I sent a text to Russ.  “Arrived.” No response. I waited a bit longer—maybe thirty seconds—still, no sign of him. I sat and thought about my next move. Was he inside the restaurant? Should I go in? I could feel my heartbeat quicken. I was worried I was being ghosted again.  

I pulled down my car’s visor, opened the mirror flap, and checked to ensure my lipstick hadn’t colored my front teeth. All clear. I took a deep breath and opened the car door. I might as well see if anyone was waiting for me.

I exited the car and carefully walked across the cracked, uneven black asphalt parking lot toward the restaurant’s glass and metal front door. A voice from somewhere behind me bellowed:

“Yo!  Wait up.” It was a man’s voice with a Bronx accent—like Rocky Balboa. I immediately realized the stunt he’d pulled. Russ had sat in his car waiting to get a look at me.  He would have driven away if he had not liked what he saw. 

He exited his white Chevy blazer and closed its door. It was parked around a corner of the building and out of my sight line. He’d given himself a great vantage point. Things were not starting well. This wasn’t worth the long drive.

“Were you waiting to see what I looked like?” I asked. He approached me with a macho swagger. I hoped my unsmiling expression would tell him how childish his shenanigans were. It didn’t.

“A lotta people do it,” he responded with a smirk. “Women lie and put touched-up photos in their profile. You gotta look out for that.” He had all the answers. Cocky as hell. He was well dressed, preppy, and carried himself like an athlete, arms a bit away from his sides, long stride.  He headed toward the restaurant door and walked ahead, assuming I would follow. That’s what I did, although I wasn’t happy about it. 

It was a typical Italian family-style restaurant with two separate sides. One was a little more formal with tables, chairs, and red-and-white checkered tablecloths. We passed through that dining area to the more informal one, with booths for lunchtime customers and a sizeable take-out window. There wasn’t another soul in the place.

Russ chose a booth and slid into his seat, not waiting for me to sit first nor offering to help me take off my raincoat.  Not that I couldn’t take off my coat by myself. It’s simply a matter of hoping for a gentleman and realizing Russ didn’t fit that bill.

We sat face to face and studied each other more carefully than the menus in front of us. I had to wonder what kind of man I was looking for because here I was, staring at a nice-looking man, yet he was not at all appealing to me. All you get on dating sites is a picture or two. Russ was handsome. But chemistry is necessary, and we didn’t have it. He stared at me intently, then smiled. I could have easily segued into a conversation by asking why. I chose not to. I returned a smile. I thought about my last date with David. He wasn’t as handsome as Russ and was at least ten years older. But the moment we met, I felt that David liked me. His expression said it all. I couldn’t read Russ.

Russ told me all about his past. I learned about his marriage, divorce, his sons and their divorces, and all of his homes, which I think were his sons’ homes, too.  He was comfortable enough with me to tell me about his dating success on Zotsky, even going so far as to tell me how one woman threw off all her clothes after he made her a pasta and shrimp dinner. 

“You must be quite the cook,” I responded. What more could I say?

It was close to 2 p.m. The young server came to take our lunch order. She never smiled; she just asked what we wanted. 

“I have diabetes, so I have to watch what I eat,” Russ explained to her. Her expression remained blank. She took his order for a cup of minestrone, a meatball grinder, and a side of garlic bread. Not exactly a diabetic lunch, but who am I to judge?

“I’ll have one meatball,” I said.

Our food came promptly, and the conversation lagged. Suddenly, I felt Russ’ foot touch mine under the table. Was it deliberate? I wasn’t sure, so I slid mine over a bit. His followed. I shifted my weight to one side, bent my leg, and tucked my accosted foot underneath my butt. That ended that.

I wanted to go home. I silently hoped that the server would bring the check and we could leave. It was time to move on.

“So, what are you looking for in a man?” asked Russ. I thought his question was ill-timed. Had he asked when we first met, I might have answered differently. But now? I initiated my exit strategy.

“I have everything I want and need,” I explained to Russ. “I will never marry again. Everything I have is going to my daughter. I don’t cohabitate well, so any relationships established will likely be weekend get-togethers. I want someone I can dine with, watch movies with, and maybe even share a bag of popcorn.”  

Russ didn’t like what he heard, but I knew he wouldn’t. His expression said it all.

It’s incredible how such a handsome man could be such a turn-off. I was sure the feelings were mutual.

It was time to leave, and not a moment too soon. I’d had enough of DeNiro and wanted to beat the evening traffic. I offered to pay half the tab, but he insisted on taking care of my meatball and cup of tea. Russ accompanied me to my car. As soon as I opened the door, I turned to thank him. His face was very close.  He tilted his head to one side hesitantly and leaned in toward me. He waited, his lips inches away from mine, to see if I’d reciprocate the move. Did he think I wanted to kiss him? 

“Russ,” I said, looking directly into his eyes. “It ain’t gonna happen.”