He sat in the corner of the restaurant sipping on his glass of white wine, his eyes transfixed on the blonde in the sleeveless white dress, and considered his options.
For several weeks, he traded e-mails with her. They found each other on a website for connoisseurs of fine living. They both liked clothing made of silk, Egyptian cotton and cashmere. The textures were caressing and soothing. She, in particular, liked fur, no matter what others might think. He agreed he preferred lambskin and suede leather. Each expressed a disdain for beer, preferring a good wine or blended whiskey. The best beef was Kobe, and the best seafood was lobster, although those foods should be enjoyed in moderation. They wanted their tailored clothing to drape properly. And they both loved old, classic movies.
What a coincidence it was when they discovered they both lived in the same quaint little town on the outskirts of a major metropolitan center. Where would be a better place to live? Lovely old homes with endless restoration possibilities, an art community, antique shops and intimate cafes. And an international airport an hour’s drive away which could spirit them to Europe at a moment’s notice. Finally, they agreed they must meet for each thought the other must be as fascinating in person as in e-mail.
“I know,” she wrote, “let’s meet at 512 South for lunch on Thursday. It’s my favorite bistro.”
“How will I know you?” he replied.
“Well, I’m blonde and have blue eyes. I’ll be wearing my white sleeveless Vera Wang and ermine stole. How will I know you?”
After a brief hesitation he wrote, “I look like a movie star of a few years ago.”
“How exciting! Who?”
“I’ll be the only familiar face in the place. Trust me.”
Arriving early, he ordered a glass of Reisling and finished reading his newspaper. When she entered the café, he knew immediately it was her—white dress, fur wrap and the face of an angel. Sitting up he smiled, anticipating her recognition. She looked around the room until she stopped to stare. Walking up to a table, she leaned over and smiled.
“Well, hello there,” she said in a purr.
A thin young man in a T-shirt and torn blue jeans looked up.
“When you said you looked like a movie star from a few years ago, you were right. Except it was more than a few years ago. You look just like James Dean.”
He watched the young man’s face. A glimmer of a shadow crossed it, before he smiled broadly.
“Sure, babe. James Dean. I get that all the time.”
She slid into the chair next to him, cupped her chin into her slender palm, and stared at the young man who grinned back.
The man with the Reisling considered walking to the table and telling her he was the man she was looking for, but discretion warned against it. He should have been more specific, he told himself. He should have said the movie star he looked like was Gene Wilder. Back in his day Gene Wilder was somewhat romantic, in a funny, poignant sort of way.
“Hey, babe, I’m waiting on my burger plate. You want one too?”
“Sounds yummy.”
“Want a beer too?”
“More yummy.”
Well, she misrepresented herself, too, he thought, as he finished his wine and motioned to the waiter to deliver his check. He smiled as he watched her giggle and scoot her chair closer to the young man with the intriguing smile and T-shirt. The next time he went to the website for fine living he would be more forthright about which movie star he resembled.
Another time. Perhaps another website.