“Look yesterday’s date was pretty okay. Maybe this will be the one. You never know.”

T he ad is tucked away on a small strip beneath the health column. Curly gold font against a sky-blue backdrop. At the bottom-right corner the edges of a satin veil flutter in an imaginary breeze.

Ace your dates!

Ever dreamed of a personal dating consultant?

Do you wish you could learn the secrets to CONFIDENT and SUCCESSFUL dating?

Call Judy Shenker Certified Dating Consultant

Aliza stiffens. She glances up from the magazine looks around the subway car: To her right a teen is intent on her iPhone taking sips from a humongous cup of iced coffee; the teen to her left is snoring red wire spilling from tiny buds in his ears.

She looks back down at the ad.

I wish. Her arms tingle. Wouldn’t it be nice? Someone to tell her what to do: Say this don’t go there. She sighs gives her head a tiny shake. She’s not crazy. She can handle dating on her own. Like everyone else.

Well then why has nobody ever said yes to you after a second date?

Sweat pricks the back of her neck. The train swerves clattering as it grinds along the tracks. She watches her reflection in the blackness of the window across from her light brown hair pulled back softly angular chin ordinary. She looks away.

The train jolts to a stop. Aliza exits into the cool autumn morning savors the hint of winter that rushes in the breeze. The wind coaxes the rusted leaves scattered and wilted in the gutters into a freefalling dance. By the time she glides through the glass doors of the geriatric facility the morning’s song is pulsing through her.

Regina is haranguing the janitor but she stops to greet Aliza. “Hello my dear ” she sighs.

“Hi Regina ” Aliza says. She snaps up the shades. She’s not sure why but they like her here. Sometimes she wonders if it’s because she calls them by something other than honey because she talks to them without patting their arms.

As soon as the janitor leaves Regina stage-whispers “How’d your date go?”

Aliza frowns. “It was okay. I think.”

“The guys have to be crazy not to fall for you ” Regina says loyally.

Aliza smiles. “Thanks... I wish.”

She glances at Regina’s screen and reaches for the blood pressure cuff. Guiltily her mind flashes back to the pretty gold lettering the sky-blue ad. Look yesterday’s date was pretty okay. Maybe this will be the one. You never know.

“So what do you think is happening in the big wide world?” Regina crackles. “Trump gone skiing yet with Putin? With Mr. North Korea?” She swipes her hands together. “Feh. Fools the lot of them.”

“Oh politics.” Aliza laughs. That’s one topic she couldn’t discuss with Regina to her it’s all sour milk. But today she takes the bait.

“You would know ” she tells the gratified old lady. “Fill me in.” In her mind’s eye she’s vanquishing the enticing ad until it disappears in a plume of smoke.

Her mother is throwing a fit on the phone when she walks in.

“Really Tzirel what is that supposed to mean? They didn’t connect? This is a first date l’maan Hashem Yisbarach!” Esther throws her hands in the air her cheeks red.

Something deflates in Aliza’s chest. So it’s a no.

“Hello Mommy.”

Her mother whirls around. “Oh. It’s you.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you’d let me know what the shadchan’te says first before you call Aunt Tzirel ” Aliza says mildly slipping past her mother toward the tiny pantry. Her fingers flutter anxiously over the shelves. The gummy bears. Where are they when you need them?

Esther is leaning one elbow on the counter brows knitted listening intently. She caps her palm over the mouthpiece whispers “You said something?”

“No.” Aliza slits open a new package. Yum.

Her mother sighs heavily. “Yes I know. Okay Aliza just walked in we’ll talk.”

“How lovely ” Aliza sighs. She flops into a chair rubs her ankles together. “So there was no connection he said?”

Her mother is not sympathetic tonight. Her eyes are determined the creases around her mouth quiver. “This is not normal Aliza. Tell me what’s going on? You’re smart and geshikt and gorgeous!” The waning afternoon sun streams through the old peach curtains glints on the little red flowers on her mother’s housecoat. She waves her dishrag; in the sun’s haze she strikes Aliza as some kind of old-time general strategizing for war. “What is it that you’re doing on these dates!? We have to get to the bottom of this!”

