Ace Jones: Mad Fat Adventures in Therapy by Stephanie McAfee Page A

fairly decent-looking fellow with neatly trimmed hair, light brown eyes, and a perfectly manicured goatee. He smiles. I smile. Dinner arrives. And then he launches into yet another idiotic spiel. “Have you ever envisioned the materialization of your most fantastical dreams?” he asks, smoothing the napkin on his lap with both hands. I have no desire to discuss my dreams—or my lack thereof—with a perfect stranger, but I welcome the odd turn of conversation, seeing as how he spent the past twenty minutes blathering about his mother. His eyes are locked on mine as he swirls linguine onto his fork.
    â€œI’m sorry—have I what?” I say, looking down as I cut into my lasagna. I would attempt to change the subject, but I’ve gathered that whatever Mr. I Love Mommy wants to talk about, by golly, he’s gonna talk about.
    â€œHave you ever thought about how magnificent your life would be if your wildest dreams somehow came true?” He’s peering at me like a Peeping Tom, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of my bare-naked soul.
    â€œOf course,” I say. “Hasn’t everyone?” I take a bite of lasagna while he continues to work those noodles and stare at me.
    â€œSo you have dreams?” he asks. I nod, and he continues. “Then you’ve imagined a marvelous existence with that man or that job and that house?” He’s still moving the fork. Around and around. “Tell me your dreams, Graciela.” His eyes are ripe with anticipation as they bore into mine.
    â€œAgain,” I say, careful to hold his gaze, “please call me Ace.”
    â€œTell me your dreams, Ace,” he says without missing a beat. His fork is still twirling those damned noodles and his eyes are still locked on mine. I don’t say anything, so he continues. “The verbalization of dreams makes our souls flourish with hope.” He raises the perfectly wound ball of linguine to his lips, then stops. I think about reaching across the table and helping him get that fork into his mouth. “Share yours with me,” he says quickly, and then finally takes a bite.
    â€œYou want to hear about my dreams?” I say with as little enthusiasm as possible. His eyes dance as he nods, and the way he’s chewing his pasta is pissing me off. I think for a second about what to say and how to say it. And then, with great flourish, I begin.
    â€œOnce upon a time, I had a dream,” I say, opening my eyes extra wide, “and what a spectacular dream it was. I imagined a splendid life with a handsome gent, a fanciful career, and a not-so-humble abode overlooking blue-green ocean water.” I pause, and his pretty brown eyes are glimmering with expectation. He’s swirling linguine again. “Then one day, the unthinkable happened!” And with all the dramatic intonation I can muster up, I say, “My dream came true.”
    â€œNo!” he whispers, and I can’t tell if he’s shocked or disappointed. He keeps twirling noodles.
    â€œYes!” I whisper, and then return to my usual tone. “And that crap didn’t turn out anything like I thought it would, so I packed up and moved back to reality.” My date looks startled and a wee bit troubled. The linguine falls from his fork. He says nothing, so I continue. “I left the snow-white beaches of Pelican Cove, Florida, which was the actual physical location of this failed attempt to live my dream, on New Year’s Day, and it was not the first, but rather the third, time I moved out of the ocean-view home belonging to Mason McKenzie, the love-of-what-turned-out-to-be-only-half-of-my-life.” He crams a forkful of tangled noodles into his mouth and I keep going because I’m on a roll. “The first time, I stayed for six weeks, and when I left, it was my fault. The second time, I stayed for six months, and when I left, I had a better understanding of the legal term