“Did you at least get a good story out of it?” I asked.
My mother doesn’t date often. After the divorce, she said she was “recalibrating,” which is a very mom way of saying she’d rather read a mystery novel in a bathrobe than suffer small talk with a stranger. But her friend Carol insisted. “You’re a catch, Linda. A whole marlin.” mother's bad date
“Surprise me.”
She winked. And just like that, Gary the ergonomic-chair salesman became a ghost—a cautionary tale, a footnote, a tiny, ridiculous speed bump on the long, strange road of my mother’s recalibration. “Did you at least get a good story out of it