Shame clasps her throat with hot fingers. What should she say — that she’s trying? That she’s doing everything all good fine girls do and she has no idea why it isn’t working for her? That it confounds her too? She swallows looks away.

“We have to get down to business,” Esther continues. She stops for a moment to frown at the package of gummy bears on the table, then turns abruptly toward the stove. She brings Aliza creamed zucchini soup in the milchig blue-and-white Corelle. “I tried it with milk this time. And you don’t seem to have any good ideas, so I’m going to call Tzirel and Chana and Rivky tonight; we’ll set up a conference call and together we’ll brainstorm fo—”

“Please, Mommy, stop, just stop.” That’s all she needs. A swarm of aunts descending on her, buzzing with so much wisdom. She loves them dearly, really she does, but there’s nothing they would like more than being officially invited to a Let’s-Get-Aliza-Married symposium, and frankly, she doesn’t feel like granting them the joy.

Esther draws back, hurt. Aliza sighs. “I’ll try to think of something, of... of—” She pauses. Gold-on-blue and fluttering veils flicker in her mind’s eye. She grinds her teeth. “I’ll think of something to do. Really, Ma.”

Esther’s eyes are narrow, but she nods.

“The soup is great, the milk makes it really rich,” Aliza says hastily.

She downs the last of her soup and slips up the stairs. She sinks into the matted pink carpet, picks up a small wooden bird, beginnings of sweet features jutting out from the still raw slab that is the rest of its face. She runs her fingers over the soft basswood, breathes in its scent of jasmine and lemon blossom.

For a moment, she thinks of forgetting everything, just reaching for her carving knife. Her bird is gorgeous and gruesome in its incompletion, and she must work on it. Then she thinks of this fancy dating consultant, whoever she is, and what she’d think of her, a grown woman on the floor, carving birds from wood.

She picks herself off the floor, blushing. She stands before the mirror, fists clenched, and tries.

“Hi, Judy, this is Aliza Neumann. I’m a geriatric nurse and have been dating for seven years now. My mother recently—”

No. It’s none of her business.

“Hi, Judy, this is Aliza, I saw your ad and I thought this would be a great idea! Someone to walk you through it all and—”

Too chirpy.

“Hi, Judy, Aliza Neumann here. I always dreamed of having a personal dating consultant. I’m never sure if I’m doing things right, saying things—”

NO!

Aliza closes her eyes and holds her breath for a moment. She exhales with a great puff and dials.

“Let’s get right down to business,” Judy says, after a quick nod, and a trip down a winding hallway to a tiny enclosed porch-cum-office. She gives Aliza a quick once-over before waving her onto a little stool.

She walks around the room, gesturing. “A new date, a new beginning! First impressions count.” Her smooth nails are peach and shiny, the deep red of her sheitel shimmers in the sun creeping through the slats.

Aliza shifts. “Um. It’s not entirely new, you see, we dated last year and it didn’t work out. And now we decided to try again.”

And now he was convinced to try again.

Judy frowns. Then shrugs. “So it is. Now for starters, your clothes. You look sweet, but we need something else, more tasteful and new, in a tzniyus way of course.”

Aliza shrinks back. She had carefully selected her ensemble: olive green cardigan, the tan skirt that fits great, her rose gold necklace with the little studded loops.

“And those”—Judy points at Aliza’s shoes—“do absolutely nothing. And they’re flamingo pink, for goodness' sake. They gotta go.”

The next few days are all train-hopping and headaches. Aliza suggests Lord and Taylor, but Judy balks. She takes her to Saks first.

“Here, let’s try this,” Judy is cooing, selecting a turquoise scarf, 100 percent cashmere. She throws it on top of the mountain of clothes in her arms and glides into the next aisle.

