By Elizabeth Murphy
“Get your heart pumping again,” the doctor tells Mr. Jacob. “Go on a date,” he adds. A retired widower with hearing aids and bifocals, Mr. Jacob can’t simply snap his fingers to make himself feel dateable. As for his heart, its pump went into standby mode last year when he lost his sweet wife, Gert. No drive, appetite, interest, hope—whatever’s needed, he doesn’t have it, only a fear of failure tattooed on his DNA. Yet, he isn’t a man to ignore a doctor’s advice, especially when that doctor remained at Gert’s side for her final moments. And so, Mr. Jacob takes a deep breath, then plunges ahead.
It’s at times like these when faced with a new challenge that he really misses Gert’s help. If he had even half her skill at navigating online, he’d easily arrange a date. By the time he eventually succeeds, he has even less hair than when he started, torn out in frustration. But he can’t stop there. First impressions are important. Preparation is everything. He’ll wear jeans instead of his dress pants, a sign that, despite his sixty-five years and teacher’s pension, he’s still got a bit of kick in him. No crease, obviously—wouldn’t want to come across as a dandy, or worse, too fussy.
He chooses a pale blue shirt that accentuates his eyes. His tweed sport coat was a gift from Gert at his fiftieth. “For the distinguished gentleman,” the birthday card had said. Would his new shoes make him appear too eager, trying too hard to impress? Isn’t that what he’s doing by wearing contacts instead of his usual glasses? Or is he afraid of looking too old and boring? Was the hot-towel face shave worth the cost? Is the scent of the Pinaud-Clubman talc too overpowering with its mix of musk, orange, and lavender?
For the final touches, forget the glitter of a gold watch, the sparkle in silver earrings—they’re not him. Lipstick is what he needs for hadn’t it made Gert look so alive in her coffin? Not just any color either. The store’s cosmetician said the Chanel Rouge Velvet complemented his warm skin undertones, something her simple color-analysis test proved true. Gert would have gasped at the cost—forty-eight dollars for one tube. A matte rather than a gloss finish better suits his personality—subdued, not flamboyant. He wouldn’t even consider the hot pink Armani lipstick, not at his age.
Only red will do. Red reminds him of a blush—an irresistible burst of emotion. It’s the color of a sunset’s promise, of courage taunting risk or the hue of a resuscitated heart prepared to live again. Mr. Jacob faces the mirror. He applies the lipstick slowly and carefully into all the miniature creases, from the center outward, then finishes with the light blot of a Kleenex. As he stares at his red lips, he remembers with confidence sweet Gert’s words: “All’s well that begins well.”
Elizabeth Murphy is the author of the novel An Imperfect Librarian (Breakwater Books). She is a retired professor, researcher, and author of numerous academic papers. Her fiction has appeared in Free Flash Fiction, Quibble.Lit, the Bright Flash Literary Review, and Compass Rose Literary Journal. Originally from Newfoundland, Elizabeth now reads and writes in Nova Scotia, Canada.
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