Like time-sharing: cow-lease guy

This was a new one. Intelliconnect. Instead of winking, you peered over your spectacles at someone of interest. This was Internet matching for the intellectually elite.
Of course, there was no IQ test, but never mind.

I arranged to meet C at Teaism, Dupont Circle.

(Teaism had been a parting gift from S. I got Teaism and his black umbrella, the one with the bended spoke that caved inward in the wind. Teaism, he always said, was a good date place, because if things worked out you could stay and have dinner or go elsewhere and if not, “welp, finish up your tea and off you go.” He would know; he was probably still going there while we were dating.)

C seemed to like the suggestion well enough. He came pulled along by a bouncy, panting springer spaniel, Boxie. We settled Boxie down, fastening him to a nearby tree and sign one occurred. He sighed, heavy-hearted; a sigh of heaving, monumental despondence. Unhappiness frightens me. It makes me smile hard, teeth blaring, which, in not too much time at all makes my jaw hurt. Badly.

“Hey,” he said, blandly. “Well, I just came from the farmer’s market, haven’t been there in years….”

And, we were off.

He talked in long rolling sighs as we approached the counter.

I always wonder about the little things – the logistics of a date. I care if people notice their surroundings, leave room in the conversation for speaking, for giving and taking.

I wonder, for example, when someone starts with a story as they approach the counter in a tea house: how will we order? When do I interrupt? When do I say “Hello, nice to meet you. My name is…”

But never mind, C was still talking as we ordered tea and carried it back to a little table. He kept talking, rolling over hills of his disappointment in the farmer’s market – something about cheese, and how it was made – to having not been to Dupont in a while and how commercial and bland my neighborhood had gotten, to hoping the person taking our tea order had understood him when he asked about the milk they served with the tea.

As we sat, he was saying, “Yeah, I actually try to stick to raw milk. I like pure foods, you know the raw foods movement. Are you involved in that at all?” His eyes sparked black just for a second and quickly back to flat again.

I tilted my head, poured my own tea, “Mmmmm?”

“Raw foods. The raw foods movement?” he carried on. “You know the idea that you only use pure, organic ingredients. And don’t treat them chemically, in any way. That’s why I was really surprised at the market that they didn’t offer raw cheese, made with un-pasteurized milk. Most places, most markets do.”

I swirled my spoon in the teacup, mulling “unpasteurized” like cider sloshing through my head.

“You know milk is better for you when it’s not pasteurized. Much better. There are lots of studies. It doesn’t have all the chemicals… but, most stores can’t sell it -- ” Here he paused to roll his eyes.

“Mmmm,” I looked, deep into my tea, unable to meet his eyes, “because of the health codes?”

“Yes, which is so ridiculous. JAMA’s done studies. Everyone has!”

I nodded.

He softened, subdued.
“It’s really… it’s just become so difficult to find. I mean even the farmer’s markets don’t seem to offer it anymore.” His lower lip poked out, the mere thought of being unable to buy milk straight from the cow’s teat to his lips, clearly wounding him to his core.

For a moment, I was disheartened, too, on his behalf. We both sat in stillness, mesmerized by spoons and teacups, silently mourning the loss of cow-to-lips milk in our world.

And though I knew I could never become a raw-milk-drinking kind of gal, for a moment I looked at him, into his saddened, hurting heart and I thought “Could I?”

After all, here was someone who cared for something, cared passionately about purity and naturalness and health. Who could be against that? And there were studies! Perhaps my impression of the advantages of modern science on food preparation and delivery was the one that was skewed. Maybe I’d feel better, lose weight, lighten my load if I lessened my exposure to chemicals myself. Could it really hurt to consider? Didn’t I say I wanted open-minded? Here was a man who wanted purity and goodness, in ways tempting in their concreteness.

Then he spoke.

“That’s why,” he said, “I’m considering renting a cow.”

I giggled. See, and he was funny, too. “Oh yeah? A cow? Like a timeshare?”

A wave of light spread speedily across his now glowing cheeks. “Yes!” he said joyously. “Exactly like time-sharing!”

He went on. Apparently, in many modern cities, cow sharing has become in vogue. Along with the cow, you get the farmer, and the labor of milking the cow, and the bottling, and preparing of your milk order. You simply go to pick it up.

There were raw foods groups, he went on to explain, where one could meet people to form such a cow-share experience. While there, recipes were traded for vegan organic delights, farming tips offered - though, truth be told, none of the members he knew really did any farming per se. There were lists circulated of stores and – e-gads – restaurants friendly to the non-pasteurized set.

He was chattering away, animatedly now. But I could only stir Moroccan Mint and pick at the salty oat cookie that I’m sure would never meet his seal of approval.

And I had to be honest.
No, I could not be with this man. Not ever.

We finished our tea. He asked if I wanted to walk with him and Boxie and I said sure. It was a beautiful day, yellow and orange-brown leaves touching the tips of sky.
And then I kept walking, feeling sad for C, and for Boxie, who seemed like a perfectly nice dog.

And , mostly, admittedly, feeling sad for me.

To read more of washwords' tales from the dating crypt, look for her pending book release.