Names have been changed to protect the identities of described persons.
It doesn’t seem to be going well, at least not starting out. Two military members — one in uniform, one returning from what appears to be PT — sitting approximately ten feet from me at a small circular table, one that is probably too small for a first date. The table pushes them together and forces interaction, something he is stumbling with.
Mike is balding. What little hair he has is shaved down to the skin, blurring the border between shine and scruff. Navy colored basketball shorts that are, in my opinion, a size too small. White tube socks rise up to the middle of his calves, and his feet proudly display a silver pair of New Balance running shoes. Sweat stains dot his armpits — what caused them, the PT or the date, is unknown. I don’t see his face because he’s facing the direction I am, towards the grocery store across the street.
Her name is Jennifer. She is dressed in uniform, presumably because she just got off her shift. Unlike Mike, she appears to be confident in both voice and stature — her posture is straight, unlike his slouching. Her size-umpteenth boots dwarf his running shoes, though that’s to be expected with military wear. Where Mike stumbles in speech, she becomes vocal…though not overbearing, like she knows he’s nervous and is attempting to prop him up. Her hair is dirty blonde, held up in a loose bun that — as the day went on — probably became looser by the hour. Jennifer’s eyes are a caramel brown, though her eyelids and surrounding areas aren’t as sweet. Her job has taken a toll on her.
She comes to him first, cautiously asking if the man in sweaty workout garb is in fact Mike. Mike stands and awkwardly leans in for a hug. He is met, unfortunately, with only a handshake. For a few minutes, they retreat inside to order drinks. She pays for her own; a venti-something-or-another. His drink is less masculine, a venti “Very Berry Hibiscus” drink. He must like it, as it doesn’t last longer than a few minutes…that, or he’s just very, very thirsty. She makes fun of him for his “girly drink”.
Conversation is slow at first, and neither party asks the other what their respective jobs are. I figure it’s because she just got off work, and he just got off from doing employer-mandated working out. Both of them are middle-aged, though, so there are questions about family. “Daughters? Sons?” she asks. Mike sighs, shakes his head, and offers a simply “No.”
His turn. He questions if she’s from Virginia, and she is not. As it turns out, she was born in northern California. “I have family near there!” exclaims Mike, in the most animated statement he gives all night. “Really?”, she starts, “Where at?”
“Bakersfield!”
I hang my head in disappointment, and Jennifer’s eyes widen. A sorrowful “Awesome!” slips from her mouth. California, Mike must not remember, is a large state — and Bakersfield, he must have forgotten, is not in northern California.
Their awkward conversation carries on for the next half hour, covering topics like hobbies (Mike’s a fan of kayaking) and fears (Jennifer’s afraid of goats, I shit you not). Mike never fully gains a grasp on carrying a conversation, and Jennifer finally asks why he seems so nervous. “I was married for a long time, you know,” he begins, “and it just didn’t work out. It’s been awhile since I’ve done this.”
Jennifer doesn’t ask why, and simply nods her head. “Been there,” she says as a smirk forms slowly, “but we’re here now. So let’s do this.”
After eavesdropping on this date for an hour, I hear Mike laugh — actually laugh — for the first time.
The People Watcher 
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