French Fantasy to Dirty Disappointment...One date - both sides of the story?

French Fantasy
(The date from my perspective)

I was looking forward to the breakfast date with Jean-Pierre on Sunday. His name sounded so French, he looked so smooth. Well groomed with dreamy green eyes and a funky scarf around his neck.

Friday night was drumming circle and I head out of town with my Djembi. The drumming circle had become my “therapy” since the divorce. Drumming for four hours pulls you into a zone of listening to the beat that connects deeply with your soul and forces you into the moment. The only hangover one has the next morning is the thickening and sensitivity of your hands. The pads of my fingers develop tiny splits that take a few days to heal, but it seems a small price to pay for the pleasure. My thumb was bleeding and I put on some ointment and an old-style material plaster. I was a first aid fundi after being married to a doctor for so long.

Saturday was spent in the garden and I dug around planting some lettuce, watering and feeding my veggie patch.

On Sunday morning I woke up early to the chirping of the birds on the bird-feeder and smiled. I’m happy, really happy and have a date!

I decided to get dressed casually and wore jeans. I’d just bought a zooty pair of black soviet takkies and decided to wear them as I chucked the smart leather slip-ons back in the cupboard. Remembering Jean-Pierre’s cool scarf from his profile pic, I threw a checkered scarf around my neck.

I had bought a leather back-pack on the midlands meander during the time my children were in high school in Natal. I transferred the contents of my bag into the soft folds of the brown leather.

As I ran out the door feeling free and pretty I grabbed a big clip and coiled my hair up into it. I switched the spraying water off as I passed the tap. My cat sat up proudly at the gate. I bent down to give her a last cuddle and whispered “wish me luck” into her ear.

I turned the Vivaldi up and drove fast enjoying the empty Sunday morning roads.

As I got out of my sleek silver car I harbored a delicious feeling of excitement, and noticed the greengrocer next to the restaurant. I would pop in after to get a healthy lunch.

I chose a table at the window so that I could keep an eye on the parking lot.

A very large man waddled in and headed towards me. I assumed he was going to sit at the next table, but when I looked into his face I recognized Jean-Pierre!
I was a bit taken aback.
The man was very fat.
The profile pics were carefully taken and some must have been years old.
He was at least ten years older than what he’d said!
The cool scarf he’d worn in his pics had been hiding a very fat neck.
There was no denying that Jean-Pierre had once been a very attractive man. His green eyes were still dreamy but I caught a hint of a tender heart and although he said his name was French, he definitely wasn’t French. I know of couples that name their children after the country they conceived, which means absolutely nothing to anyone else but themselves.

He leaned in to greet me and I turned my face sharply away from his pursed lips.
I was polite through the breakfast, very polite. At one point he got a dreamy look in his eyes. He stared at me hard, scooped his teaspoon into the cappuccino foam and brought it up to my lips. His chin lifted a little and he smiled seductively, coaxing me with his eyes to accept his offering. 
Taking the spoon gently out of his hand, I stammered a little and said pathetically “oh shame, not to worry, I have my own foam.” I immediately wanted to slam my forehead repeatedly into the table in front of me. What an idiotic thing to say!
I didn’t want to hurt him and didn’t want my disappointment to show. I smiled and blinked and nodded – a lot. I asked after his children, his life and his dreams - we all have them. We all reach into the fantasy world and dream of a romantic encounter that may just catapult us out of our reality.

If I had to judge him according to my disappointment I would have judged him harshly.

He’d  sold himself well and almost tricked me into believing that he was whole.

All I could feel was pity.

 Dirty Disappointment
(French Fantasy bookend - Jean-Pierre)

I’m a man.
I’m a broker.

I’m Jean-Pierre.

I’ve done well in my life and have been well-loved.

I’m well travelled, have been to amazing destinations and have lived up to now, a full and rich life.

I have a big home and a big car and I’m ready to retire.

All I need now is a loving partner, someone to spoil. We’ll travel the world. She’ll spoil me and we’ll walk hand in hand on the beach. We will lie in each other’s arms and I will be complete.

The weekend has been quiet but I look forward to meeting Maureen. I met her on the dating site and can’t help wondering, could it be?, the lady of my dreams? Our chatting was sexy and sharp. Her profile pictures are smart and she looks neat and well groomed. She was married to a medical doctor. I think she’s loaded too, which is a bonus. I feel a stirring in my loins. This is it, this is it!

Yesterday I had the 4x4 washed. This car is a good indication of how well I’ve done. I’m proud of what I’ve achieved.

Don’t overdo the aftershave. It’s expensive and understated. Just enough.

My hair has grown a little and I turn and look at my profile in the mirror. Not bad for my age, enough so to have lowered my age on my dating profile by ten years……..but you’d never say.

I definitely have presence. The extra weight that has crept on over the years can easily be shed.

Reversing out of the drive I feel empowered. I’m on top of my game. Yessir!
I scan the restaurant as I enter and she’s already there, I recognize the mass of hair piled on her head. Maureen! This is a good sign. She’s obviously keen. I have the upper hand.

I saunter over and bend to her upturned smiling face, which she turns sharply as I aim for her lips. She may be Italian, the Italians do that. It’s an Italian thing and she is dark.

As she greets the waitress I do a quick scan and my heart sinks.

Maureen turns back to me smiling too widely and looking at me in a strange way. I can see the tension in her eyes. Oh no, please don’t tell me she’s on Prozac! She’s tense, very tense.

Her hands are also wrecked!  I notice the dry swollen skin and the cracked and almost bleeding finger tips with a feeling of panic that I hide. She must be a nail biter or have a nervous condition. Maybe she’s malnourished? I smiled and we chatted but I couldn’t keep feeling a little revolted by a grubby plaster she had wrapped around her thumb. What germs are hiding in that moist decaying little bundle of cloth?

I was expecting something else I must admit. Her cheap black hippie takkies and jeans look was too casual for me. The scarf around her neck was Palestinian rebel movement issue and I wondered if she had escaped from a place of torture. She certainly looked tortured.
I enquired about her stay in the country and she assured me that she was South African and was living in her own home around the corner. I wasn’t sure that I could believe her.

Back-packers came to mind. Her backpack looked well used and I pictured her travelling the world with her thumb up on a desperately outstretched arm. Her shoes had grass on them and was that? I think yes, cat hair, on her jersey.

Maureen must be having a torrid time and I even offer her a spoon of my foam as a friendly gesture. She declined but I could see she would have loved me to take her in my arms and wipe all her fears away.

When I eventually paid and we said our goodbyes, I knew that there was something very wrong with this situation. I wanted to walk her to her car and she made a lame excuse about going to the greengrocers to get lunch. I think she had walked and couldn’t bring herself to admit it.

I will go back and continue my search. I had put my hopes in a smart picture and a coiffed hairdo. I had visualized a life together.

She’d sold herself well and almost tricked me into believing that she was whole.

All I could feel was pity.

French Fantasy and Dirty Disappointment .....they are one and the same date seen from both sides…………