife seems pretty clueless.” He hesitates and adds, “What is really on your mind?” I don’t respond. Do I want to get into it with him or do I just want to shine him on? My impulse is to equivocate, but he deserves better than that.

“I want to go on a date,” I blurt out, blushing as soon as the words leave my mouth. It’s not how I wanted to phrase it, but it’s what I’m thinking, really. “Don’t get me wrong. I love that you cook for me, and I feel so spoiled by it. It’s just, we kind of went from dating to limited cohabitation very quickly. I know it’s been stressful and weird because of that psycho woman, but I want to date.”

“Let’s go on a date then,” Rembrandt says. “Saturday night? You pick the restaurant. I’ll come and pick you up and everything.” Irrationally, the fact that he’s being so sweet about it makes me feel even worse. Am I spoiling for a fight? Is that what’s going on here? I should be thrilled that I have a sweet, sensitive, talented, hot man who wants to be with me. Instead, I’m moping over stupid girly shit like going on a date. I am my own worst enemy, and I need to grow the fuck up.

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Marital Duplicity; chapter thirteen, part one

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“Gah.” I sit upright as my phone bleeps Jasmine’s ring. “What?” I glance over at Rembrandt, who is as still as if he’s dead. I poke him in the shoulder and am gratified to see him roll over so I know he’s not dead.

“I got a note. Under my door. I can’t believe it, Megan!” Jasmine’s voice is hysterical, and I yank the phone from my ear. It’s fucking seven in the morning, and I didn’t fall asleep until after three in the morning.

“A note? What note?” I’m not tracking because I’m not fully awake. I need to be up for at least two hours and have five cups of coffee inside of me before I can form a sentient thought.

“A note from some woman! It says Bob is with her and that I should stop looking. Otherwise, I might end up like Reverend Yang!” Jasmine bursts into tears, and I can barely understand her. “Megan, will you come over and go to church with me? Reverend Yang won’t be there, of course, but we will have a service.”

“Jasmine—” I stop. I have no good reason not to go, except that I don’t want to and I’ll have to miss my taiji class. “OK. I’ll be there in an hour.” I get up and write a note for Rembrandt who is still out cold. I tell him that I have to go to church with my sister and that I’ll be back later. I let him know he can stay for as long as he likes. I put it on the nightstand next to his side of the bed before taking a quick shower. I put on a plain black dress and coil my hair on top of my head. Silver hoops, and I’m done. I give the cats more Temptations before slipping out of the house. I’m on my way to Jasmine’s house, and I make it in good time.

“Megan. I’m so glad to see you.” Jasmine grabs me in a bear hug, and she seems disinclined to let me go. She’s weeping all over my dress, but I don’t do anything. I allow her to squeeze the stuffing out of me for several more minutes before I step away from her. “I’m a mess,” Jasmine says, mopping her eyes. “Here.” She thrusts a folded piece of paper in my face, and I take it from her. I unfold it and read it. “Dear Jasmine, you don’t know me, but I know you. Your husband is with me, and there isn’t anything you can do about it. Stop looking for him; he doesn’t want to be found. If you or your sister keeps asking questions about him, you’re going to end up like Reverend Yang.”

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Blogging My Murder; chapter ten, part one

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Chapter Ten; Part One

“Taiji is not just of the body, it’s also of the mind.” Lydia is lecturing on the principles of taiji, which I am sorry to say, I tune out. I’ve heard it a million times, and my mind is fractured today, anyway. I try to focus, but my thoughts keep drifting towards Julianna’s murder. Every time I put it to the back of my mind, it rushes forward again. I take several smooth, slow breaths as I try to remain on an even-keel emotionally. When I check back in, Lydia has moved on to the first section of the Solo Form. I hurriedly catch up to my classmates, not wanting to be caught daydreaming. After we finish the first section, it’s break time. I slump in a chair and drink water from my iced water bottle. I don’t want to talk to anyone, and most of my classmates seem to have gotten the memo. One of them, however, Betty Bowser (really, that’s her name), blithely ignores the strong ‘stay away from me’ vibes and sits next to me.

“That was a good workout!” She wipes her face with a towel, though I don’t see any sweat there. She’s wearing a fuchsia-colored sweatshirt that says ‘Girl Power’ and matching sweats. She even has a matching headband, for fuck’s sake. Of course, she’s wearing a full face of makeup and brand new Nikes, also fuchsia. Her fingernails match as well, and I’m getting nauseated just looking at her.

“Yes. It was a good first section.” I keep my tone brusque, hoping she’ll take the hint. She doesn’t.

