I met her in the bar Wednesday evening… sort of. Now we’d be meeting proper, and I was a wreck, adjusting the hem and straps of my evening gown, taking a few steps in my heels before kicking them off and then debating whether to put them back on before she showed up. A curl of auburn dropped in front of my glasses and I swept it away.
When we first met, I was with a group of coworkers. We sat there in our office wear; cargo pants, tee-shirts, camp shirts, sensible shoes, and only one of the five of us without glasses. We overheard a comment from another group at the bar about “the nerds over there” and we all laughed. I complained that I had gone too early to La Traviata and there were no tickets left for the next performance. That’s when she approached and sat next to me, using her motorcycle helmet for a low stool as her leather chaps and jacket squeaked.
Before offense at her intrusion set in, she fixed me with a direct stare, her jet-black hair framing a sharp, tanned face that held gem-green eyes where I saw my plainness reflected. “So, you’ve already seen this… what is it? A play?”
“Op… opera.” I couldn’t break away from her stare.
“You’ve seen this opera, but too early? How does that work?” Her eyes were questioning, curious, but her mouth held a small, off-center amused smirk.
“Adele Schlimmer is playing Violleta, one night only.” I broke free from her gaze and ended up staring at the toe of her boot. “She’s… I mean….” My cheeks felt hot and my pulse whooshed in my ears.
She lifted my chin with a soft touch and leaned closer. “Hey, I’m sorry. My band had a gig coming up, but the venue cancelled. Since I’m not playing and you’re not going to the opera, why don’t we go out Friday and do something together?”
“I don’t even know your name,” I said. “I’m Janice.” My sudden boldness both surprised me and made me once again unable to look directly at her. The others around the table were giving me encouraging nods and winks and knowing looks.
“Friday,” she said, and offered her hand.
“But your name?”
“My name is Friday, and I’d love to take you someplace nice Friday night, Janice.” Her eyebrows raised in anticipation. I nodded, and she took my hand and kissed it. She wrote her number on a napkin and handed it to me before standing and addressing the table. “I apologize for the intrusion. Enjoy your evening.” I watched her walk to the DJ booth near the dance floor at the far end of the bar where she took off her jacket and started the music. Hard, thumping, electronic pulses geared for dancing boomed under shredding electric guitars.
That’s the usual time we would leave, but I sat and watched her work the controls, building the energy up and letting it back down before building even higher in incremental steps. “I could probably model this in a 3-D plot to show tempo, key, intensity and crowd reaction over time.” One of the group gave me the thumbs-down sign, our signal that we were letting work interfere with our hump-day ritual. I conceded the point, and we left.
Work passed by in a blur. My mind kept going back to the number I had put in my phone under the name “Friday?” and wondering whether I would actually follow up. At lunch on Friday I finally texted her. “Yes.” Then followed it up with “This is Janice, BTW.” I was berating myself for my awkwardness when she called.
“Hello, Friday?” My answer was both giddy and weak.
“Hey Janice. I’m glad to hear from you. Like I said, someplace nice. I’ll even dress up. Pick you up at 7:00, your place, if you text me the address. Otherwise I’ll pick you up at the bar.”
“On your bike?”
“No, I’m not gonna ride in a dress. See you at 7:00.” If it were possible, I would say I heard her smile. “See you,” I said, and she hung up. Ignoring the part of my mind coming up with terrible psycho-killer scenarios I texted her my address. So it was that I ended up pacing around my apartment in evening wear, wondering if I was about to make an utter fool of myself.
She rang the bell a few minutes before 7:00 and I scrambled into my heels before answering. The woman standing on the other side couldn’t be more different from who she had seemed at the bar. Her hair in a French braid, tasteful makeup, and a simple diamond necklace accentuating her skin. She wasn’t tan, so much as olive in the bright hallway. Her emerald green gown glowed on her skin and made her eyes seem even deeper. I realized I was staring and started to apologize. “Sorry, I, uh… would you like to come in for a minute? Or…?”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to stare. I knew you were attractive, but, wow. You are stunning.” She was staring straight into my eyes and my face grew hot.
“Thanks. You just look so… different. It surprised me.”
“I hope that’s a good thing.” Friday smiled. “I can’t be the bad-ass biker bitch, DJ, punk rock drummer all the time.” She lifted my hands and smiled. “No more than you can be the adorably cute, nerdy data scientist all the time.”
“How did you know what I…?” The earlier fears about psycho-killer stalkers came back.
“Your ID badge on your lanyard. It was eye level where I was sitting.” Her eyebrows drew together in worry. “I hope I didn’t just scare you off.”
“No, no. I just… why me?” The real question was there. It had left my mouth without my permission. What would someone like her want to do with a nerd like me? I’m the opposite of Friday.
“I guess I should come clean.” She cast her gaze to my hands which she still held. “I’ve watched your Wednesday ritual in the bar for a couple months now. Been trying to get the courage to talk to you, but kept chickening out. This week I sat close, trying to figure out what I’d say. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. When I saw how disappointed you were about your opera, I felt like I needed to cheer you up, or try at least.” She closed her eyes. “I’m hopeless, huh?”
“You’re not. Did you want to come in for a few minutes?” We were still standing in the doorway. “We both look awkward right now, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure we do. I’d love to come in, but our ride is waiting.” She regained her composure. “Are you ready?”
She offered her arm as we walked out and I accepted. She led to me a waiting cab and held the door for me. “So where are we going?” I asked. “Somewhere nice,” she said with a cryptic smile.
The cab stopped in front of the Performing Arts Center where La Traviata was showing. Friday paid the fare then offered her arm again. “I believe you wanted to see this?”
We walked in, arms linked. “How did you…? Did you already have tickets?”
“No, but when you know the production company, say, as a musician, you can sometimes get comp tickets that aren’t being used. I called in a favor.” She nudged me. “I figured I’d try, at least. I didn’t want to say anything and get your hopes up only to have to let you down again. Until this afternoon it was still looking like it would just be dinner.”
“But you’re not into opera. You thought La Traviata was a play, unless you were faking it.” I stopped and faced her. “Did you fake it?”
“No, I don’t know the first thing about opera.” She laughed, and we walked to our row. “I’m more at home at a punk show or rock concert.”
“So why? You could have saved your favor, taken me anywhere.” I had to know.
“Because it seemed important to you. Worst case: I find out I don’t like opera. Best case: I add opera to the stuff I already listen to. Hint: it’s not just rock and punk.” She paused to let me into the row before her. “Either way, I get to spend time with you.”
“But we can’t talk here.”
“Afterwards we’re going for drinks, maybe something to eat.” We sat next to each other. “I wanted to be cool about it and say ‘we’ll see where the night takes us,’ but I hope this turns into another date, at least.”
As the strings gentled us into the prelude, my hand found hers and our fingers intertwined. My thoughts swirled between the warm hand in mine and the strains of the music. I hope so too.
