It takes longer than I expected to get Ayla settled back at Mom’s place, get them both some dinner, and get the dishes washed.

Tomorrow, I’m going to need to do the laundry, wash and rebraid Ayla’s hair, and do some vacuuming, but I really don’t have time for any of that today.

It's already much later than I wanted it to be by the time I get home, and I barely have 30 minutes to get changed before Mr. Giang will be here to pick me up for our date. That’s not nearly enough time to make myself look decent.

Rummaging through my closet, I search for something without a stain on it to change into and some high heels to match. Wearing my work clothes on the date is not an option. Besides the fact that it would make it look like I’m not even trying to look nice, Ayla accidentally touched my clothes with her dirty hands after dinner, and there are baby-sized barbecue fingerprints everywhere.

Come on.

The temptation to glance at my watch every five seconds is strong, but it would only waste more time. Trying to find anything in this closet is a nightmare.

It’s not that it’s messy, and finding a match isn’t much of a problem since most of my clothes and shoes are in shades of purple or dark blue, but that does make finding the dresses I’ve reserved as ‘dressy’ as opposed to ‘professional’ trickier than it needs to be.

Slipping an off-the-shoulder sheath dress off the shelf I check my phone for the weather forecast.

You never can tell what things will be like with Maryland winters.

But it’s felt like spring all day, so hopefully, Mother Nature won’t change her tune the second I step outside.

Hurrying into the bathroom, though that’s rather pointless since I live alone, I slip off my work clothes, fold them neatly, and place them on the toilet lid.

I’ll have to stain-treat them later.

When did I get this scratch on my arm?

Never mind, I can cover it with makeup.

Hurrying through the cabinets, I spill all the cosmetics out onto the edge of the sink.

I don’t have time to wash off all my old makeup now, just to try to touch it up into something a little ‘sexier’ whatever that means.

I’m too tired to pretend that I think I look pretty. I’m just trying…

Not that it’s likely to matter.

I wonder if Mr. Giang will even think I look nice.

What does “pretty” even look like other than ‘not me?’ ‘Anything other than me?’

That’s all anyone has ever said.

Don’t waste your time.

Pretty is Beth.

Cute girls, light-skinned girls. Unassuming doe-eyed beauties. Not this 5 foot ten inch tall skinny black wraith with these peepers that forever look like they’re scheming.

When I was younger, I used to follow every fashion magazine’s advice on dressing what they called the ‘banana’ build, which made no sense whatsoever.

What human being looks like a banana?

I tried a dozen style tips that guaranteed me the illusion of curves and a dozen more makeup tutorials hoping they’d deliver on their promises to make my slits for eyes look a little wider.

Now I do all the same things, I just don’t expect anything to come of it.

The illusion will never be as appealing as what everyone is actually looking for, and that has never been me.

This is all he’s going to get.

Sometimes, I wonder if I grew this thin from forever being tense - braced for other people’s disappointment in me. It’s irrational, I know, but I have to be allowed a few fantasies.

My phone buzzes, and I slip it out to find a text from Beth all in scrambled caps with misplaced punctuation.

“Hey, I know I said I’d call Mom today, but something just came up and I’m not gonna have time for a long chat. Can you tell her I said I’m sorry for not showing up yesterday?”

I think ‘chat’ is too glib a word, given the context.

I start to formulate a reply, but before I can hit send, her second text appears on the screen.

“Thanks in advance. I love you.”

I…

“No problem. I love you too.’

What else am I supposed to say?

I set my phone down on the edge of the sink, and it slips off, clattering to the floor with a loud crack, but fortunately, nothing appears to be damaged but my peace of mind. Retrieving my cell, I can see my reflection in the glass all in shades of black. But what difference does that make?

I’m like a black hole.

My phone starts ringing at full volume, and I almost drop it again, as I swipe off my alarm warning me there are only ten minutes until the date. I glance back into the mirror, smoothing my dress and fixing my hair. 

I’m mediocre at best, but at least it’s all balanced - my makeup and hair. Still, it feels like a waste of time to do so much work to look the same way I do when I wake up, notwithstanding a little shininess here and there. Checking the time quickly, I reach into the cabinet for my blue gel eyeliner and make two little wings on either side.

Maybe that will spruce up my face a little bit.

I can’t tell.

The buzzing sensation is setting in again, and I feel unstable.

Turning off the bathroom light, I make my way to the kitchen and open my laptop to check my emails from Ms. Laye while I wait for the buzzer to let me know Mr. Giang is downstairs.

The second I take in the first wash of letters on the screen I remember that everything hurts so badly that I can’t see. It’s a good thing I’m not driving-

-OH! Why is that buzzer so loud???

I just realized I’ve never had a guest since I moved into this apartment. Now, I get up and answer the phone tied to the downstairs intercom as quickly as I can to stop the grating, blaring noise that’s setting me trembling.

“Hello? Ms. Walker? This is Dominic Giang.”

“Yeah. I’ll buzz you up,” I answer hurriedly, managing to wait until I’ve hung up again to let out the groan building up pressure in my head. I lean with my forearms against the wall to try to regain my bearings but it doesn’t work. 

Maybe it’s the altitude, though I have no idea if the fifth floor is nearly high enough to be dangerous. It feels like my head is going to burst open, and I crouch down, pressing my hands over my ears to try to block out the ringing.

This is fine…

Oh goodness, I’m sweating.

