Fridays (Friday Number Two, August 25th, page 4 of 7)


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I've experienced waves of nausea for most of the week, every time I thought of how I had subjected myself to Friday night dinners. My head ached from Amy screaming in my ear how silly I am to be concerned with something so trivial. I know she's right as usual but it didn't help to keep my meals on the proper digestive path.

Social graces escape me; I am totally inept at which fork to use, how to make small talk and what is considered appropriate conversation. I quake at the thought of barging in a door before it is held for me or waiting for the holder who never moves. The few times I've dined with strangers at school functions, I've dreaded making a fool of myself, passed up soup for fear of slurping, salad for choice of dressing or desert for looking like a pig.

My mind has been as cluttered as my house with questions of why this man chose me as a weekly companion. Did Father Hammond have a hand in it? I blanched at the idea my parish priest might think me so poor and lonely a waif as to force an embarrassed widower to waste his Friday nights in my company!

Friday began with a trip to the drugstore for the ingredients to perm my hair. The chore took hours to complete. I never visit a beauty shop, even cutting my own hair, as my mother had done before me. The project took most of the day; that and trying to decide what to wear. I kept telling myself I wasn't Cinderella going to the ball; our destination was Delaneys, The Family Restaurant, and a simple platonic meal. There was no one to impress. In my heart didn't I hope Mr. Anderson wouldn't be impressed and cut off the whole business after one embarrassing session?

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