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I’m walking home when a man, who’s graying and handsome, stops me. “Excuse me,” he says. “You’re gorgeous.” I’m not hallucinating. The fairy tale has come true; my prince has arrived.
It’s the giddy 12-year-old in me who says thank you. It’s also the current me, with all the weight of my 49 years, who gives him my number and tells him to text me by Wednesday so we can have dinner on Friday.
Then I tell everyone: my work buddies, the baker at La Monarca Bakery, the barista at the Starbucks on Occidental, the fruit vendor on the corner of Virgil and West 3rd, and even the Koreatown ahjussi who preps my lunchtime Brussels sprouts.
By Wednesday, as I’m waiting in line at Apollonia’s Pizzeria, I realize Friday dinner is unlikely.
But around 8 p.m. that night, I get a text. Does dinner at Sushi Gen sound good? Yes. Yes? Yes!
We sit atop the planters outside the restaurant while we wait for a table. The conversation is stilted, so I ask him to tell me about his life and I tell him about my job. I love my work, but I’m worried. My boss just left the company, and what is an executive assistant without an executive to assist? Prince Charming snorts and says I’m lucky. He’s looking for a full-time job. I’m too startled by his snort to respond.
He says that he’s sure I’m great at my job. His best friend’s wife does something similar. She’s a shrew. He can tell I’m not.
I think about what it is to be a shrew and what goes into making a woman shrewish. Our table is called before I have the chance to parse through the implications.
Prince Charming launches into his life story right after we’re seated. I don’t tell him anything about me because he never asks and because he never stops talking. I’ve read enough Jane Austen to know his speech is the context for “A Very Important Declaration I Need to Hear.” His grand announcement is this: He’s been working part-time as a driver and at a car dealership since the early aughts while waiting for his big break. Earlier this year, he realized show biz was not for him. It is now time to settle down.
Prince Charming speaks his truth with the same gravity that Kevin Costner used to muster when he rhapsodized over cowboy life on “Yellowstone,” a show Costner claimed he loved but not enough to stay. Prince Charming is sincere. It’s wrong that I struggle to keep a straight face.
I understand we all have aspirations. I once wanted to be a professor. When that fell through and after the end of my first marriage, I wanted to be happy and have a job with benefits that covered my ADHD meds and antidepressants. After my second marriage, I also wanted to feel safe, be unharmed and never again be subject to anyone’s blackout rages.
I don’t tell him this, and it doesn’t matter. Because given the opportunity, I’d rather discuss my current life anyway. My summer is spent at the Hollywood Bowl. Winter and fall is for the L.A. Philharmonic, the L.A. Opera and holiday dinners with friends. Many nights are spent just happily lounging around the house. If I could, I’d like to tell him (and any prospective person) that my life is as good as it has ever been. Would he like to join me?
But my date continues to dominate the conversation throughout dinner, and I never speak of my past or my current life. I don’t mind because the eel is delicious and the cucumber salad is on point.
I’m silently thinking about what my options are if I get fired when I notice he’s staring at me. I lost the conversation’s thread a while back, so I ask him, “Do you travel much?”
My question gives him the opportunity to discuss his last trip to Vietnam. It was difficult, he admits, to stand by silently as his uncle bossed people around because he had more money than they did. He had trouble keeping his mouth shut and showing the proper respect for his elders, mostly because he found their behavior abhorrent.
My interest is piqued. I too have had to negotiate cultural and familial expectations. I was once married to a man who sometimes hit me when he was in a foul mood. In the month after I left him, my sister, a person whom I considered my best friend, invited him for dinner daily even though she knew what he had done. Our relationship frayed permanently the day she kicked me out of her house when I went to pick up her child so we could go to Disneyland.
I understand how difficult it is to negotiate family relations and expectations. But I don’t tell him this either. When he pays for dinner, he tips the waitstaff generously. I’m impressed. I know, my bar is low.
There is a tea shop across the parking lot. As we drink some matcha, he says that right now, all he wants is a job that pays and to feel he’s good at what he does. I understand. The year after I left my marriage, I set down a list of things I needed to do to regain myself — to recoup my life. The primary goal, to feel good about myself again, took about 10 years. At the moment, I really want that for him.
Almost a month later, I got a follow-up text from him inviting me out. I tell him the truth: I can’t because I’m volunteering at StokerCon, the horror literary convention.
But I wish I had texted him something else. At 49, I’ve already made my fairy-tale life come true. With all my heart, I hope he too is able to create the life he wants for himself. He deserves to have his dream come true. Everyone does. I should have said this.
The author is looking for a job and taking allergy shots so that she can one day become a spinster with two cats. She lives in Pasadena. She’s on Instagram: @aledmattoni
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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