LoveBites || #NONC2022

1.1 Catfished

Somewhere in the two thousand some miles between Chicago and Los Angeles, I'd misplaced my optimism. And despite Anna's stubborn insistence that a casual fling could cure all woes, I was seriously starting to doubt that a blind date was going to help me find it.

Packing up my essentials into my car and setting the course for sunny Southern California had seemed like a wonderful idea. Everyone smiled sympathetically, agreed with the idea of time away from the city. My nostalgia-colored memories of long summer days and warm nights outdoors beckoned like a chicken-soup-remedy that might drown away the madness of these last few weeks. When I'd caught my eye in the rearview mirror, halfway through Iowa, some horrible country song blasting over the radio, I'd almost smiled.

At the risk of shattering my face with the effort, I attempted to repeat the gesture for the very polite hostess who graciously ignored my tongue-tied anxiety. I'd faltered and trailed off into uncomfortable silence at the disbelieving eyebrow raise when I'd asked for the reservation for "Anna Liu." I told myself that I was being paranoid. The hostess was probably too overworked to even notice my stumbling nerves. It did not change the fact that I felt like an interloper: my best friend and college roommate was a bundle of peppy, infectious energy and I had become a sort of living-rain-cloud of a person.

With the underpaid fortitude that only someone in customer service could muster, she graciously showed me to a patio table and recited the list of wines and specials and offerings. I picked a glass of whichever the first red was. 

My sudden decision-making ability didn't seem to impress her.

"I'll let your waitress know," she said, handing me the menus.

The faux-Italian bistro—menu full of pricey, organic, sustainably farmed and crafted "bites"—was Anna's newest favorite spot for new dates. It was up-and-coming, she promised. Anna would never send me to a place she hadn't already vetted. She had a list of requirements for her first date locales. Small portions. Soft music. Good drinks. It's got to be intimate, she'd explained. But public enough that someone would notice if you got murdered. There're a lot of psychos out there, you know?

Dinner with a side of murder sounded exactly like the excitement I was trying to escape.

The sudden flash of fear spiked my heart rate. My throat seemed too small.

Don't, I reminded myself for the hundredth time that day. I rubbed at the fresh goosebumps on my arms. These irrational flares of panic were becoming less frequent, but it didn't make them any less awful. I focused on breathing. Don't think about it. You're fine.

And I was fine.

Mostly.

Bruises faded. Bones healed. My memories never returned, but everyone seemed to think that was for the best. Every co-worker and therapist and interpersonal violence counselor seemed relieved that they could just address the trauma without the complication of brutal details. It was easier for them, I'd already decided; but for me, the dark gap in my mind, that wide and ugly void, left more room for monsters than would the truth. For surely the truth could not be as fearsome as my anxious imagination.

"You're not BeautyandtheBeet."

The wry, accusatory baritone made me jump. A swooping hot guilt dripped down my spine as I felt a hot flush of color in my face. When Anna had convinced me that a blind date would be the perfect confidence booster, I hadn't actually considered showing up. Sure, I hadn't explained the precise nature of my misery-mandated-vacation, but I'd let Anna dress me in her borrowed clothes (tight jeans, a lacy white top, and pinching leather boots a size too small); sat still while she curled some life into my hair; and forced a sort of grimacing smile at the playfully lascivious wink as she'd dropped me off at the little bistro. It was easier to play along. I'd planned on waving Anna off, nursing a glass of wine at the bar, and walking home. Alone.