Standing up shakily, I get the handkerchief out of my purse and wipe the beading sweat from my neck and arms before heading to the fridge for a frozen water bottle to press against my burning head.

Don’t try to kiss me. 

We’ll both be fine as long as he doesn’t try to kiss me after the date like the last one did. If he does I’ll probably puke, and though that would probably be an instant deal breaker, I don’t think I want to sacrifice my voice for the next 36 hours just to cut this thing short.

Even water tastes like nausea right now.

Still, the chill eases the migraine ever so slightly, and I’m able to stand completely upright and assume what I think is a fairly normal expression, though I don’t have time to check myself in my selfie cam before I hear Mr. Giang’s knock on the door.

I should have unlocked it already. It feels awkward for him to hear me turning the lock like I’m afraid of gangsters or something but I’m not…doing well today.

I murmur something like “Good Evening,” as I swing the door open, but he doesn’t seem to notice my awkwardness, grinning as he offers me a heart-shaped box of chocolates, which I accept with a gracious smile.

“First attempt,” he laughs as I examine the box.

First attempt at what?

Oh. Impressing me?

Chocolates are pretty typical though.

He’s still watching me, so I lift the lid to see what kind of chocolates he brought.

Are you supposed to do that? Is that bad manners? 

It’s been ages since the last time I went on a date, and none of the others ever brought gifts. Terrence said it was “old-fashioned.”

Undoing the purple ribbon, I find a crevice in the black velvet box to slip my nail into….

Black and purple? That’s odd. Shouldn’t it be pink and red?

Whatever.

I pry the lid off, remove the paper, and stare blankly at some kind of golden pie crust or pastry dough folded into the shape of flowers around thin layers of what look like pistachios and almonds.

I look up at him and raise one eyebrow questioningly.

“Baklava,” he grins, bouncing on his heels slightly, before he changes his mind, and starts to roll up the sleeve of his button-up, tilting his head back and forth jauntily, “It’s a Turkish dessert. Me and my little sister like making it, and we thought we’d try using our origami rose pattern.”

“Ah,” I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgment as I put the lid back on and slide the box onto the table. 

My little sister and I. Not ‘me.’

“Are you ready to go?”

Mr. Giang’s eyebrows knit together for one second as he watches me put the box down, before he replies, smiling until the ends of his mouth seem to reach the edges of his face, “Sure, if you’re ready. I’ve been ready for like three hours.”

“Oh, do you get off of work particularly early?” I ask as we step into the hallway, and I lock the door behind me. It’s a lame attempt at small talk, but I don’t have any better ideas at the moment.

“Nah, but all I had to do was shower and change. No twenty-step makeup tutorials for me,” he laughs like he’s thinking of something or someone specific, as I walk straight to the elevator and push the first-floor button, watching the numbers tick up to try to steady my vision. Mr. Giang leans against the elevator walls, crossing his large arms over his chest with an easy-going air as the doors close.

I should say something.

I forgot all the compliments I had planned.

“Your outfit looks nice.”

He looks at me and raises one eyebrow with a sort of skeptical expression.

Wait, guys don’t care about clothes, do they?

Should I have complimented his hair?

“I didn’t even pick this out myself,” Mr. Giang chuckles with a sort of amused sigh, shaking his head. “It seems my idea of what you should wear on a date does not align with my younger sister's opinion. She told me I looked like a ‘well-dressed cavie,’ but apparently black is somewhat more becoming because it ‘slims.’” 

He laughs again, so I try to smile, though I don’t see the joke. 

He shrugs like he’s explaining, “After enough years at the gym everything fits a little snug and looks a little less than formal, but the darker colors hide it better.”

Ahhh.

I should say something.

I just nod twice.

Is that the right response?

Well, it’s too late to take it back now. We’re almost to the door, and at least outside of the apartment I'll be able to discuss the weather.

Mr. Giang has been matching my stride easily, though I forgot to shorten it, all the way from the elevator across the stretch of hallway, but he sort of speed-walks ahead of me now, to open the door for me before I get to it. 

I smile slightly in thanks, and he smiles back, though he doesn’t say anything else until we’re outside and he’s glancing up at the quickly darkening orange and red sky.

“If you didn’t know better you would think it was summer,” I offer, though that’s another weak thread in the world of conversation topics, and I’m not even sure I like this weather.

It’s somehow too bright, even this late in the day, and I have to squint to try to mitigate the pounding behind my forehead.

“Looks dazzling. Like a picture,” he grins and shades his face as he glances upwards in the direction I'm looking.

“The sunset?” Well, maybe if you like cityscapes, but still… “You can’t see much of it through the buildings and power lines.”

Wait.

I probably should have agreed with him, right?

Mr. Giang just shakes his head, smiling, “I meant you, but the sunset is nice too.”

I open my mouth and then close it again, frowning without meaning to.

Um.

Thank you?

But that sounds a little too cold, so instead I just smile a little uncomfortably and hope he can confuse my confusion for whatever it is he wants to believe. 

I know good and well that trying to say something will ruin everything.

I can hear Beth’s whisper in my head for the hundredth time, complaining whenever she and I were around a boy she found cute.

“Essence, for heaven's sake, do you have to make things awkward for everyone? Just go away if you don’t want to be here. Jeez!”

A twinge of something…a thought or…a memory…I don’t know…something or other washes in and out of my head. And then it’s just gone, but it leaves behind a haunting stain of something I can’t quite pick out.

Well, that’s probably better. 

Good things have never haunted anyone.