Hooked

Shopping alone is like plastering a sign on my forehead that reads “Single- must be damaged goods”. Well, maybe not, considering I saw a few acquaintances that I knew to be married shopping by themselves in the same grocery. Still, being so obviously alone in all that I did made me feel exposed and possibly a little rejected. Okay, a lot rejected. I held my chin up high, trying to appear confident and in control, but I suspected that I looked like I had a cramp in my neck.

Red is the color of Valentine’s Day, so I was, in my misguided enthusiasm for a holiday that excludes singles like myself, wearing a blood red sweater with little pink hearts that actually hurt my eyes to focus on for too long. I was determined to find both a valentine for this year (and hopefully longer, to cover the next few years of miserable holidays), and, failing that, find a way to embrace my singleness and be happy within myself. It was a paradox, but I was, as I said, determined.

I scanned the aisles, looking for Mr. Right, or at least Mr. Short Term, but all I saw were middle-aged women and the occasional male senior citizen. There aren’t really very many good places to meet men except in bars, but I had not yet gotten that desperate. The movie Ladder 49 had given me faint hope. The main character had met the love of his life in the vegetable aisle; why couldn’t I do the same?

Finally, I got a glimpse of a possibility. A young (ish) looking man was walking my way with his cart. He was about a foot taller than me, which means he was average height because I’m, well, let’s say petite. His clothes were clean but not pricey and he was handsome, in a not-too-ugly way. Let’s be realistic, most people aren’t rich supermodels and what were the chances of a super hot, wealthy guy being available? He was acceptable. So, of course I did what any woman would do. I crashed my cart directly into his.

“Oh, my!” I hoped I didn’t sound too dramatic but suspected I did, from the look he gave me. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” I was pretty sure he’d seen me aim for him, so he got points for not calling me out on it.

“No problem, lady.” Um. Lady? That wasn’t promising.

“Oh, well, OK.” My lame response and sad puppy dog eyes must have won him over to my side just a teensy bit (or else he thought I was too pitiful to kick while down) so he introduced himself.

“I’m Cain”. His voice was nice- a bit deeper than I expected, and kind of husky.

“I’m Candace” Cain and Candace. We already sound like a couple! I tried to hide my inner wiggle and held out my hand.

He shook my hand and his grip was that of a man- not limp, and certainly not soft. Already seeing bouquets and wedding bands, I stared maybe a little bit too long.

“Uh, nice to meet you, Candace.” He started walking away. Wait a minute!!! Walking away wasn’t an option! I’m hearing my wedding music and he’s not even interested? No, sir!

“Wait a minute, Cain” I tried to simper at him. “I’d like it if you’d call me tonight. Want my number?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I flushed as brightly as my sweater, but he seemed to like it because he said sure. I gave it to him and as he entered it into his phone, I felt like he was mine already.

Later that night, with only four hours of the holiday left to celebrate with somebody (hopefully Cain) my phone rang. I waited and answered just before it went to voicemail to make up for my earlier, desperately bold, behavior.

“Candace?” Cain asked.

“Cain” I purred. “I was about to give up on you calling me tonight. It is Valentine’s Day, you know. You don’t want to spend it alone, do you?” I had no idea where this seductive, sultry new me was coming from, but I desperately wanted him to like it.

Cain didn’t say anything at first, so I started to squirm and rethink matters, but then he said, “Where do you live?” My address spilled out of my mouth without thought but with a deep satisfaction that didn’t feel like me. “I’m on my way.”

Waiting for Cain to show up on my doorstep was infinitely worse than just waiting for him to call. When his car pulled up, an unimpressive compact sedan, I was nearly sick from anxiety. However, as soon as I saw his face, my whole world tilted back onto its axis.

I had one or two bad moments when I questioned the wisdom of having a perfect stranger in my home, but they couldn’t compete with my desire for Cain to stay. In fact, my only really awful moments during the evening were when I contemplated him leaving. That couldn’t happen, right? It was a day for romance, and men were suckers for sex, if not love.

Toward midnight, I knew I had to make my move. The holiday would be over soon, and my opportunity would end. Not because things couldn’t happen past midnight, but that the day itself would be over and I would have spent Valentine’s Day single, even with a man right in front of me. The conviction that I had to have him now shook me to the core. It had to be. I eyed him lustfully, and then I began to undress. It took him only a moment to get with the program and before I had time to question my own actions, we were hot and heavy and headed toward my bedroom.

After we’d made love, I asked him his last name. I should know my future last name, right? He barely glanced at me. “What does it matter?”

I was floored. WHAT DOES IT MATTER??? I. Could. Not. Go. On. How could he? How dare he? Oblivious to my rage, Cain had his head laid back on MY pillow, with his eyes half closed. Realizing he wasn’t as bright as I’d given him credit for, I repeated out loud. “What does it matter?” The slight hysteria in my voice should have clued him in but, somehow, it didn’t.

“Yeah, what does it matter? I barely remember your first name, why do you need to know my last. You know this is just a hook up.”

“A hook up?” I felt sick.

“Yeah. You chased me, you’re obviously easy, and I took what you offered. It was good, babe. Thanks.” His smile was smug and I hated him in that moment. My figurative wedding bell cracked and so did something a lot deeper within myself. I sat in shocked silence apparently long enough for him to think I was okay with what he’d just said, but I could feel my face begin to twitch. I got up out of bed slowly, “A hook up?…hook up…..hook up…” I was stuck on that phrase. Hook up.

In a daze, without even putting my robe on, I walked down the hall. I stopped in front of a closet; I couldn’t think of why I was there. There must be something inside that I thought I needed. I opened the door and looked inside. I smiled. I made my way down to my kitchen. There was something there I needed, too. When I returned to the bedroom, my bedroom, I had rolling pin behind my back. This was a hook up, right?

The next morning found police tape and cruisers lining the street. The paramedics came out with a stretcher. On it laid a man, bloodied and sobbing. His head was wrapped and bleeding. His face was glinting in the morning sun. Over 200 barbed fishhooks decorated him from his hairline to his chin, and that was the only part of him that was visible. His mouth had to be in agony but he kept saying over and over, “ It was just a hook up.”