Free Dating Without Novocaine by Lisa Cach Page B

face, if Anthony Hopkins had been in his thirties, still had his hair, and looked more frightened than frightening.
    And the voice was average.
    Still, he was not displeasing. He looked friendly.
    â€œDid you have any trouble finding the place?” I asked, somewhat stupidly. This Starbucks was one of the easiest places in the city to find.
    â€œNot much, although I got turned around trying to figure out all the one-way streets. I’ve only been downtown twice before,” he said. “Last time I ended up going over three different bridges by accident.”
    â€œThree?” I asked, beginning to feel hopeful about this. Here was a guy who admitted getting lost, and was willing to laugh about it.
    â€œI’d be on a street, driving along, then suddenly there was a railing and the river far below, and I’d be on the east side.”
    â€œIt takes a while to get it all straight. Did you want something here?” I asked, gesturing to Starbucks at large.
    â€œI was thinking, maybe, we could walk around a bit?”
    â€œOkay.”
    I was too nervous to finish my chai, so I dropped it in the trash on the way out. He opened the door for me, then held it for another woman to go by, as well.
    â€œWhich way?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know. I was hoping to wander and see some of the city.”
    â€œI could give you a mini walking tour,” I said. “If you want.”
    â€œThat’d be great.”
    We headed up Broadway to the Performing Arts Center, then cut between two of the buildings to the Park Blocks, which stretched south to the P.S.U. campus, the art museum and the Oregon Historical Society.
    I snuck glances at him as I pointed out landmarks, taking in his T-shirt and old green plaid shirt, worn khakis and stained sneakers. It didn’t look as though he’d taken much effort with his appearance.
    Perhaps that was a good thing. He seemed easygoing,and while he might not be exactly spiffy, at least he was clean and had short hair. He wasn’t a slob. He was just used to the company of ducks and raccoons, that was all.
    Unless it was all a disguise, and he really was a psychopathic serial killer. They were supposed to look innocuous, after all. Or like Anthony Hopkins.
    Was this the type of synchronicity that Cassie had been talking about in my tarot card reading? God, I hoped not.
    â€œHow many dates have you had, off the Internet?” I asked as we headed toward the river, and Waterfront Park, which ran along its west bank. It was wide open and in the heart of downtown, so I needn’t fear being dragged into any bushes.
    â€œThis is my first. And you?”
    â€œMine, too.”
    Nice guy, but I was beginning to feel as if I was doing all the conversational work. Maybe if I was quiet for a while he would start talking.
    We walked in silence for several minutes, and then there was a faint stirring of sound from him. I waited, and then waited a little longer.
    â€œAre you hungry?” he asked.
    At last! He speaks! “A little. Are you?”
    â€œA little. Do you know somewhere to eat?”
    My spurt of excitement died. I didn’t want to choose a restaurant—it was his turn to make a decision. But I also knew he’d only been in downtown Portland twice. I felt weary suddenly, and was tempted to say I had to go home, but then he looked at me, a shy smile on his lips, and I didn’t have the heart.
    â€œDo you like Thai?” I asked instead.
    â€œIs it like Chinese?”
    â€œKind of.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Okay, then. Lunch.
    Â 
    â€œI got Mooch when I was collecting data for my thesis, in Colorado,” Wade was saying.
    Two minutes earlier, the check had arrived, and was now sitting inside its black folder at the edge of the table. Wade had made no move toward it.
    â€œHe was no bigger than the palm of my hand.”
    My glance slid to the folder. Should I reach for it? Pull it toward me and open the