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I was contacted by a woman whose listed age was 55 and whose photo portrayed a look of high maintenance sophistication. Her email correspondence was persistent, interesting, intelligent and humorous and I stayed with it and moved quickly to telephone calls, despite slight misgivings. Third phone call, her invitation to meet was delivered in a sultry voice spiced with an offer of her guest room so I would not have to make a late night drive home.
The day arrived. Excited as a pimply teenager, I called as I approached her house and she told me the door was open, come in and make myself at home. I let myself in and nibbled on the cheese and crackers set out on the cocktail table. As I settled into the comfortable sofa and brushed crumbs from my moustache, I heard her call out "here I come." She emerged from the shadows at the top of the stairs wearing a mauve polyester pantsuit bulging in the middle to accommodate her lumpy paunch. Her hair was of the thinning bouffant variety. She eased herself down one step at a time, as I rea;lized that her posted picture was not a few years, but decades old; it was truly her, though not her truly. My wits were not quick enough to find a way out, an escape. I soldiered on and we left for dinner.
I imagined that any one who saw us was thinking, "What a nice man taking his mother out for dinner!"
Drank too much wine to safely drive home so I accepted her offer of the guest room. 500 count sheets!
In the morning she fixed me a nice breakfast. She suggested that since we both wrote good emails perhaps we should collaborate on a book about internet dating, and that it could be a compendium of nightmare date stories. I thought, I already have Chapter One.
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