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

‘irreconcilable differences.’ As a matter of fact, I had a better understanding of about a hundred thousand legal terms because when Mason wasn’t at work, he was talking about work and, to be perfectly honest, it was exhausting.”
    â€œSo your dream man was a lawyer?” Mr. Conversation Hog snaps before cramming another massive wad of pasta into his mouth.
    â€œIs,” I tell him, picking up a piece of bread and sopping it in olive oil. “He
is
a lawyer. And would you like to know something else?” He makes an awful face and I realize that I don’t even remember his name. “Mason McKenzie is a good guy,” I tell whoever-he-is-over-there, “which is why I went back that third and final time to spend the holidays with him. I wanted to be sure we couldn’t work things out, but sadly, those irreconcilable differences proved to be unresolvable, so we parted ways one last time and now I have no dream.”
    â€œYou must have been chasing the wrong dream,” he begins, and then, in an obvious attempt to recover his domination of the dialogue, says, “One time I thought—”
    â€œOh, no,” I say quickly, effectively blocking his shot at turning the conversational spotlight back his way. “My whole life, Mason was all I ever wanted. And I had him! I had him and I had my very own art gallery—which was a lovely building with a stunning view of the bay—and we lived in a khaki-and-cream-colored three-story stucco house one block from the Gulf of Mexico.” I look across the table and see my date is cramming noodles into his mouth again. “I had it all,” I say. He’s looking at me now like he’s in actual physical pain. “And little by little, bit by bit, my dream life let me down.” I look down at my lasagna. “But there is some good news.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” He’s hustling more pasta onto his fork.
    â€œMason and I are still friends and I’m sure we always will be, but whoever came up with that line about the third time being a charm is full of shit.” Several minutes pass during which the awkward silence swells. I take that opportunity to stare him down like he’s been doing to me since we met at the door of this way-too-romantic-for-a-blind-date restaurant. He just sits there, chewing like a squirrel, looking back at me. Finally, I break the silence. “Yep,” I say, and decide to entertain myself for a minute more. “The don’t-mistake-me-for-a-model-citizen is back, and I’m sure the wanna-be-highbrows-with-overplucked-eyebrows couldn’t be more pleased. You know what I mean?” He shakes his head and stares at me. His fork is still. “Neither do I,” I say with a smile. I love the look on his face now.
Go tell this story to your damned mama,
I think as I continue. “But, hey! A few bad apples won’t ruin the whole basket as long as they keep their rotten asses at a distance, right?” I smile at my date. I bet his mother has overplucked eyebrows.
    â€œUh, okay.” He pushes his plate to the side and looks around for our waiter. “Check, please!” When the bill arrives, I consider giving him a twenty but decide against it. I think I earned my meal by sitting quietly through that series of painfully dull stories about his idyllic childhood and flawless mother. On the way out, he holds the door for me and says, “I’ll call you,” like men do when they think that’s what you want to hear.
    â€œPlease don’t,” I say. “But thank you for dinner.”
    â€œRight,” he says, and starts speed walking in the opposite direction.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œHow’d the date go?” my pal Chloe asks when I call her on the way home.
    â€œIt was downright therapeutic,” I tell her.
    â€œSo, not good?”
    â€œChloe!” I say. “This guy will never