My name is May. I'm thirty-nine years old. And I have always been utterly alone.
I shouldn't say that. I really shouldn't say that. I'm not an orphan. I have parents and a couple of brothers whom I get along with well. I also have friends. But even in my family I've never, ever fit in. They're all extroverts. They're nature people. They don't mind hikes in the woods. They don't mind sweat or dirt or insects. They love to talk. Sometimes I think they can't actually stop talking; I think sometimes they're under some sort of spell that just makes words fall out of their mouths the way horror movie victims bleed out. -Only there's never an end to the talking. My friends tend to be similar, maybe because I am an introvert and I never go out of my way to make friends. I guess the only friends I have are the people who are outgoing enough to make friends with me. I'm not good at being a friend, so I don't manage to keep friends well, but a few understand. A few let me have space and still think of me as a friend.
I live by myself now. I have a tiny cocoon of an apartment where I work from home as a creative writing teacher. I'd hardly be able to pay rent doing this, so I also drive ride-share and things like that. I pick up odd jobs where I can. I like the quiet of my apartment. I like lying in bed, reading and drinking coffee. I like writing. I like dreaming of other worlds and places and adventure. -Though clearly I'm not the kind of person who would do well in an adventure. I'm almost forty and I've done nothing with my life.
Hell. I'm not even a very good writer.
So I had mixed feelings about my friend Elaine setting me up for a coffee (I don't even know what a coffee means anymore. Is it a date? Is it a business thing?) with some true-crime novelist she met at some sort of business event she went to. According to her, not only did she think he and I needed to meet because we're both writers (though I think it's pretty clear that I'm not really the nonfiction type), but because she saw him and as she put it, "I immediately thought of you, May. I was like, May. May has to meet this guy. They're both writers. They're both, like -- you know,"
"Shy?" I prompted.
"Shut-ins!" she said. "He lives in the area. Well, not more than a couple hours north of here. I think he's rich, May. And he's your type. And even if he's not your type, it's networking. He could really help you with your career."
Considering my biggest accomplishment as a writer was my completed but unpublished novella about a cursed dragon who fell in love with a fairy prince, I was unclear on how meeting a true-crime novelist would help me. Still, I said to Elaine, "OK."
She told me she would write an introductory email. I shrugged. Why not, after all? What's the worst that could happen?
His email was short. He offered to give my work a read sometime. Based on the flow of his words on the page, I surmised that he was -- as Elaine had said -- likely as introverted as I was. But he was professional, appreciative of the written word, not quite nerdy enough to write fantasy novels but certainly nerdy enough to read them without too much irony. Thus a short correspondence began. A friendship of sorts, though... not quite that. I think perhaps we were both lonely people with simple lives and this was something that filled part of them.
I did try to find him on social media. Elaine had called him "good looking" but she had said it in a tone meaning "good looking enough for someone like May." Perhaps I should point out that solitude and occasional bouts of personally-managed depression didn't make me into a beauty queen. I'll admit, I have a pretty face. My eyes and lips are notably attractive, and I have long curly hair that men rarely know how to touch correctly. But I'm fat. Always have been, and as I discovered after a summer of anorexia did the exact opposite of what it usually advertises -- I always will be. I have a decent figure for all that. But still, I'm round and extra all over. My breasts recently qualifying to upgrade to 40g bras after a particularly long battle with bronchitis kept me home from the gym for four months.
I know there's something hypocritical about wanting to be with someone attractive when I'm not all that attractive myself. But, I feel like there's nothing really hypocritical about being a little upset when your friends establish your standards as being far below their own. At this point it didn't matter what he looked like, really. But I wanted to confirm. If I'm the dog taking Elaine's inedible table scraps, in this case - any man she encountered not pretty enough for her, I wanted to know. I just wanted to know that about our friendship.
But I couldn't find him anywhere on social media.
Well, I shouldn't say that.
He was all over social media in some ways. Turns out the guy was kind of a big deal. He had written nearly 50 true crime novels about major, headline-grabbing criminals. Some of his books had even affected other cases. In some places, he would be considered a household name. He was basically a hard-hitting journalist with amazing attention to detail. He could paint a picture with words. He would have done well in my classes.
But I couldn't find a picture of him anywhere. There were plenty of pictures of the criminals he wrote about, whose pictures I scanned with disinterest. But as for the man himself -- he might as well have been invisible. Maybe that was to make it easier to get information. I landed on the idea that it must be hard to do that kind of work with a famous face. So he kept his out of the spotlight. As time went on, I got more and more curious. But I felt weird asking him.
After all, if I wanted to see what he looked like, I think the natural thing for him to do would be to respond in kind -- and I wasn't sure I wanted him to send him a picture.
But that became a non-issue soon enough.
"When should we meet for that coffee?" he asked one day. I didn't realize that Elaine's initial suggestion of meeting for a coffee would still be on the table. We had exchanged 12 emails. He had given me kind, yet constructive feedback on a short story I was working on. I had quizzed him on which book of his was the most enjoyable to write. We had talked about writing and people and the weather. I guess I had assumed this would eventually fizzle away into a forgotten acquaintance.
Um, well... "Anytime!" I wrote, agonizing over the exclamation point. It seemed so enthusiastic and I did not want to be. I wanted to stay firmly within the reasonable expectation that Elaine was wrong that this would turn out to be something of note. Reasonable expectations led to few disappointments. He told me that he'd like to meet me the following weekend, for coffee at a Starbucks halfway between us.
...
...
Strangely enough, after accepting his invitation, I didn't hear from him for a while. -Until just a couple days before we were supposed to meet. He texted me to change the time and location of our "date" as he called it. There was a swanky restaurant nearer to my apartment where he wanted to meet. Said he could pick me up if I wanted. As the restaurant was nearby and I thought I might need a drink, I informed him that it was OK, that I'd take a Lyft there. He said to bring a copy of his latest book with me so he'd know it was me. Though a romantic gesture, I was a little annoyed by the idea that he expected me to buy his book. But luckily I found a copy at the library that day, and prepared for the date as I prepared for any date.
-Like it was the only opportunity to ever feel pretty.
The truth is that I hadn't really done much dating in my life. In my younger days, it was awkward to go out with men I wasn't wholly attracted to given that I couldn't attract the men I wanted with the few charms I had, only to discover these lesser men wanted sex immediately or else there wasn't going to be any sort of relationship. After entering my thirties and thinking there was something, well, odd about never having had an adult relationship -- I went about the task of having sex whenever my date suggested it, in the hopes that this would somehow be the bridge into long-term adult relationships.
It was not.
But I did occasionally go on dates and the romantic part of me, the stupid, fantasy romance part of me that lived in most of my brain, always hoped that this time -- this would be the one.
So I shaved my legs nearly four times. I used the expensive shampoo and conditioner. I put anti-aging, sparkly lotion on every inch of my skin. I pulled on belly-slimming, thigh-thinning shorts, and a sexy though torturous bra that pushed my boobs up so high they could almost, though not quite, be confused for a double-chin. I then put on a flirty, off-the shoulder dress. Fishnet stockings. Boots. My hair, somehow, by not making any sudden movements for hours, was gorgeous. I added makeup that made my face about five years younger. I plucked hairs out of my eyebrows, chin, and upper lip. I spritzed a combo of cheap peach perfume and Estee Lauder into the bathroom air before twirling around in it.
