Dream On: A Rom Com

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DEON

"You're divorced?"

Deon looks up at Peggy (name tag: cat mother, gardening, closet romance reader) before she plops into the seat. He doesn't answer, but watches her root her butt around until she's more comfortable.

"Sorry for the dumb question." Her tone is playful, as if she's comfortable asking strangers about their personal details, and not all that sorry. "We're all divorced, that's why we're here."

At first he says nothing and neither does Peggy. Then he shakes his head. "I'm not––I'm...."

"You're still married?" He's spoken with five women, including Phoebe, but she is the first who's asked him about his marital status. And misinterpreted his answer.

"Not at all. My wife...my wife passed away. All I meant was I'm not divorced. We'd still be together if she didn't––"

"Was it cancer? I'm so sorry." And she tilts her head with that irritating sympathy look everyone gives. Deon would never get used to it.

"No," and something claws up Deon's throat like sour- tasting medication. Almost five years afterward and he can't cope with the pity. Maybe this is why he never got into dating.

"Car, car accident," and as he says it, Deon realizes he doesn't have to tell her his business. Who is this over-curious woman with no boundaries? Now it's out.

"So," he clears his throat, a message that the window for additional sad widower talk is closed. "What do you like to do for fun? Besides eating ice cream, I mean." An attempt at humor. He didn't know he had it in him, even if it's lame.

"Oh, I had a tiny scoop of vanilla. Trying to watch my weight." She crosses her legs, kicking Deon under the table. "Sorry. I'm bad at sitting still."

He gazes past her at the beach and the water beyond, where a sailboat, small, a one-person craft, rides out beyond the inlet. A chance bargain twenty-five years ago brought Phoebe's parents to purchase this old Branford restaurant, renovate, their loyal customers following them from New Haven and beyond. He and Phoebe have been friends for eleven years. He can't believe it.

She and his wife, Melinda, were friends. Close friends.

"What's your favorite flavor?"

"Anything dark chocolate," and he's immediately transported back to the time he and Melinda ordered the ten dollar, ten flavors with ten toppings monstrosity at Ice Cream Heaven, on vacation in Rhode Island. Ordered it in place of dinner and got ten minutes into it when they both stopped, sickened by the super sweetness. Drove to a movie theater in nearby Pawtucket to order popcorn.

"Not me," Peggy says, interrupting his thoughts. "Not a chocolate person." She's restless, has a nervous, twitchy way about her that Deon finds irritating and endearing.

He looks at her more closely now, notes closet romance reader on her name tag.

"Romance reader, I get it," he says. "Why closet?"

"I don't think most people consider romance to be worthwhile reading. They think it's all formula and nothing of substance." She leans in, as if to share a confidence. "Not true. Besides..." and she lowers her head, dropping her voice to a whisper, "I love erotic romance."

Has he heard correctly? He perks up, surprised to find this most unexpected tidbit interests him. "Tell me more," he says.

"Oh, no, I couldn't."

"You can."

She hesitates before telling him she's usually circumspect about this subject. "I have to know a guy a while before I let him know my...predilection, shall we say?" Her smile is sly, witty even. A smile can be witty, he decides. Wait till Lucy hears this.

"Men make judgments, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," he says, judging her, and the bell dings. "I'd like to see you again," and Deon points to her paper as she stands. There are two checkmarks he can see clearly.

"Nice meeting you," and Peggy pauses, one hand on her chest, as if talking about her favorite genre causes her heartache. "Maybe I'd like to see you, too. I'll think about it."

Deon is left to interpret that little zinger, and he smiles to himself.

What occurs to him––bothersome indeed––is that Lucy is not a sure thing, not even close. Also, his ego could use a little boost, and he enjoys sparring with Peggy.

He scratches a question mark on his tally sheet, and after a moment writes the letter E next to it. E for erotic.

He'll probably forget what it stands for.