First Date

I had made a poor choice in coffee date locations, and I knew it the moment I walked in. The idea was to find a first meeting place near her work so she could slip away for a while. Great idea, great location, but I failed to dig deeper into the cafe. What I hoped would be a sleek, modern, minimalist joint like so many others in this gentrified neighborhood turned out to be quite the opposite, and I stuck out like a dog at a cat show.

The normal hubbub of a crowded cafe stopped the moment I broke the threshold of the heavy wooden door, which should have been a hint. Even the street noise seemed to stop. By the time the chime of the traditional brass doorbell stopped ringing, all twelve sets of eyes of the book club ladies focused on me, some staring me up and down, wondering why I disturbed their meeting. Some were frozen with their fancy teacups in midair as they appraised me. Their books sat in front of them, also wondering why I interrupted them. It wasn’t a Sunday, but each of them was dressed as if it were, many wearing colorful hats more often seen at weekend brunches or church. None of them came within thirty years of me.

The tables were set with plates of cookies and muffins in the center of each of their three four-person tables, and each had two admittedly lovely porcelain teapots with various floral patterns waiting for them. The tablecloths were stark white with embroidered filigree fringes. My grandmother would have loved them. As I walked in, the clouds must have parted because the sun shone in, heralding my arrival and brightening the room, revealing more of the details of the now-obviously traditional ladies' coffee and teahouse I had stepped into: white wainscotting, heavy chandeliers, and Victorian-era prints and artwork adorning the walls.

My date told me she would be punctual, and I was three minutes early, so time was limited—no backing out now.

“Are you here for the book club?” Asked one particularly cheeky lady with faux-red hair.

I swallowed, took a quick breath, and gambled. “Yes, ma’am. As long as we’re discussing Victorian erotica.”

Nothing.

Silence.

Outside, a truck passed.

Inside, the coffee machine coughed and spat out an espresso.

One lady whispered to another.

“No,” Red said back to me, “but maybe you can read some to me later tonight.”

The table erupted in laughter. Her neighbor slapped her arm. “Linda Grace!”

After a moment, Red asked in her sweet, soft yet still firm voice, “So what are you doing here? You don’t look like the sort that would visit an old lady cafe.”

Jesus! I thought. I’m in it now. “Well, I’m meeting a friend in a few minutes, and this looked like a fine place.”

“A lady friend? You’re already cheating on me?” Another arm slap from her neighbor, this one lighter.

“I’m a scoundrel that way. Forgive me.”

I nodded to the group and gave Red a nod of her own. “Ma’am.”

As I sat, the brass doorbell chimed, and she walked in.

Nothing.

Silence.

Red asked, “Are you here for the book club?”

I had made a great choice in coffee date locations, and I knew it the moment I walked in.