The One Who Got Away Finally Returns, but Look Who’s Wriggling on Hook

Do you ever think about the one who got away? Ever wonder how you would react if he or she reappeared and asked you out again? Ever fantasize about how events might be different the second time around?

The one who got away from me seven years ago was named Don.

Our relationship had been short-lived but intense. Together, we stalked the steamy jungles of unbridled passion and dove into the sizzling depths of wild abandon.

Charisma? Mel Gibson looked about as appealing as “Weird Al” Yankovic compared to Don. He had the grace of Mikhail Baryshnikov, the humor of Woody Allen, the intelligence of John Lilly. He was the only man who ever got under my skin.

When Don unceremoniously dumped me, I envisioned that faraway day to come when he would call again. Deep in my heart there burned a tiny flickering flame that had never been extinguished.

And then, when I had almost forgotten him, the phone rang.

I had always imagined that when he did call, my voice would be soft and alluring, radiating confidence; nothing but deft and witty banter coming from me. All the right words would fall trippingly off my tongue--no “you knows” or “ummms” that often sabotage a display of self-confidence.

In my fantasy, he begged for the pleasure of my company, and I, of course, turned him down flat. Hanging up, I laughed like Joan Crawford in a 1940s melodrama.

But when he did call, I turned into a gob of goo.

He asked me out for the following Saturday evening, suggesting that we dine at this week’s “in” spot in Newport Beach. I accepted. This would be my night to shine. Part of me wanted to knock him dead. Another part--no doubt my evil twin--wished him dead.

In the ensuing days, I fantasized the entire evening in exhausting detail. He would appear at my front door, unable to speak, so transfixed by my beauty. I, on the other hand, would comment on how much he had changed: “Oh, poor baby, you’ve lost all your hair; but I do like the way you torture those few strands forward.”

I was going to devastate him and then dump him. I sifted through my wardrobe looking for an outfit that made the perfect statement. My Nolan Miller cocktail suit would do nicely. Its matching beaded silk camisole was subtle; the ensemble elegant, yet sexy.

When Saturday arrived, I went through my exercise routine, then headed for the beauty salon where I treated myself to “the works” from a new hair style to a massage. I probably would have had plastic surgery if I could have fit in it.

A stop at a local wine shop yielded a lovely Chateau Margaux, goose liver pate, cheese and water biscuits to serve while we chatted. I spied a stunning crystal wine caddy. My silver-plated ice bucket was declasse by comparison; however, this extravagant purchase mandated a swift but sure rationale: It would be nice to have when entertaining special guests. “Wrap it up,” I announced. Palms sweating and fingers trembling, I handed over my credit card.

Then it hit me.

In my zeal to upend he who had “done me wrong,” I had been seized by a compelling, primordial urge to join a club unworthy of my membership. I began running a mental tab; I felt like one of those cartoons--dollar signs spinning on my eyeballs, cash registers ringing. Aside from the crystal caddy, I had purchased expensive earrings, Ferragamo pumps and a handbag.

All this for a transitory kick, an ego boost.

That old bugaboo, false pride, was entering at warp speed.

Who would have the last laugh now--me, him or Mastercard?

The next few hours passed in slow motion. The clock was ticking like the metronome on “Jeopardy.”

He was due at eight-ish, I was fully dressed by 7:09. I fluffed pillows and dusted for the 18th time. I garnished the hors d’oeuvres platter with baby gardenias. Then, I put Beethoven on the CD player and attempted to settle my nerves with a crossword puzzle. Name a seven-letter word meaning “foolhardy.” Tossing the puzzle aside, I went to the kitchen and bid Chateau Margaux a fond hello. A few sips later, the doorbell rang. The moment of truth had arrived. No turning back now.

Wouldn’t you know it? There he was, handsome as ever, flashing that million-dollar smile. He stared. I stared. Why did he have to look so good?

I offered him a glass of wine, but he asked for a beer. As I fetched him a Heineken, he unconsciously grabbed the TV remote control and clicked on a hockey game. “Just want to check the score, OK?” I quietly excused myself while I went back to the bar, retrieved the wine bottle from the crystal holder, dried off the caddy and placed it in the box from whence it came. “Thank you, God--I owe you one,” I whispered.

At dinner we talked not of the past, but of the here and now. His here and now.

He had recently ended a relationship. Why? “Oh, I don’t know. She started to get on my nerves after a couple of months,” he said.

He had always liked bright women, but any attempts at “meaningful conversation” fell upon deaf ears. I broached the subject of apartheid and later the American Trader oil spill. He responded with “Wow, it’s really something, huh?” to both topics.

Huh, indeed.

Mr. Wizard had transmogrified into Mr. Magoo.

“Say, I really love your hair like that. You look great, babe.” (For the record: You can cheat me, you can lie to me--you can even slander my name--just don’t call me “babe.”)

Mercifully, it was getting late. As we finished our espresso he reached for my knee and winked. “So. Shall I call you in the morning for breakfast or shall I just nudge you?”

“Write me,” I replied.