The Feline Gaze

“Okay, six. Here,” she hands me a wadded-up bill. “Get yourself some, too. On me.”

“I don’t want your money,” I tell her.

“Just take it. I don’t want your charity,” she says.

“I don’t think spending six dollars on you could be considered charity.”

“You’re already giving me a ride,” she tells me insistently.

“Keep it,” I say. “Consider this a gift celebrating our new friendship.”

That seems to satisfy her, and she sits back against the seat and holds her money in her lap. I’m not so naïve that I think this is at all settled. I’m guessing, in fact, that she’s probably going to try to sneak it into my wallet or that she’ll hide it somewhere in my car. I’ll deal with that when it arises, but I’m definitely not letting a sweet drunk girl pay for her own dinner.

I order the food, make it through the drive-thru somehow, and start heading back toward her home. I hand the bag back to the woman and she starts munching on the tacos. I probably shouldn’t let strange women eat in my car, but you only live once, right?

“So, what’s your name?” I ask her. “I probably should have asked earlier, but, you know, I was distracted with the idea of cheap food in the middle of the night.”

“Cassidy. My name is Cassidy.”

“I’m Matt.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says through a mouthful of taco.

“What brought you out tonight?” I ask, turning down the quiet road that leads to Cassidy’s house.

She shrugs, but something shifts in the air. Sadness? Loneliness? Frustration? I wonder if she’s feeling as anxious as I am about the entire dating thing. Maybe she hates the idea of trying to find someone just as much as I do.

“That doesn’t seem good.”

“I guess I’m just not very good at meeting people,” she says. She looks up, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. I need to stay focused on the road. It’s late, and it’s dark, but I can’t help peeking back at her every few minutes. Now that she’s sitting up and her clothing is adjusted, I don’t feel bad about looking at her or about admiring her. She’s lovely and sweet. Cassidy has this element of curiosity about her. She just seems so very alive, so very interested in everything around her.

When was the last time I met someone who was actually curious?

I don’t know that I ever have.

“Why do you say that?”

“I talked to two different guys tonight, not counting you, and both times it was just bad.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Yep.” She leans back, tacos forgotten, and starts telling me about her night. “I just need to find a date for a, uh, special event. My friend suggested a mixer as a way to meet people. I’m not the biggest fan of apps,” she explains, and I’m a little surprised by her honesty, but I find myself nodding.

“Me neither,” I say. “They’re just so impersonal.”

“Yeah, and you always meet creeps on there,” she shakes her head and shivers, and I wonder what kind of guys she’s met that have given her such a bad impression. Cassidy doesn’t deserve to be treated like that and the idea that she has been makes me very unhappy.

She deserves to be treated like a princess.

Worshipped.

Protected.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I tell her.

“Me too. What about you? Why were you there?”

“Same reason. I’m going to a wedding. I need a date.”