Reverend Ruth is my friend, fellow dog walker, and hospice counselor. She’s been watching people exit this beautiful place for more than 50 years. Ruth says that this year is one of exiting. Hospice is backed up, the obituary section of the paper is thick and every week I’ve attended a funeral or sent a condolences card. I want it to stop. It is all so sad.

Last week it was my best friend’s mother, who I considered my second mom. I wasn’t sad to see her go because she had been in so much pain. She was begging to die. But the family wanted to wait, just in case. I wanted to put a pillow over her head. It broke my heart to sit beside her bed day after day, watching her suffer. And I couldn’t help but notice that she was finally losing weight. A feeding tube will do that to you. As the nurse, said it’s very restrictive. She became so small I wasn’t even sure it was her in the bed. I loved June. She knew me as well as my own mother. I wished I’d had a child so she could have been a grandmother.

My Dad and now June. And with a new name to write under, I feel free to say whatever I want.

After the memorial service; an old flame, hook-up, boyfriend, date, whatever, wanted to share a few drinks. We had to wait an hour for the bar to open. He really wanted a drink.

I hadn’t seen him for seven years, but he was still as charming as ever. With six sisters, this man knows everything about women.

I’d dated him for around seven months, and then his “wife” popped up at a company party. Funny because he’d signed the divorce papers on the golf course, and had his divorce party at the local Mexican restaurant . The kind of place where it’s safer to stick with the drinks than risk food poisoning.

I’d forgotten how hurt I’d been when I learned he was married. And after a few glasses of wine, a steak dinner ( I ate the salad part), lots of laughs, and a teenage thrill ride up the hill to my house, we of course were in bed together. It was comfortable. He wanted to check out my new boobs. I wanted to feel loved, and safe and alive.

Then he told me he had had a small heart attack. Not a big deal he was on the golf course (not sure he ever really worked), and happened to be playing golf with two paramedics. The charmer has lived a charmed life.

As we waited for his dick to get hard, we talked about old times. How after his DUI he would have to blow to start his car. And how coming back from Tahoe he walked five miles in the snow, in tennis shoes, hoping to sober up after running into a snow plow. We laughed about all the fun we had dancing all night, having sex in the hot tub, in the car, on the porch, and on the bar after everyone had gone home. The trip to Las Vegas, the wedding we crashed, the halloween party when he left me alone to go to one that was more fun. As in had more coke.

It was getting late. And his dick was still limp. We talked about how much I loved my dad and how he lost his at 58 from a heart attack. But that would never happen to him; his dad was an alcoholic.

The Charmer had an early tee off time. He sweetly kissed me softly, blew out the candles, took the wine glasses down stairs, and locked the door. He quietly started the car, to carefully drive 20 miles to his own house right down the street from his family.  “You know baby we are separated now. I had the separation party at the Mexican restaurant. Sorry you couldn’t come, it was a blast.”

He’s a charmer and a liar. His wife is a saint. His kids somehow are growing up fine. I’ve learned since that he’s had three heart attacks. I doubt his dick will ever work again. And I don’t think he will make 58.

I’ll learn much more about who the Charmer is at his funeral than I did in all the hours we spent in bed.

It’s a year of exits, please don’t make it yours my sweet Charmer.

He’s a widower. His wife passed away in “one of those accidents” a few years ago. He loves dogs. He loves the fact I love my dog. He had a dog that was a soulmate. His four legged partner passed away 247 days, 13 hours, and 37 seconds ago. His wife’s date of death isn’t mentioned.

Dog Lover wants to bring a nice bottle of wine to my house and drink it on the deck. I say it’s too cold. He says, that’s even better, because we can drink it inside around the fire. I tell him no. I don’t know him. He could stalk me, or harm me. Strangle me, and drag me up into the hills behind the house. He says he would never do that to hurt his reputation at this point in his life. Ummm – what about what about the effect on ME?

After eight text messages we compromise and meet half way between our homes. We compromise on the time too. He wants to meet at 5:00 I prefer 7:30. I tell him how about 6:00 and I will eat dinner before the date so he’s not pressured to buy dinner if he doesn’t like me.

We meet at a steakhouse that I’ve never been too. I stopped eating red meat when I helped to  butcher a cow at 16. He likes the steakhouse because happy hour lasts all night. We each have a $5 glass of wine, and then split a second one. We are the only people in the bar. When he goes to the bathroom the waiter brings the bill. I leave it for Dog Lover to pay.

