Free Man Camp by Adrienne Brodeur

spent with Lucy at Madison Square Garden watching the Westminster Dog Show, where they drank cheap champagne served in plastic heart-shaped glasses and remarked on the phenomenon of the tinier the dog, the bigger the walker. Her worst Valentine’s Days have been spent in red dresses with men she wished she loved.
    This year she rents
Shop Around the Corner,
gives herself a pedicure, orders in sushi (which she shares with Hannibal), and hopes Lucy’s romantic weekend is going well.
    SATURDAY NIGHT — ALLEN SANDERS
    Allen is young and vulnerable and nervous, and Martha has never wanted to help a client more. His face is sweet, lean, and freckled, with bashful brown eyes, and he has the kind of curly blond hair you find on little boys at the beach.
    “Is this place okay?” he asks.
    They’re sitting across from each other on high stools at a round table in a lively microbrewery in the Flatiron District.
    “It’s perfect,” says Martha, happy after her rock-climbing date just to be in a restaurant. She looks at the beer menu. “What sounds better to you: Bavarian Weizen or Oatmeal Stout?”
    “You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer Thai or sushi? Maybe a steak house?” Allen asks. “I made reservations at three other places.”
    “Honestly, this is great. I’m totally happy.” Martha orders a stout and eases into her FirstDate questions. “What would you say is your main dating issue?” she asks.
    “Confidence,” he says, his hands in constant fluttery motion. “My mom says I came out of the womb shy.”
    Mental note: Avoid mention of your mother’s womb at all costs.
    “How do you typically feel when you are on a date?” Martha continues.
    Allen thinks for a moment, trying to quiet his hands by placing them on the table, one on top of the other. “Nervous,” he says. “Always sure that my date would prefer to be doing something else, with someone else.”
    Martha can relate to confidence problems, having navigated much of her dating life in character, imitating women she imagined men would want to date. During her teen years, she rotated from one Charlie’s Angel to the next, knowing every boy had at least one poster of them over his bed. In her twenties, she tried everyone from Madonna to Cindy Crawford to Julia Roberts. Now, her fallbacks include Miranda from
Sex and the
City
and Catherine Zeta-Jones. If a date goes poorly, being in character somehow makes her feel as if someone else has been rejected.
    Martha looks across the table at sweet Allen; she hitches up her skirt and crosses her legs. Tonight, she feels a bit like Mrs. Robinson.
    Their beers arrive in tall, frosted steins and Allen’s long fingers drum the table.
    “Tell me what it’s like to be a chef,” she says, knowing she’s helping him along more than she should.
    “Well, I still have one semester to go, but I love it,” Allen says, visibly relaxing as he describes what it’s like to roll pastry, whisk sauces, knead bread. Using his hands as spatulas, he demonstrates how he made a chocolate mousse that afternoon, folding imaginary egg whites into a dense chocolate sauce. “It was sublime,” he says, closing his eyes. His hands circle and fold and circle and fold, until the tips of his fingers collide with the rim of Martha’s glass, and the beer stein teeters precariously before tumbling toward her.
    “Yikes,” Martha yelps as it splashes down her front and onto her skirt.
    Allen leaps up. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” He uses his napkin to sop up the beer with awkward pats to Martha’s lap. “I’m so, so sorry!”
    “Don’t worry,” Martha says, drenched. “It’s just a little beer.”
    A waitress rushes over with extra napkins, and a busboy toting a mop takes care of the rest. Martha excuses herself to the bathroom to clean up. When she returns, two new glasses of beer are on the table.
    Allen looks traumatized. “It’s okay if you want to go home. I’ll understand.”
    “What? Over a little spilled beer?”