“Your form looks so much better than mine. I don’t think I’ll ever be as good!” Betty fluffs out her (dyed) blond curls and cuts her eyes at our classmate, Kirk, who is chatting with Lydia. Kirk is barely twenty, but an ex-baseball player who was slated to go pro until he tore his ACL three times in two seasons. He has dark brown hair and warm hazel eyes, and I can understand Betty’s attraction to him. She’s almost twice his age, however, which is Mrs. Robinson territory in my book. Anyone under thirty looks like an unformed blob in my eyes. They can be physically attractive, but there’s no there there. I like my partners to have some mileage on their tires and to show that they’ve been on a journey.

“You’ve only been studying a year, Betty. I have six years on you and countless hours of practice. You’ll get there.” My tone is perfunctory. The last thing I want to do is hold this neurotic woman’s hand.

“But your form is so fluid. Mine is herky jerky!” Betty is still looking at Kirk who is blissfully unaware of her scrutiny.

“It’s because you have more information than your brain knows what to do with,” I say crisply. It’s something I’ve heard Lydia say countless times. With newbies, you can only teach them one thing at a time, namely, the postures. If you try to correct them on every little thing they’re doing wrong, they’ll try to fix all the things at once, which means they won’t be able to concentrate on anything at all. So, it’s best not to mention form problems unless they’re actively hurtful to the person  practicing. Unfortunately, that means that bad habits can become entrenched. I’ve had to work on not pushing my knees too far forward because I didn’t realize it was something I was doing for years. It’s a pain in the ass, and sometimes, I despair I’ll ever be able to correct it.

“You’re saying I’m stupid?” Betty looks at me, anger in her cornflower blue eyes.

“No. It has nothing to do with intelligence.” My voice is sharp. I’m at the end of my rope with Betty, though I’m trying to keep my temper. “We all think we’re good at multitasking, but we’re really not. That’s why it’s important to focus on one thing at a time. If you want to know more, ask Lydia.”

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Blogging My Murder; chapter eight, part two

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Chapter Eight; Part Two

I take a long, luxurious shower then stand in front of my closet to decide what to wear. I have plenty of time before my date, but I want to make sure I look tip-top. I haven’t dated in five years, and I’m nervous. I pull out one outfit after another, rejecting each of them for flaws only I can see. One dress is too short, but the next is too long. One blouse is too frilly, and the next is too plain. I finally settle on a pair of crimson velour pants that flare at the hems and ride low under my belly paired with an emerald green silk blouse that shows an appreciable amount of cleavage. I put large gold hoops in my ears and declare myself done. I shake my hair out so it falls gently to my waist. I am conscious of the thirty extra pounds padding my body, but I clean up nicely if I say so myself. I still have an hour and a half before I have to leave, so I go downstairs to brew myself a hot cup of Earl Grey. The cats are right at my heels, assuming they’re going to get more treats. They are sadly mistaken, but I’ll give them a few each before I head out to Victory 44. I’m meeting Rembrandt at the restaurant because it’s my policy not to relinquish driving control on a first date. If things go badly, I want to be able to leave at any time. Hopefully, it won’t come to that, but I’ve been in dicey situations before, and I don’t intend to ever be in a similar one again. I watch episodes of Iron Chef America until I have to leave. I stop at Walgreens to pick up some condoms on my way to the restaurant—I like to be prepared.

“Megan. You look fantastic.” Rembrandt can’t take his eyes off of me as I approach the table. Once again, I’m struck by his David Bowie eyes, which are filled with lust.

“You look terrific, too,” I reply, looking him up and down. He’s wearing black khakis and a dark brown button-down with the top two buttons unbuttoned. His hair is slicked back, but there’s a cowlick that refuses to be subdued.

“I’m famished,” I say as I sit down. I haven’t eaten since breakfast as I skipped lunch in anticipation of dinner. I glance at the menu, but I’m sticking with the Spicy Clams & Spaghetti. Rembrandt orders the Perfect Burger, so I resolve to steal a bite or ten.

“How are you feeling?” Rembrandt asks, concern shining in his eyes. “You must still be in shock over your friend’s death.”

“I am,” I say, my heart suddenly heavy. “I can’t believe she’s gone. I know it’s trite, but it’s true.” I shake off the gloom with effort. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. We’re on a date. Tell me about your day.”

