The Dinner Guest

While enjoying a summer meal with my family, a rather bold 10-year-old withdrew a buttered ear of corn from her lips and placed it back on her plate. She pushed a few wisps of hair from her face with the back of her sticky hand before looking at me intently. Something was far more interesting to her than a steak dinner.

The first inquiry in her series of delightful questions was a simple fact-finding mission: “How old are you?”

Still a few years from being offended by my own age, I answered honestly. “Twenty-six.”

Her big round eyes slanted at me in suspicion: “Why aren’t you married?”

My dad nearly choked on his food. As he cleared his throat I gently rested my fork on my plate, stood up and folded my napkin before grabbing the edge of the table and flipping it violently into the air. I replayed that scene in my head a few more times before finally resting my fork on the table and looking thoughtfully at my plate of food.

“Why am I not married?” Only after Valentine’s Day or one too many Oberon’s do I give much thought to single-hood, the disease. Usually it’s a state of being that empowers me to do as I please, when I please, where I please and how I please. As far as I can tell, the ring finger on my left hand likes being naked--it's free to wave through the air without snagging a sweater or scraping someone's arm.

"But you're too beautiful," she insisted.

Flattered by the honest concern and logic of a 10-year-old, I was slightly disheartened to have squashed her romantic ideals. The princes and princesses, fairytales and happily-ever-afters kindly excused themselves from the table. An uninvited guest, loneliness, just showed up for dinner.

In the presence of loneliness we dined in silence. Forced to reflect on our gloomy guest, a whirl of memories surfaced and played out like a depressing funeral slideshow: my first kiss, senior prom, smore's on a rooftop, a long walk, a treasured photograph and exchanging "I love you's" for the first time.

Enter the protagonist: unanswered calls, lies by omission, excuses and more blatant lies. Cue all the music I can't listen to anymore. In comes the voice-over: "I need time to think," "you're such an amazing person, but..." and "It's easier this way." Then tie in a few strings for me to hang on to for too long.

I needed some water to swallow the lump in my throat. I wasn't prepared for anything heavier than strawberry shortcake that night, let alone an uninvited guest. The 10-year-old was watching my every move and I recognized the power in my response to her questions.

"I'm just waiting for the right one," I told her. "He has to be fun, truthful and very nice to me."

Seemingly satisfied by my answer, she nodded in agreement. I was satisfied too, because happily ever after just returned and knocked on the door. We all excused ourselves to entertain our new guest, leaving loneliness to dine in all its glory--by itself.