Mother's Bad Date 〈Recent〉

“The final straw,” she said, taking a massive bite of ice cream, “was when he told me I’d look younger if I smiled more. And then he corrected my pronunciation of ‘bruschetta.’”

“No.”

“He asked the waitress for a ‘protein-forward’ salad. Then he sent it back because the avocado was ‘too ripe.’ He said ripe avocados are the gaslighters of the produce world.” mother's bad date

We sat in silence for a moment. The clock ticked. “The final straw,” she said, taking a massive

My mother doesn’t date often. After the divorce, she said she was “recalibrating,” which is a very mom way of saying she’d rather read a mystery novel in a bathrobe than suffer small talk with a stranger. But her friend Carol insisted. “You’re a catch, Linda. A whole marlin.” The clock ticked

“Deal,” I said. “But only if you let me order the avocado.”

His name was Gary. Gary sold ergonomic office chairs. He showed up fifteen minutes late with a carnation so wilted it looked like it had already been apologized to. My mother, ever the optimist, tucked it into her hair anyway. She wore her good earrings—the silver ones shaped like crescent moons.