First Night, Blind Date, All That

Her Last lover called himself Sir Fuckalot. She tells you this as you stand at the stove, stirring spaghetti sauce, impressing her with your sensitive side. You stop and smile down at the sauce because you're older, wiser, have been around, and you aren't easily intimidated.

''Was his name apt?'' you ask.

''He was crazy,'' she says as she twists a little on the stool, her fine, angled ass perching perfectly. She crosses her legs and you see, at the ankle, a glimmer. A bracelet, an anklet, whatever the hell it is, but it charms you. She has blonde hair and is wearing a silk blouse and black pants. She has dressed for you, you understand, though you can't help feeling you are both wearing stage costumes. You in a flannel shirt and jeans, with a Dodge Dakota pickup in the yard. You playing wounded, gut-shot divorced man, little serious income, but an excellent fireplace, decent brandy. A kayak in the back of the truck, with the splash skirt still damp.

•

First night, blind date, all that. You want to be her Sir Fuckalot. You want to fuck every man out of her memory, every damn one except maybe Daddy. Daddy can stay, but the rest must go. You intend, like stone, to whet her against your body until she remembers only you.

•

Pottery Barn napkins, Pottery Barn pasta bowls. You serve the dinner, and a third glass of Chardonnay, beside the fire on a small table you bought at a yard sale in Ashland, New Hampshire. The table has a blue design across the top and down the legs. ''Varicose veins,'' said Pete, a kayak friend, your only real local friend, when you loaded the table into the Dodge Dakota. Women like the table, though.

You folded the napkins yourself, pressed them too, though you took care not to make the table fussed over. New York asters are in a jelly glass, the petals just weary enough to flake and dust the table. The chairs are mismatched. Holding the edge of her chair to seat her, polite but not overbearing, you remember the chairs your ex-wife carried away, large, elegant chairs with manly arms and lion's paws. These chairs, here beside the fire, are more rickety than your ex-wife's chairs. They rock slightly as your guest sits. ''Oh, everything looks lovely,'' she says. ''Hold your horses,'' you say, which is a phrase outdated by about 175 years. You realize, standing beside her chair, that you have had too much wine. You had two beers before she arrived, deliberately anesthetizing your nerves. You place your hand on the back of the chair again to steady yourself. Then you duck around her chair and throw two birch hunks into the fire. You know these particular hunks of wood because you cut them yourself, borrowing Pete's chain saw to clear the land around the back of the property.

•

Standing away from the fire, you look sideways down her blouse and see her left breast. Her bra is green, the color of dragonflies.

''Are you from this area?'' you ask.

''No, actually I was raised in New Joisey,'' she says in a voice you recognize as Curly's from The Three Stooges.

''Joisey, eh?''

''Exit 135,'' she says.

''Really.''

''Really. I have a theory that everyone at some point in her or his life comes from New Jersey. It's like the stations of the cross. That and New York. You have to live in each place once in your life.''

''Really,'' you say, your tongue redundant with wine.

''Why do you keep saying really? Do you think I'm making this up? By the way, the pasta is excellent. Really.''

She laughs and spears more spaghetti. The fire is hot.

You scooch your chair away from the heat a little. You notice the bingle of her earring against her neck. The flash, delightful, reminds you of a spoon to attract trout. Behind your smile you are locked away, gazing out. Do you like me? you want to ask. Am I what you thought I was when you thought I was worth knowing? You want to take her hand and lead her to bed to sleep, that's all, under your comforter. Sleep and sleep, the windows open and frost rolling in through the screens like the mists of Dracula. You have a notion she might say yes, she would do that, though you also wonder if more is expected.

Sir Fuckalot. You pour more wine, wondering, as you do, if you aren't making her passage home impossible. She can't drive home with too much booze on board. At the same time you think, out of no reason you can pinpoint, that you should get a cat. Mice are a problem in your house, so a cat would be an answer. But a cat, scraping its claws on your couch, ruining what few good things you have, is not a smart idea. Your thoughts are becoming blocky and you resolve to cut off your wine for at least a half hour. Watching the red heft of spaghetti travel to her mouth, you remember music. You pop up, head to the small office at the rear of the house and say, ''God, I haven't played any music for you.''

''I was afraid to ask,'' she says. ''I thought maybe you were into some sort of spiritual silence.''

''No, no, nothing as profound as that,'' you call. ''Any requests?''