Two hours later, Judy treats them both to huge Slurpees. “We can only do this ’cuz nobody is watching.” She winks. “And anyway, we deserve it. You got a real makeover! Here,” she plunks a fat red straw through the plastic cover and holds out the cup. “Believe me, you’re going to feel like a new person. Just look at those fabulous shoes.”

Judy zips down the stairs into the subway station. Aliza trudges after her, squinting at the flash of metal and rushing people and color. Judy fumbles through her red crocodile-skin purse for her MetroCard and Aliza inspects her new shoes.

They are metallic blue. A small square heel that looks like a glued-together creation of square plastic gems, little block letters running along the back rim spelling out C-O-A-C-H. “Thissss is what you’ve been looking for,” Judy had declared, holding up the pair reverently as if they were a special heirloom. “These shoes talk.”

Aliza has to admit they’re pretty, though her feet pine for the softness of her old ballerina flats. How come I didn’t realize on my own how bad-looking they were? Unease cavorts inside her like a mad rabbit.

On the train, Aliza wants to close her eyes and wallow a bit. Judy won’t have it. “Let’s talk about the date itself. We want you to be talkative and forthcoming, yet still give off that reserved sense, you know? The key here is balance.”

She sets her bags at her feet, leaving her hands free for gesturing. “You’re going to have to think of a bunch of light, interesting things to discuss. Funny things that happened at work, shtick you pulled in camp, seminary misadventures. Let him get a taste for your life through these stories. It’s good to be open and friendly. But” — she clasps her hands together — “talking too much isn’t good either. Don’t reveal everything... there needs to be a sense of mystery about you, like you’re sharing your stuff, but only up to a point.”

Aliza nods earnestly. She can do this.

“So,” Judy says with a grand sigh, “there’s lots more. But for now, when you get home, I want you to make a list of light and interesting stories.”

“Light and interesting.” Aliza frowns. This Judy knows what she’s talking about. She supposes she’s glad about that; never mind she’s paying her good money! She resists the urge to gnaw at her fingernails. But I don’t have that many funny seminary stories.

When the shadchan’te calls the morning after the date, Aliza turns to the window, clenches her fingers over a fistful of skirt.

“Hello, Shaindel Rivka.” Her mother breathes into the phone. Silence for a moment, a car honks outside. Aliza holds her breath.

A long, shuddering exhale. “Wonderful. So let me ask my daughter what time will work.”

Elation fills her chest, trickles down her arms. It worked. It had been downright terrifying, trying to keep all the balls in the air. Initiating with just the right comment, maintaining the casual air Judy talked about, the sem stories, and, of course, her posture, being careful to eliminate that hint of hunchback.

Her mother turns to her, eyes gleaming. Aliza swallows, a smile tugging at her lips.

By the time Mordy’s silver Accord pulls up outside the following evening, Aliza is ready. She and Judy have spent two hours on the phone, wracking their brains over a list of topics, anecdotes, questions, subtle and tasteful jokes. Mordy adjusts the heat and Aliza shifts into gear.

“How do you like your Honda Accord?” she murmurs. “My brother-in-law leased this car recently and he’s pretty happy with it.”

Mordy shrugs. “It’s a car, it has four wheels, it takes me where I want to go.”

Aliza gives an obedient chuckle, so he launches into a detailed analysis of its features and problems.

Aliza nods, losing him somewhere at the V6 engine, and thinks of elegantly carved wooden carriages with plush velvet seating and fine horses, white like milk. That would be her choice of transportation if she could choose it. She’d even carve the designs herself.

Out loud she says, “Sounds like a solid car. You should get the windows tinted; it gives a neat look.”

When she’s finally dropped off, she waves and waits for him to leave, then leans her head against the cool oak of her front door. The evening breeze makes her hair (loose, flowing, softly curled — Judy wouldn’t go for straight, certainly no pin-backs) flutter. She breathes for a moment, letting the tension trickle out. She had done a good job; she could feel it.

With a third date scheduled, then a fourth, she calls Judy to celebrate. Judy is ecstatic. “Just keep doing what you’re doing — you’ll be a kallah sooner than you reckoned!”

