[Georgia 03] Fallen
would not feel compelled to ask her a question.
This was not Sara’s first blind date, nor, unfortunately, was it her least tedious. The problem today had started within the first six minutes, which Sara had marked by the clock. They had rushed through the preliminaries before their order had been called. Dale was divorced, no children, on good terms with his ex-wife, and played pickup basketball games at the hospital in his free time. Sara was from a small town in south Georgia. She had two greyhounds, and a cat who chose to live with her parents. Her husband had been killed four and a half years ago.
Usually, this last bit was a conversation stopper, but Dale had breezed over it as a minor detail. At first, Sara had given him points for not asking for details, and then she had decided that he was too self-absorbed to ask, and then she had chided herself for being so hard on the man.
“What did your husband do?”
He’d caught her with a mouthful of lettuce. She chewed, swallowed, then told him, “He was a police officer. The chief of police for the county.”
“That’s unusual.” Her expression must have been off, because he said, “I mean, unusual because he’s not a doctor. Wasn’t a doctor. Not white collar, I guess.”
“White collar?” She heard the accusatory tone in her voice but couldn’t stop herself. “My father’s a plumber. My sister and I worked with him for—”
“Whoa, whoa.” He held up his hands in surrender. “That came out wrong. I mean, there’s something noble about working with your hands, right?”
Sara didn’t know what kind of medicine Dr. Dale was practicing, but she tended to use her hands every day.
Oblivious, his voice took on a solemn tone. “I have a lot of respect for cops. And servicepeople. Soldiers, I mean.” He nervously wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Dangerous job. Is that how he died?”
She nodded, glancing at the clock. Three minutes nineteen seconds. She’d just missed her record.
He took his phone out of his pocket and looked at the display. “Sorry. I’m on call. I wanted to make sure there’s service.”
At least he hadn’t pretended the phone was on silent ring, though Sara was sure that was coming. “I’m sorry for being so defensive. It’s difficult to talk about.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” His tone had a practiced cadence Sara recognized from the ER. “I’m sure it was hard.”
She bit at the tip of her tongue. Sara couldn’t think of a polite way to respond, and by the time she thought to change the subject to the weather, so much time had passed that the conversation felt even more awkward. Finally, she said, “Well, anyway. Why don’t we—”
“Excuse me,” he interrupted. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
He got up so quickly that his chair nearly fell over. Sara watched him scamper toward the back. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought he hesitated in front of the fire exit.
“Idiot.” She dropped her fork onto her salad plate.
She checked the clock again for the time. It was two-fifteen. She could wrap this up by two-thirty if Dale ever came back from the toilet. Sara had walked here from her apartment, so there wouldn’t be that protracted, awful silence as Dale drove her home. The bill had been paid when they ordered the food at the cash register. It would take her fifteen minutes to walk home, giving her time to change out of her dress and into her sweat pants before the basketball game started. Sara felt her stomach rumble. Maybe she could pretend to leave, then backtrack and order a pizza.
Another minute ticked by on the clock. Sara scanned the parking lot. Dale’s car was still there, assuming the green Lexus with the DRDALE license plate belonged to him. She didn’t know if she felt disappointed or relieved.
The clock marked another thirty seconds. The hallway leading to the bathrooms stayed empty for another twenty-three seconds. An older woman with a walker inched her way down the hall. No one was behind her.
Sara dropped her head into her hand. Dale was not a bad man. He was stable, relatively healthy, gainfully employed, had most of his hair, and except for the cheese between his teeth, had the appearance of good hygiene. And yet, all of this wasn’t enough. Sara was beginning to think she was the problem. She was turning into the Mr. Darcy of Atlanta. Once her good opinion was lost, it was gone forever. Changing the direction of a steamship was easier than
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