''No, play what you like. I can make all sorts of judgments about you from what you select.''

Van Morrison? Frank Sinatra? Or the safe bet, the Chopin mazurkas? You put on the mazurkas, listen to two measures of their dark, venomous sounds and know they don't cover the mood. ''Sorry,'' you say. ''I just had a moment of taking life seriously.''

''That's OK,'' she calls back. ''Who was it? I didn't recognize it.''

''Chopin, the mazurkas.''

''Moody son of a bitch, aren't you?''

''Yes I am,'' you say with the stilted, wooden inflection of the recent TV commercial in which an imposter steals a ride in a stretch limo by affirming that he is, indeed, Dr. Krakowskowitz. Or something like that. You put on John Lee Hooker, a bluesman, which is maybe too sexual and nightclub for what you have going. But you like John Lee Hooker, and besides, no one can criticize you for liking a black bluesman. You turn it low and pick your napkin off the chair seat.

''John Lee Hooker?'' she asks.

''You're good.''

''I like the blues.''

''But do you like my spaghetti sauce?'' ''Yes, I do,'' she says, using the same inflection you used a moment ago. ''You like to cook?''

''Sometimes.''

''I'm the same way. I hate cooking for myself, but that's a given, I suppose. I mean, I went through this stage where I told myself, 'OK, Carol, you're on your own, so you're going to have to make things nice.' You probably did the same thing, right? So you cook these elaborate meals, telling yourself it's OK, until you eventually find yourself cleaning all these dishes. And for what? Life in the Nineties, huh?''

''Absolutely.''

''What's the most ridiculous meal you ever cooked for yourself?''

She raises her hands before you can speak and says, ''Wait, I'll go first. I only asked the question because I wanted to tell you that I once cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner for myself. I told myself that I wouldn't feel sad or absurd eating it alone. It was a low point, believe me.''

''When I first got divorced I tried to make a big deal out of hanging around on Sunday mornings. The New York Times, bagels, expensive coffees. The whole works. Now I eat a bowl of cereal and get on with it.''

''On with what, though? That's the question.''

''On with kayaking, mostly. Or something outdoors. I spend a lot of time outdoors, doing the Boy Scout thing.''

''How about Girl Scouts?'' she asks.

''It's politically incorrect to do Girl Scouts, isn't it?''

She shrugs. Her earring flickers again. It reminds you of a goldfinch at your bird feeder. Goldfinches, you thought the other day, are like yellow tennis balls with wings.

•

After the last bite, the plates pushed forward, the phone rings and you don't answer it. You don't have to explain because she is single, too. It might be out of politeness, your desire not to compromise your time with her, or it might be your desire not to talk (concluded on page 88) First Night (continued from page 70) with another woman while this one is here. The machine picks up and is serious for three full minutes. Carol, in frent of you, crosses her legs and smiles, sardonically--yes, you believe it is a sardonic smile--at the fire.

''So, tell me about kayaking,'' she says. She is back on the stool, a cup of coffee smoking on her knee. You are at the sink. You are also aware that you should be careful not to say too much. Men talk too much about themselves, you understand, and you generally find it more interesting to hear what women have to say anyway.

''It's good,'' you say. ''It gets me away for the weekends. We've got a group that goes. It's like a party, loose, and of course it takes us to pretty places. I'm not very good at it.''

''Is it important to put your life on the line from time to time?''

''Maybe,'' you say. ''I hadn't thought of it exactly that way, but maybe.''

''That was the first thing that popped into my head when I heard you were a kayaker.''

''How about you?'' you ask, your fingers digging at the spaghetti curled in the drainer. ''Do you think it's important to put your life on the line from time to time?''

''Well, I could say we risk our lives constantly,'' she says, uncrossing her legs. ''Going on blind dates, that's putting your life ob the line,'' she says and laughs. ''But I don't do it much. Not like that. For me it's more a question of quiet desperation. You know.''

''Quiet desperation? That serious?''

''That's melodramatic, I guess. I just think living as a single person, you're closer to death. You think about hitting your head in the bathtub and no one finding you for a week. That kind of thing. So I guess I feel like I put my life on the line now and then.''

''I see what you're saying,'' you say, though you don't, quite.

You wonder if it isn't time for a kiss.