He asks if I’d like to meet his dog. We walk to his Mercedes, which has an enormous dog bed in the back and a dog the weighs around 70 pounds. I crawl in the seat. The dog is dying. The bedding smells dank. He puts his paw on my arm and looks into my eyes. Weakly lifting his head to cough. I rub his chest, he sighs. I kiss him on the top of his head. I want to stay all night listening to him breath.

Dog Lover stands out in the cold. He walks me to the car I turn my head to avoid his kiss. It lands on my ear. His lips are very dry.

The next day he sends an email – Do you want to go out this weekend? Do you think we have chemistry? No and no. Good luck on your search, and please take your dog to the vet.

Dog Lover emails me a week later for some help with AdWorks. He’s used it before, but just needs to calculate traffic and costs, and what key words to use, and how to manage the account. Ummm, the name of the product is AdWords not AdWorks, they have an excellent online tutorial, and I charge $100/hr for SEO advice.

I can’t remember at all what he looks like, I still pray for his dog.

Almost a year ago I tested the dating waters without any success. And then Dad got sicker and I had no time, or desire to think of any other man. Perhaps I’ll start again. The grief is a bit less, and I’m not worried constantly. I didn’t want to miss any time with him. Looking through my notes, I found this story that I thought was too pathetic to share, but now see it as pretty funny.

Match.com says we are a match. He loves my smile and is very attracted to successful women. He’s been a writer for the NY Times, and a few television shows. An old school marketing whiz, without a website. Date1 has branded himself as a sophisticated city bachelor. He wears a suit everyday, has a driver so he never interacts with the dirty streets, and travels to Europe on vacation. We’re to meet in North Beach in San Francisco. He asks me to wear a sexy dress with high heels. My instructions are to take BART to the Embarcadero and catch a cab to the bar. I bring my flip flops and walk.

The night is beautiful.

I meet him at his favorite neighborhood bar where he’s perched on a bar stool watching a movie on his iPhone. He pops up and is short, really short. And old. Shorter and older than his profile.  I tower over him in my heels. And indeed, he is wearing a beautiful thousand dollar suit, polished shoes, and the perfect tie.

The bartender asks what I’d like. His tight pants, and hip haircut make my date look even older. Sophisticated City Bachelor tells him a glass of the house red. I jokingly ask the bartended “ “so Sophisticated City Bachelor is a friend of yours” expecting to hear a story of how he’s the greatest guy ever, how nice it is to see him with a beautiful woman.  Detective work on my part. Instead he responds “he’s a client” and walks to the other end of the bar.

Sophisticated City Bachelor asks how the cab ride was, I tell him I walked. He scows at me, and said that was crazy to do. The hills, the tourists, the wind. I tell him I like to absorb life. I know the date is over.

I feel guilty and think about leaving before he pays for dinner. But he’s bounced up to tell me all about the revival of North Beach, how he knows the chef at the up and coming restaurant we will be dinning at. It’s a retelling of an article from this week’s Sunday Chronicle. That’s the problem with smart dates, they read too. But for once, I stay quiet.

On the corner is a homeless man exchanging compliments for donations “Wow, he says. It’s nice to see such a beautiful couple on a beautiful night. I smile, I look deep into his eyes, and I tell him “thank you”, “that was really kind of you to say. It is our first date”. Enjoy the evening”.

Sophisticated City Bachelor grabs my arm. Firmly. I stumble to catch-up. He negotiates for a good table, because last time his table was terrible, and he knows the chef and comes here often, so make sure it is good. It is. We watch the tourists read menus, haul luggage, and dream of love.

I get a lecture for speaking with the man on the corner. “Why? I ask”. “Because they are assholes”. “But I didn’t give thim money.” “It doesn’t matter, say Sophisticated City Bachelor”, if you acknowledge them they think it’s OK to do what they are doing.” “But they are human beings and he was kind.” “They are assholes he says.”

I choke down my dinner. During the 10 minute cab ride back to the Embarcadero station, we don’t talk, He’s busy giving the driver turn by turn directions. I prepare for the end of the date. BART card in hand, I stuff handfuls of bills at him in an attempt to blot out the evening, and advert any type of kiss. He’s aggressive. Grabbing my boob, and licking my neck. I shove him away. On BART I text a thank you and that I’m safely on my way to the East Bay. He doesn’t respond.

The eyes of the homeless man were a faded sea blue. I never looked into my date’s eyes, but I bet they were an angry black.