The Window

John stood in front of the restaurant in the Lower East Side of Manhattan as rain pinged off the green awning above him.  He stared at his reflection in the window. It glowed red from the neon sign, an image of a man too old for first dates, so he told himself.  It had been well over thirty years since his last. His hair had grayed since then, and what used to pass for smile lines were now wrinkles.  His children, both with their own families, felt it was time for him to get back into the game. 

John had objected to joining a dating website initially.  He made up excuses like: “it’s too soon.” It had been almost ten years since his wife’s passing.  “No one wants to date a man in the back end of his fifties.”  Of course he knew that was a lie.  “All the pictures of me are with your mother.”  His daughter took new pictures of John and even helped fill out his profile which stated he loved to travel.  He hadn’t left New York in over a decade. 

John looked down at his watch.  Just as he noticed his socks were damp, not from the rain but from sweat, a glass door swung open and a young woman waved for him to come inside.

The hostess welcomed him, closing the glass door behind them.  She ran past the podium to grab a menu and asked: “Just one?”

“No.  I’m meeting someone.  May I wait at the bar?” asked John shaking off the beaded water off his coat.

“Of course.  This way,” she said, leading him to a long slab of mahogany and bar stools.  

John sat down and looked at his watch again.  It was a gift from his wife, while they were in college.  The brown leather band was worn and scuffed, and it had to be constantly rewound, but it reminded him of her.  He always set it ten minutes fast, as she had done before giving it to him thirty years ago.  It was meant to be a joke referencing their first meeting and subsequent first conversation.  He had always arrived late to his classes.  

“Would you like a drink sir?” asked the smiling bartender.  

“Glenlivet.  Neat please,” he answered while thinking about how pretty she was.  

The bartender poured the whiskey in the center of the glass, allowing it to splash, instead of letting it drip down the side.  

“Are you new here?”

“No, but I’m filling in for the regular bartender.  She’s sick.”

She set the drink in front of John who was already thinking: Why were bartenders always pretty?  Was it the only requirement?  Wanted: Bartender.  Must be stunning to distract bored patrons.  No experience or mixology knowledge required.  Strangers from far and wide would come and pay good money to watch her juggle bottles, a spectacle slinging whiskey and vodka into glasses of infused fruits and mint.  

He wanted to tell her to enjoy her youth, to enjoy her beauty and to worry about the future when it became the present, but the moment passed.

The restaurant was idle for a Saturday night, John noted looking around.  He took a sip of whiskey before spotting a young couple in the corner of the restaurant, sitting in a booth.  They appeared to be high schoolers.  No, this was probably their last date before college started.  It was the end of summer after all.  John watched as the boy rambled about something she had no interest in.  Her gaze was fixed on her phone.  They were likely going to different schools, the clichéd ending to all high school romances.  He would be going to Columbia, she was off to NYU judging by her ripped jeans and fashionable boots.  They were planning to make it work; they would beat the odds.  The two schools were only 6 miles apart after all.  That’s less than an hour on the subway.  They would call each other every night and visit on the weekends.  But as time passed, the calls would shorten and the visits would be rescheduled.   The distance between the two campuses on the opposite poles of the city, would widen.  Maybe he’d decide to visit her one day, a surprise.  He would walk proudly down her dorm hall, flowers in hand, finding satisfaction in the whimsy of his romantic gesture.  He would knock on the door.  It would go unanswered except for a muffled giggle.  He would knock once again, louder this time.  She would open the door just wide enough to see who it was, her hair disheveled.  “What are you doing here?” she would ask through the thin sliver of the opening.  He would push his way past her to see a man sitting on her bed.  He would drop the flowers, but not before giving her one final look.  He would walk back down the hall, the echoes from his leather heels hitting the laminate flooring drowning out her pleas to explain.

John wanted to tell the boy that his unbearable heartache would fade.  It would be replaced by a new determination to find love.  He wanted to tell them both that one day they would look back and view all this as practice.  Preparation for a grander test, for when they finally met the ones they were meant to spend their lives with.  He wanted to tell them that first loves were just that, first loves, but the moment passed.  

John took another sip of his whiskey and placed it back down on the napkin.  He ran his finger around the rim of the glass while looking around the room.  He saw a young man sitting by himself.  No, there were two drinks on the table.  She must be in the restroom.  Yes, from his sweat stained pits it must be a woman.  His shirt was more sweat than fabric.  The man was mumbling to himself, his right hand in his pocket.  Was this the night he would take the leap?  Was he rehearsing what he would say once she returned to the table?  

John wanted to tell the young man to relax, to breathe, never forget to breathe.  He wanted to give the man his shirt so he didn’t look like he had malaria while proposing.  He wanted to tell the man that this would only be the first in a long line of anxiety-filled nights.  Of fears about his future, about their futures together.  Fears of being a good husband and partner.  Fears of being a good father and provider.  A good teacher and coach.  John wanted to tell him to save that sweat for when they had their first child, for when they would buy their first home, and for their kids’ first days of school.  Save the anxiety for the night he would spend waiting up for his daughter, out on her first date.  To rest up for the sleepless night he would have imagining the most horrific outcomes while his son drove by himself for the first time.  He would need all his strength for those infinite moments of not knowing.  He wanted to tell the man not to worry, this was just a simple question with only two possible answers, but then the moment passed.

John took another sip of whiskey when his phone vibrated.  It read: sorry caught in traffic.  Rain.  Be there in 10.  The bartender asked John if he wanted another.  He smiled and shook his head no. 

 John looked around the room once more.  An older couple.  He was about John’s age, she was a bit younger than John’s wife would have been.  They were obviously still very much in love, still holding hands and sitting next to each other, instead of across from each other.  John could tell by the way they looked into each other eyes that these two planned to spend their remaining years together.  They would probably retire in Palm Springs, or maybe San Diego if she wanted to be near the beach.  Somewhere he could golf and she could paint outside on their sunny deck.  They would visit the children and grandchildren on holidays.  

John wanted to tell them to appreciate everyday together.  Cherish every night as if neither of them would wake the following morning.  He wanted to tell him to be strong for the children once she got sick, to be strong for her during the chemo treatments, to be optimistic for her sake and his own.  He wanted to tell him the day she dies would not be the worst day of his life, the next morning would be.  It would be the first day he would truly be alone.  A young woman’s voice broke his concentration, and the moment passed.

“Welcome to Nick’s,” said the hostess.  An older woman entered.  Not older than John, but definitely older than her picture.  She wore her blonde hair short.  Most likely it had been dyed.  Her summer dress clung to her body from the unexpected rain.  Her blue eyes sparkled as they met his and she walked towards the bar.  He wanted to tell her that this was his first date since his wife passed away nine years ago.  He wanted to tell her his children encouraged him to go on this date, so he wouldn’t be so lonely, or maybe just to get him out of his house once in a while.  He wanted to tell her he wasn’t looking for anything serious; he just wanted to get the night over with.  He wanted to tell her she was pretty, but not as pretty as his wife was.  He wanted to tell her this was all a mistake and that he was sorry, but had to leave.

“Hello, you must be John. You look exactly like your picture, what a relief,” she said miming the act of wiping sweat from her forehead.

John rose from the bar stool.  “Hello Ellen, nice to meet you,” and the moment passed.