He is the new guy in town. Slightly aged while handsome enough and funny, but defined, internally at least, by a few turns of bad luck with romance. But! But he had really turned things around the past few years and, career, money – hell, even his intellect – was all going in the right direction, together, for the first time in his life. He’d been building momentum, until 2020 – like everyone else — with a consistent regimen of focusing only on his needs and priorities. Now nursing his own insecurities of what the state of the world meant for him, he took solace in the fact that his aforementioned lifestyle momentum, now admittedly slowing, had plenty of kg•m/s (that’s momentum) to get him through the pestilence and, if he played his cards right on tonight’s date, maybe even with a marked improvement to his romantic life.

“Goodness no,” he laughed to himself, “you haven’t dated in a while, I know, but a physics joke? I know you think it’s funny even if it doesn’t land but you’re gonna come off as pretentious. Just be cool and let her talk. She’s familiar with the area, you aren’t. Let her take control. Stan said it’s a good fit so let’s see how it goes. Hell, maybe we finally spend the night with someone other than ourself.”

The new guy in town. One encompassing name for any of an array of newcomers to an area. Preachers? Drifters? Worse? Enter Las Vegas, Nevada, a city where being the new guy in town lasts only until you finish saying it. A flood of transplants pouring into the valley day by day and looking for their place in the low desert country. But when flooding overwhelms available socializing options, a new guy may become desperate enough to search for companionship elsewhere. Desperate enough to ignore his better judgement. Desperate enough to enter…..the Twilight Zone.

By 9 o’clock his head was spinning. She was in the restroom now while he sipped on a glass of wine reviewing how he had gotten here. They’d met outside a restaurant – this one, Chicago Joe’s, a little old house turned Italian restaurant with big portions, checkered tablecloths, and the reddest red sauce you’ve ever had. He had been early and, seeing a couple groups pulling up near him in the parking lot, set a reservation on his phone for their dinner in fifteen minutes.

He did not see her arrive. He was early but she must have taken the rail or something because, one minute he was wondering if he’d been stood up and, the next, there was a light brush on the back of his forearm and a question, “Mr Right?” The joke, of course, wrote itself and he knew to completely ignore it. Many women over the years had worn the romantic blinders of, “meeting Mr Right,” and, yet, here he stood on another first date.

Seeing the two groups waiting on the lawn in front of the restaurant, she lamented that, as the Vegas local, she should have considered the size of the restaurant when she picked it and gotten reservations. Mr Right smiled and escorted her to the overwhelmed attendant who stood pen-ready to take a name and quote any of a number of long wait times that may quell the excitement of any further patrons beyond what was in their queue. He motioned to put the wait list away because they had a 7:30P reservation. Her bangs and black mask working in unison to shadow what was visible of her upper face, he could see her smile as she stepped into him, leaving more than enough room for a passing patron, the arguable cause for her movement. He was intoxicated from that moment forward.

Dinner had gone off without a hitch from there. They had a table near an open back door where there was little foot traffic and only one other table which seated six women that presented him and his new interest with a thread of catty inside jokes by which they bonded. It felt like a fit. He talked about his family and grandkids, no longer wincing when introducing the topic because, hey, it’s important and he was far too lazy to try to keep such a thing a secret. Hell, it wasn’t like they lived in his home. She talked about her troubles from California, having hopped around the state a bit from north to south and back, struggling in her industry and not feeling adequately supported in her field. Finally, she hopped the boarder and, welp, she was turning the corner.

He bit his tongue about “turning the corner.” If she was this perfect, he already knew how she was voting. He sipped his wine instead, nodded, and commented on how neat it was that they served wine out of tiny glasses. Neither of them had been to either or Italy or Chicago so the expertise was not available to speak to whether this was an Italian restaurant thing, an Italian-American restaurant thing, or a Chicago Joe’s thing.

“Well, you like to cook,” she had said before excusing herself before dessert, “maybe you can show me the food scenes in Chicago and Italy someday.”

He was having a great time; this he knew. The restaurant, however, was red. The tablecloths, the napkins, the walls – it wasn’t bothersome, but he was having trouble further visualizing the evening through this rose-colored filter. As much as he was engrossed by her presence for the last hour-plus, he couldn’t describe her features from memory at all. Or perhaps, he had to admit, it was the second bottle of wine they were working on. He giggled.

The night continued with a drink nearby and, through a statement more than an offer, she had invited him to her place where they ended up together in bed, inebriated, flirting, and high as a kite as morning daybreak approached.

His eyes seemed to have shaken off the early exposure to red and settled down in the darkness of her off-Strip condo. It was quiet and the full moon provided only the minimal amount of light needed before further exploration would require dependence on the sense of touch. He focused on her so intently as the giggled and rolled and kissed in the bed. This was in the bag. Tonight was a sure thing. She slid her legs under the covers and creeped the duvet to her face.

“Don’t do that,” he began with the charm, “it’s already dark enough. You don’t get to hide further.” She giggled. “I mean it, you’re enthralling. I didn’t want to say anything early but, and you probably know this, you are beautiful.” She gave a weak protest, pointing out a small scar near her hairline. It was too dark for him to make out any of her features but he was no novice.

“That’s a scar, not a blemish.”

She laughed and rolled her back to him, playfully hiding her face in the pillows. He rubbed his hand on her exposed shoulder, gently prying her to roll back to him.

“Well I just want to say, thanks for agreeing to meet me tonight. You joke that you’re new here too but, of the two new Las Vegans in this bed, you’re the beautiful one.”

The Sun finally broke through the curtains and illuminated the room. Confident in his words, Mr Right pulled harder as she gave up resisting. She rolled over and smiled for him. 

Hopeless romance. A wonderful storytelling device but a poor way to find a mate. While many may wonder where they find their Mr Right, they may best warned that this may take some searching. Searching for a man who is now without hope…in the Twilight Zone.