You wonder how you're supposed to cross the kitchen floor and bend slightly to kiss her. So much is understood in the first kiss, though it has to be casual and light. Calculating, you carry dead pasta in a plastic grocery bag, single-man bags, she has called them, and you deliberately fill the other hand with a head of lettuce. At the refrigerator you ask her to pull open the door. Then you turn, hands full, and say, ''Is this a good time to have a first kiss?''

''Maybe,'' she says, and goes up on her toes.

You kiss. Handless, just lips.

•

You dance in the middle of the living room. Dancing is a cliché, at least it was for the first minute and a half, but now it works. Passing the fire slowly, your groins grow knowledgeable, heat colors your shins. Van Morrison, finally. When you should be thinking of her, Carol, you think instead of Ruth, your first lover after your divorce, who told you once that she deliberately sent heat to you through her stomach. That she tried to bake you, turn your flesh to glazed pottery, capturing your heart inside like a frog in a watering can.

You think all this as you pull Carol closer. She pulls back, slowly, indiscernibly. You kiss her again, her temple, her ear, and she tucks in, making herself small against you. Your cock stiffens and you do nothing to move it away from her groin. Let her know what's happening between you.

•

''I know it sounds silly,'' Carol says in the near darkness, the fire dying and making movies on her skin, ''but could we not go all the way?''

''Of course. Whatever you say.''

She covers her face and rolls a little out from under you. Her shirt is open. So is yours. She laughs.

''Christ, did I actually say that?'' she says. ''Did I say 'go all the way'?''

''Yes, you did,'' you say, using the inflection again.

She shakes her head. You kiss her, and kiss her some more, and some more, and eventually her hands drop. She pulls you back squarely on top of her and kisses you passionately. Lordy, lordy, make my backbone slip, you think, a song lyric out of somewhere in the Fifties. You go along with it, ride it, give her one or two extra volts in return, but deliberately hold back. Sir Fuckalot. Holding her against your shoulder a little later, you wonder if he fucked her frequently from behind. Your cock gets hard at the thought, and you squeeze her close, letting her interpret your ardor any way she likes.

It's a hug that melts into sleep. You wake at 3:17 in the morning, the fire popping loudly, consuming a last vein of birch sap. You slip off the couch, move the fire screen more snugly against the brick hearth, tiptoe into the kitchen so as not to wake her and drink a glass of water. You drink two. You think for an instant about your ex-wife, her new lover, her life on the West Coast. You wonder if she drinks the milky coffee she loved so much in Venice. Prego, latte macchiato, you learned to say, both of you, slaughtering the words at every stop in Italy. And how she loved Rome. How she looked, shining, happy, her love of travel so fresh on her that you held her hand almost all afternoon. You think about her hand, and it is transformed to a lion's paw, reminding you again of your lost chairs. Then you think of your own chairs, and you suspect dinner went well. Carol liked it, liked you, and the fact that your ex-wife is maybe climbing on some guy's horn out in Portland shouldn't bother you.

Stomach fluttery, you step outside and pee off the back porch, arching a strong geyser into the chilly morning. The moon is impaled on a pine in the western sky. A shiver runs up and down your spine, shaking you hard, extremely hard. Lord love a duck, you whisper, then shiver again, your stream of urine creating the sound a sprinkler makes when the water hits asphalt. Three days from now you will kayak on the upper reaches of the Baker, then journey over to the Pemigewasset. A weekend of fun, but the rivers are nothing special, and you worry some-times that you are an absurd little boy, a man-boy of 40 paddling away weekends in a bright yellow boat. The hell with it, you think. You decide you will eat bacon for breakfast both days camping, because to hell with it all, to hell with cholesterol and fat and any goddamned other thing the FDA throws at you. You shake off your penis, tiptoe back in, slide onto the couch.

Carol is warm and facing away. You tuck in closer, remembering the pleasure of sleeping with a woman in chilly weather, and to your delight Carol pushes her rump against you. Maybe you are Sir Fuckalot, maybe she is dreaming, but you put one hand across her and hold her breast. She makes a sleepy sound and nudges her rump at you again, so you rub her vagina, her genie, and slowly slide down the underwear. It's dark and groping, that's all, but you enter from behind, first time, and she arcs back and kisses you, still sleepy. You hold her, hoping she isn't somewhere in a dream, somewhere in the arms of Sir Fuckalot. But then you're straining together, pulling, because it's October and the sky is not far from snow.

You go along with it, ride it, give her one or two extra volts in return, but deliberately hold back.