Photo by Önder Örtel on Unsplash
Horny in the Union Square Whole Foods, Rachel wonders which pre-assembled stir-fry mix is most likely to put someone in the mood.
Tonight is her second date with The Actor that she met online last month, though they probably crossed paths before, having graduated from the same university two years ago with a dozen Facebook friends in common. Their first outing went well enough: a seven-hour mostly sober picnic in Sheep’s Meadow during which they dipped carrots in his homemade hummus (not a euphemism) while discussing their parents and politics before dry humping and getting a pink slip for public indecency. When they moved to a bench, a young family passed by carrying light up balloons, giggling as The Actor lunged his tongue into Rachel’s mouth and groped her thigh three times larger than his own. It’s slightly weird to see people touching during a global pandemic. It’s very weird for Rachel to be one of those people ever.
The Actor is currently employed as a part-time chess instructor, and is a self-described vanilla beta male who grew up with socialists on a farm outside of Cincinnati; who—despite a history of monogamy—said while sniffing Rachel’s hair that the only commitment he could make right now was to playing mobile Diplomacy daily. Her initial response was to advocate for exclusivity but, much like the not unsatisfying ache in her jaw and the impossible to brush out taste of garlic on her teeth, it waned. Really, right now, Rachel just needs to be touched.
Three weeks later, she spends a day’s paycheck on organic groceries and mid-range wine before making cinnamon caramel apple muffins with the hope his taste buds connect to his penis. Shaving her legs, applying acne medication, and selecting a blouse sheer enough to expose a bra that desperately needs someone other than herself to remove it, Rachel’s ready. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings.
The Actor’s tall, lithe frame greets her, denim blue eyes doing the work his mouth cannot behind a mask. Inside, he removes his Vans before smoothing his short, dark curly hair. His pointed nose dips into his tote bag, piano-player hands pulling out two large broccoli stalks as he takes control of the kitchen, small talking about spices while dumping things into her wok. Rachel would complain about the mess if he weren’t so pretty, if she were more accustomed to having something so pretty. Instead, she watches him toss the ingredients with a messy flick of his wrist, distracting herself with the thought of kissing, blushing then and proclaiming herself an idiot.
‘You’re definitely not,’ The Actor replies. He sniffs. ‘Do you have vinegar?’
Rachel blinks, but points to her cabinet. Again, he is very pretty.
They eventually sit down with wine and Wolf Blitzer, though The Actor asks why not PBS. ‘Because we’re not 70,’ Rachel replies. He doesn’t laugh.
They chew and watch the final Presidential Debate; two senior citizens vying for the highest office in the land, dodging the same questions they have for months. The Actor hardly acknowledges Rachel’s comedic comments but accepts her offer to refill his wineglass, eventually complimenting her muffins. They’re not quite the aphrodisiac Rachel had anticipated. When he finally puts his arm around her during the post-debate analysis, it feels like a hot wooden rail slumped against her chubby bones.
Furrowing his eyebrows toward her desk, The Actor reads her whiteboard. ‘What’s Who the fuck is nigh-OH-mee?’
‘NAY-oh-mee,’ Rachel says. ‘It’s the book I’m writing.’
He smirks in a way that feels unwarranted coming from someone who’s only making rent right now thanks to the premiere of The Queen’s Gambit, then takes his arm away and answers a text message. ‘I should probably head home, but I had a good time!’
‘You’re joking, right?’ Rachel says. ‘We didn’t even kiss.’
‘And I don’t think we should.’ The Actor smiles like the knowing voice of reason in a children’s movie. ‘It just doesn’t feel like it did in the park.’
‘I mean, yeah, we’re surrounded by my laundry instead of trees.’ Rachel watches his neck twitch. ‘Is there something else? I mean, if we’re never going to speak again, you might as well be honest.’
The Actor pulls on his hair and mumbles about having met someone—an actress—wanting to see if it could be serious. When Rachel asks why he came over in the first place he shrugs in that way guys do in lieu of a complete sentence that she’s never quite mastered. ‘I do think you’re super interesting,’ he says. ‘I just don’t find you attractive.’ He pauses. ‘I sound like an asshole, don’t I?’
If this is closure, it doesn’t feel how Rachel expected.
They get up from the couch and return to the kitchen, The Actor continuously apologizing as he puts on his shoes. ‘Would you please stop?’ Rachel says. ‘I’m not heartbroken. Really. I’m just annoyed I have to clean up.’ When he mumbles something about helping out, she tells him, ‘I think that might just make things worse.’
As The Actor gathers his things, he picks up an extra stalk of broccoli. ‘Do you want to keep this?’ he asks, holding it out to her like a bouquet of flowers.
Rachel puts the wineglasses in the sink, shaking her head. ‘I don’t need your pity broccoli.’
‘It’s not…’
Rachel looks at him and his hand immediately lowers into his Trader Joe’s tote bag. She rolls her eyes then salutes him. He mimes the gesture back and heads out.
Once the door shuts, Rachel fills the sink with water and soaks the dishes. She calls a friend as she scrubs, half-sarcastically wishing she could review The Actor’s dating profile like an Uber driver and note someone who claims to be into cooking should know that stir-fry requires fucking cornstarch. When her vibrator gives out later that night before she reaches orgasm, she half-wonders if it would prefer someone less interesting and more attractive, too.
Rachel A.G. Gilman's work has been published in journals throughout the US, UK, and Australia. She is the Creator/Editor-in-Chief of The Rational Creature, a columnist for No Contact Mag, and was Editor-in-Chief of Columbia Journal, Issue 58. She holds an MFA in Writing, Nonfiction from Columbia University and an MSt in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford. She lives in New York and works in publishing. More at rachelaggilman.com.
