In Real Life

by Holly Jahangiri

Theresa’s fingers clattered in rapid-fire staccato across the keys. Spontaneous – impulsive – her heart pounded in her throat. In the same instant she hit the Send button, she had a wild, panic-tinged urge to recall the message or rip the modem cord from the wall trying. The cheery, damning words appeared on her screen: Message sent! “Shit.” She took a sip of coffee, hours old.

Martin wouldn’t get the message until dawn. Theresa imagined him sitting in front of the PC, wearing nothing but his boxers and a bad case of bed head. She’d never actually seen Martin in boxers, but she had a red-blooded, athletic imagination. She could see him clearly in her mind’s eye – the tight cleft between his broad shoulders widening as he leaned forward on his elbows to read from the screen, the way his sensuous lips curled upward in satisfaction as the words started to settle into his sleep-soaked brain, the teasing twinkle in his eyes as he mentally composed a reply.

Theresa groaned and closed her eyes, resting her forehead against the heels of her hands. She might as well have the word “fool” tattooed across her forehead. The man deserved better. His letters were so straightforward, so honest. She swirled the dregs of her coffee and downed the last of it in a single gulp, flicked off the desk lamp, and dragged her sorry self to bed.

* * *

Six hours till dawn, and sleep refused to come. Martin pulled on his boxer shorts, ran a hand through his tousled hair, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Moonlight crept through the slats in the Venetian blinds, making ladders of pale silver across dingy gray carpet and up Martin’s legs. With a weary sigh, he headed for the den and turned on the computer. In the green-eyed glow of the power button, listening to the familiar hum as its twin hard drives spun to life, Martin felt less alone. He felt connected.

* * *

Restless dreams, like waves born of a hurricane, tossed Theresa from side to side. She awoke in darkness, drenched in sweat. Untangling her long legs from the twisted sheets, she stood up and peeled off her nightgown, letting it drop to the floor. She felt her way to the bathroom and, without turning on a light, ran a stream of cold water with which to splash her face. Had she really sent the letter? she wondered. What would Martin think of her in the stark reality of a face-to-face world? Theresa wrapped her arms around her body, shaken by a sudden chill. Nubile was hardly the word for it. Curvaceous? Shapely? Womanly. Mature. Stumbling back to bed, Theresa quickly drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Martin opened his email and smiled. She’d answered his letter! There it was, nestled between thick layers of spam and offers too good to be true. He double-clicked, unaware that he was holding his breath in anticipation of her answer. “Yes,” he read. “I agree it’s time we met in person, and I’m looking forward to it. La Concha sounds wonderful - I’ll meet you there at 7.” Martin found her self-confidence refreshing. Theresa’s letters were always honest, and direct. So unlike most of the young women he’d met, she never played head games with him. What had begun as a casual correspondence quickly deepened into a comfortable friendship.

Why, then, he wondered, had he let the little white lies get so out of hand? Not lies, he told himself. Just a slight stretching of the truth to match what he wanted to believe when there was no mirror around to call him a fraud. No huge, unforgivable deceptions, surely – and yet, wouldn’t Theresa have every reason to expect a much younger man with the sculpted muscles of a bodybuilder? He ran a hand over his stomach. Somewhere, under the soft layers of a middle-aged belly, lay a hint of the six-pack abs he worked so hard to develop in his twenties. Hard to find, admittedly, but still there if he sucked it in and held his breath till he turned blue. A little gray at the temples. Distinguished. Martin slumped in his chair. “Aww, hell,” he muttered, wondering what drove him to blow a good thing with the suggestion that they get together offline.

* * *

Theresa stared into the mirror, coldly appraising her reflected self. She had chosen and discarded half a dozen outfits: too young, too matronly, too sexy, too frumpy, too…too. Finally, she selected a pale blue silk sheathe that clung in all the right places, revealed just enough to be called sexy-but-elegant, and didn’t make her look ten years older or ten pounds heavier than she was. She was pleased with her skin; despite the fact that she would be forty in a week, her face required nothing more than a light foundation, a touch of apricot blush, a shimmering hint of sapphire and dusty rose on her eyelids, and a quick upstroke of mascara to highlight thick blonde lashes. She stood back and took one last look. “You don’t look a day over 39, m’dear,” she muttered. She blotted her lips and smiled, half mirth, half grimace, all crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes.

“Laugh lines,” she reminded herself.

Theresa looked at her watch and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “What am I thinking?” She wondered how she’d ever found anything in common with Martin, who was nearly 20 years younger than she. “Okay, 15, but who’s counting?” she sighed. What she needed was a man with Martin’s wit, charm, and intelligence – and an extra 20 years’ experience.

* * *

Martin dusted off his dark blue suit, checking the pants for creases. He wondered if Theresa would prefer him in something more daring, less conservative. Martin sighed. If he had any hope of being himself with her tonight, he’d have to be comfortable with who he was. No more truth stretching. He selected a tie that was a bit brighter than his usual choice, and hoped Theresa would approve of his choice. As he splashed on a bit of warm, spicy-scented cologne, he shook his head. The scent would probably remind Theresa of her dad. “God, that’s just what I need,” he groaned.

* * *

They arrived at La Concha a few minutes early. Martin nervously searched the lounge for a sexy, blonde co-ed while Theresa debated whether to steel her nerves with a drink. She was trying not to draw attention to herself as she looked around, nervous that she wouldn’t recognize Martin, fearful that he might not show up at all. She noticed the man, who appeared to be waiting for someone, also. He smiled nervously at her.

She chuckled. “Waiting for someone?”

Martin nodded. “You too?” He felt the tension leave his neck and shoulders. Now here was an attractive woman, near his own age. He wouldn’t have to suck it in and hold his breath all night. They might even find they had a few things in common. Like being stood up. He grinned.

“Uh huh. I think I’m going to get a drink while I wait. Care to join me?” Theresa smiled at the man. As the words left her lips, she realized that she sincerely hoped he’d take her up on her offer. Maybe Martin wouldn’t show. Maybe the evening wouldn’t be so bad, after all.