“I had the craziest client in the afternoon!” With that, he’s off. He only stops when the server brings our dinners. The spaghetti is amazing, and Rembrandt’s burger is, indeed, perfect. We have the Banana & Peanut Butter for dessert, which is a great way to cap off dinner. I find out that Rembrandt enjoys Tarantino films, but no one’s perfect. I wax rhapsodic for my love of musicals, which he doesn’t care much for, I can tell by the look in his eyes. We both agree that superhero movies are overdone, but that doesn’t stop either of us from loving graphic novels. We spend a large chunk of the evening talking about our respective cats, and the time flies by. I feel a stirring in my pussy that I have a hard time ignoring. After dessert, we have a light-hearted squabble about who’s going to pay the bill. Rembrandt insists, saying I can pay the next time. I allow him the win this time, and we leave with our arms around each other.

“Nightcap?” He asks, lifting his eyebrow as we near my car.

“Yes,” I say.

“It’s in Loring Park. Follow me.” He watches as I get into my car before getting into his. I take a second to text Liz with Rembrandt’s deets, and she immediately responds with a thumbs up. Then, I follow Rembrandt to his house. We’re there before I know it. I’m nervous because it’s been many years since I’d had sex with a man. I’m not sure how good I’ll be around the equipment. I sigh and get out of the car, locking it behind me. I’m just going to assume it’s like riding a bike, and I’m going to have a good time doing it.

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Dogged Ma; chapter six, part one

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   Chapter Six, Part One

“Margaret, may I talk to you?”  Susanne Timmons, my supervisor at work, poked her head into my office during my prep hour Monday morning.  Fortunately, I was prepared for the day so I didn’t have to panic about chatting with Susanne.  I nodded and motioned her in.  Susanne was a middle-aged woman with salt-n-pepper hair who didn’t wear any makeup.  She had a homey look to her which the kids loved.  She was like the grandmother many of them never had, but she was much stricter than your average grandma.  She cared about them, but held them accountable; it’s what made her so good with our population.  I was learning by emulating her, but empathy was something that didn’t come naturally to me.

“What’s up, Susanne?”  I asked, setting some papers aside.  I had asked my kids to write an essay on what they would tell President Bush if they ever met him, and as usual, they’d surprised me with their insight and passion.

“Margaret,” Susanne hesitated, fiddling with her pen.  “I’ve noticed that you’ve seemed preoccupied the last couple of weeks.  The other teachers have commented on it as well.  You’re more forgetful, and you’ve been late to two meetings.  That’s not like you.  Is there something you want to tell me?”

Caught, I didn’t know what to say.  I still hadn’t figured out a cover story for my impending pregnancy as I didn’t want to use the ‘one-night stand’ tale with my coworkers.  However, I couldn’t say that I had a partner, either, because they knew better than that.  I supposed I could say it was Gary’s, but even pretending that lech was the father upset my stomach.  Come to think of it, I couldn’t even say I was pregnant because I wouldn’t know yet if it were a normal pregnancy.  Damn.  Could I get away with family issues?  Maybe.  Or generic dating issues?  I hated lying, mostly because I wasn’t very good at it.

“Susanne, it’s not something I feel comfortable discussing at work,” I said carefully, not wanting to offend my boss.  “However, I sincerely apologize that my personal problems have spilled over into my work performance.  I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“It’s your fault for being so superlative the rest of the time,” Susanne smiled, standing up.  “If it were anybody else, I wouldn’t even have noticed.  I’m here if you need to talk to me.”  I nodded as she left, dropping my smile the minute she was out the door.  I knew I’d have to be more careful, and I knew I’d have to come up with something soon.

My college friends couldn’t understand how I could be a teacher, for at-risk youth, no less, when I didn’t want children.  It’s a common misconception that all women who didn’t want kids didn’t like them or weren’t good with them.  Not true.  I liked kids a great deal, and they liked me in return because I treated them like adults—no matter the age.  I didn’t pat little kids on the head or talk down to them, nor did I lord my authority over my students.  That didn’t mean I didn’t set boundaries because I did.  I just didn’t automatically assume I was better because I was older as so many adults did.  So why didn’t I want to have children?  There were many reasons, but the number one reason was because I didn’t want them.  Period.  I didn’t see why that wasn’t enough of an answer, but most people needed something more.

While I was in my first serious relationship at age eighteen, I came upon the realization that I didn’t want children.  Not only that, I realized that I didn’t have to have them.  There was no law saying to a woman, ‘Thou shalt bear children’ except for the social stricture, but I was adept at ignoring those.  People had varying reactions to my statement of not wanting children ranging from condescension—‘oh, you’ll change your mind later’—to anger—‘you must think I’m an idiot for wanting them’.  Most of all, however, people just didn’t understand how a woman could be so sure she didn’t want children.  I’d been ask time and time again how did I know I didn’t want children.  I was always tempted to ask how they knew they wanted them, but I never stooped to their level.

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