Summer of 1993, Tacoma, Washington

By Diane Bivins

It was a hot summer day when he walked into the law firm and into an office with one of the attorneys. The women were on alert. He was tall, with a surfer’s lean body, and a Matthew McConaughey smile. We didn’t see attractive men often. This was a small, family law firm that did mostly divorce, probate, and DUIs. Hardly dating material.

The receptionist quickly informed us his name was Daniel; he owned his own construction company, was single and having a contract drawn up. He was a perfect package: gorgeous, unattached, working, and male. We all waited to get another glimpse.

A half hour later he and the attorney came out and walked up to my desk. The attorney handed me some paperwork and asked if I could take care of this gentleman.

I nodded, thankful the air conditioner was working so my hair wasn’t a frizzy mess.

The attorney left, but Daniel stayed. “You don’t have to do those now,” he said. “I’ll come back in a couple days and pick them up.”

“Thanks.”

“So, what are you doing for dinner tonight?” All office noise ceased as every woman eaves-dropped with both ears.

“Top Ramen on the couch,” I said.

“How about Italian. I pick you up at 7?”

It dawns on me that I’m 28, and to date no successful, attractive men have ever asked me out. Why now? But that thought was quickly replaced with, “Well, it’s high time they did.”

He picked me up on time, in a white Ford pickup, with a utility box in back that filled up half the bed. He wore nice slacks, a button down shirt, and no heavy cologne. So far, so good. Personally, I’d never been so glad to have recently dropped those last 10 pounds. I could wear my white miniskirt and heels without feeling self-conscious, and a nice tangerine tank top to show off a decent tan. I had a great feeling about tonight.

The meal was wonderful and our booth romantically lit. We had our dessert at a nearby little harbor town and walked along the waterfront eating ice cream cones. He talked about his work and his love of basketball. I talked about my work and that my Boxer puppy was probably tearing my house to shreds.

Except for the muggy heat, the evening was perfect. The stars were bright and the moon was reflecting off the water. I was already thinking about the first kiss as we got back in his truck to drive home.

We were only halfway home when he pulled in front of a dilapidated basketball court in a rough section of town. The truck’s headlights lit it up the court, which looked like the set from a black-and-white horror movie.

He jumped out of the truck, all smiles. “We’re here.”

“What?”

He was already around the back, pulling out a basketball from the utility box. “I always play some one-on-one on a first date.”

He was easily 6′3” to my 5′3”. He had game and I’d gotten a D in high school basketball. I searched for a way out.

“I’m wearing heels.”

“Take them off,” he said, already dribbling the ball around the court.

Maybe I should have demanded to go home, stalked off, or gotten back in the truck. But suddenly I was a little scared. Anyone who would suggest I go barefoot on this court wasn’t playing with a fully inflated ball. I kicked off my heels, praying there was no broken glass out there.

Daniel passed me the ball and I took it out. Immediately my little skirt hiked up to my waist. Unless I wanted to take it off, along with my shoes, I was forced to pull down on it with one hand and dribble and shoot (or whatever else
you did with a basketball) with the other.

In the stifling heat, he made basket after basket. I did my best, running stooped over, holding my skirt, sweating profusely, and avoiding the broken beer bottles. Soon I was panting like dog in a hot car, and he was yelling for me to take shots. I would have sold my soul for a taser.

At one point, I let go of my skirt and stood upright. I turned to him to say, “I hate this. I want to go home.” But that easygoing McConaughey smile was gone and he was now seriously pissed, maybe because I wasn’t a Harlem Globe Trotter with breasts. Worried he’d snap, I played on.

I did make one basket. It was an accident. I had closed my eyes and aimed for his head. After that, I just aimed for his head every time.

We drove home in silence as I dripped sweat on his upholstery and picked rocks and glass out of the bottoms of my feet. I was humiliated and mad at myself for feeling that way.

I looked over at Daniel, who was staring straight ahead, probably wondering if he would ever find that three-point shooter of his dreams. I resolved right then to drive myself on any future first dates. And, just in case, to keep extra sneakers in my trunk.

Diane Bivins is a full-time writer/editor and has published articles in a variety of regional and national magazines. She also teaches and does screenwriting at Pierce College.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, January 26th, 2007 | Email This Post

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