Dream On: A Rom Com

Phoebe Knows

DEON

Three dings of the bell. Deon catches the conversation at the adjoining  table as he waits for his next visitor.

"Heck, why are you offended? Isn't it normal to like sex? Darlin', I'm not lookin' for a gal pal."

"Normal? It's normal to talk about sex when you've just met a person?" The woman's voice rises like a squealing pig. "Huh? Is that normal"––and she leans into the word––"in your world?"

Deon stares ahead fixedly ahead, although he's dying to eyeball the speakers. He'd like to interview this guy for the journal article he's writing in Outliers Among the Aging Population.

"Look, Darlin', I don't proclaim––"

"Don't call me Darlin'.

Strappy Sandals, the woman he met on the street before the event sits opposite him, and Deon loses the thread of the conversation.

"Hey, didn't we meet before? I was late. Ever try running from the parking lot––anyway, I couldn't get a space. Almost broke a leg. Shouldn't have worn these," and she waves a leg in the air, points her toe. "Three-inchers. "I'm still recovering."

Strappy Sandals sighs and stretches her legs out to the side, flashes a wide grin. With those heels she must be almost six feet tall. Her name is Amber. (Nametag: summer lover, animal lover, flower lover.)

"Sometimes I go to my cousin's," and she lifts her hand, points vaguely out the door, "down the road in Guilford. They're almost on the water. Any closer to the water and they would have paid over two million for their house."

Deon sketches a tiny shoe on his paper, a high heel. He wants a beer. The first thing he is doing when he gets out of here involves a beer, maybe two. He glances a few tables over where Lucy sits talking to a guy in white shorts and sandals with socks. Like she'd go for a guy who wears socks with sandals.

"I was at one of these things a few months ago," Amber continues. "Cold. Cold weather. At least we could order wine. Never heard of an ice cream dating social. Until now, of course. What do you think?" She looks at Deon, who shrugs. "I used to go on all sorts of these dating things. Singles dances, all over the state. Met a few nice guys. You see the same guys every place you go. And are they clingers. They monopolize you, don't let you meet other guys. Honestly, it was just awful the way they––"

The bell dings and she stands, twirls away and waves at Deon over her head. "Nice talking."

Deon considers this bit of irony since all he did was mutter and nod. The next woman sits down. Thank God it's Phoebe. Deon feels like hugging her so he does, leaning over the table and squeezing her cheek to his.

"What is going on?" Her voice is muffled.

"Nothing. I'm glad to see you."

"I can stay? Even though we already had our turn." She looks around as if someone will catch her cheating. "I sneaked over to your table. Let me stay?"

"You're running this event, hell, stay," Deon says, feeling magnanimous and in charge. "Stay a whole nine minutes, live on the edge." He is cheered not to have to make small talk with yet another stranger.

She sighs a giant sigh, heavy with angst. "It's been a tough week."

"It's almost over," and he hopes this will help. "A beautiful summer night, we can take a beach walk, the three of us." He shifts forward in the chair. Is this what he really wants? He loves their threesomes, sure, but... Outside, it's cooling off as the sun lowers, and leaves waver in the breeze. The whole party could be moved to the deck where they could all watch the sunset. He'd mention this to Phoebe, but he fears it would be the last straw, create work for her and her parents, and the waiters would complain. Behind her, Bronwyn is heading toward them with a pad and pencil.