// Michael Dunn //
The train is rumbling from San Francisco back into the East Bay. We're passing through the Oakland stations, being cautioned over the loudspeaker to transfer now if ever. I can't concentrate on my book because I'm heading to a date, and the guy I'm going to meet keeps texting me. Even in the case of radio silence, I can never concentrate on reading before a date. Performance jitters, I suppose. I'm about to present a show of myself.
I would like to be freshly showered and wearing mascara, but I'm armed only with my tea-party outfit, picked for a brunch earlier, and the cheap lipstick that I keep in my purse. It's a surprisingly lovely lipstick, soft shimmery pink, and I tell everyone that it's magic. "Here, wanna try my magic lipstick?"
I've been going on a million first dates. "This is efficient," I tell myself, rushing from appointment to appointment, from disappointment to disappointment. "I am checking potential mates off the list quickly. Meeting lots of people. This is good. I'm proud of myself." I have cobbled together a caffeinated social life.
This morning I got up at 9:45 and left the house around 10. My outfit was slapdash: pink dress, pink headband, purple cardigan, greasy smoke-laden hair. In fact I went on a different first date last night, a horrible endless one. I resented myself for neglecting to set up an escape route.
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