Aliza hangs up the phone, flushed and excited. She looks around her bedroom: pale green wallpaper, wicker wastebasket still from tenth grade. This room is looking old, and right on time, too. Her mother calls from downstairs: There’s no milk for tomorrow.

“Sure, I’ll run over to One Stop,” she yells back. She zips on a hoodie, then pauses on her way out. I shouldn’t be wearing this hoodie. I should wear my new camel jacket we got last week.

Oh, c’mon, this is just the grocery.

But what would Judy say? Is it a normal thing to do?

She wavers in the doorway, flustered. Then she flings off her hoodie and hurries out.

The night is cold and drizzly. Winter is coming. She stops at the red light. She hears footsteps, a low, self-conscious chuckle behind her; a couple steps beside her, smiling awkwardly, sharing an oversized umbrella. Aliza sneaks a glance. He looks barely nineteen, she keeps patting sleek bangs out of eyes that glitter in the early evening dimness.

With a sheitel like that, you bet you need an umbrella this size. She chuckles under her breath, wonders if she’ll be caught wearing a sheitel like that, sharing an umbrella — with Mordy? — by the end of this winter.

She clasps her hands together, rubbing the cold from her knuckles, uneasy again.

Mordy. You’ll share an umbrella with Mordy? And a life?

The wetness seeps into her sleeves and she shivers. She blinks as she enters the stark lights of the supermarket. Uh. Do you want him to be your husband?

She strides toward the fridge section, exhales through her teeth.

I have no idea.

She calls Judy as soon as she’s back in her room.

“Judy.”

“Aliza! What’s up?”

“Nothing. I mean, something... look” — she stops, chews her lower lip — “How do I know if Mordy is the right one?”

“Aha,” Judy sighs knowingly, “so you’ve caught the jitters.”

“No, this is not jitters.” Aliza wrings her hands. “I mean, I don’t think they are. I’ve been so busy trying to get him to like me. I just... ” She swallows, wills herself to say it. “I don’t know if I like him.”

For an alarmingly long time, Judy is silent. Finally, she says, “Look. I don’t know what to tell you. This is something you have to see for yourself. My job is to make you liked, confident, and successful on your dates — which we accomplished! Now for the matter of your liking him... the ball is in your court.”

Aliza flutters her eyelids. Heaven help me.

How is she to know? She feels cheated, as if Judy had led her down a twisted pathway and abandoned her in a trap. How can I focus on playing my part when I need to check him out? This is all ridiculous, so utterly ridiculous.

She sinks into her bed and tries not to cry.

Mordy has taken her to the boardwalk. The dark waves hiss on the rocks, the wind streams, Mordy talks and Aliza does her best to reply. There is ice in her chest; she feels it cut against her breath.

“... So they made this major siyum; all her friends came. It was quite funny, actually, and I told my sister they should be celebrating a good potato kugel, a new recipe or something. She doesn’t know her place.” Mordy shrugs and rolls his eyes.

Aliza knows she should laugh, but she can’t. “What... what do you mean?” she asks quickly.

“What I mean is that my sister feels more accomplished finishing a sefer than anything else. She doesn’t get that she won’t be learning her whole life, and she should feel more fulfilled preparing a good meal.” He shrugs again. “That’s Esty. Next thing I know, she’ll be organizing all-night Shavous learning groups for women.”

He pauses and Aliza knows he’s waiting for her to nod, to agree. Panic tingles in her stomach. What if… what if she never gets up the courage to ask, to find out what he thinks about things? “But learning is important for women, too,” she blurts out.

Mordy turns to look at her, a question in his eye.

“Cooking meals, the other practical matters of running a home, that’s our job, okay.” Aliza licks her lips. She needs to say this. “But it’s important to stay inspired. To learn. Women are smart, and often intellectual, and we need to grow too, just like men. You can’t just say, ‘Go make a potato kugel and be happy.’ ” Her cheeks burn. She takes a deep breath and turns to face him.

Mordy is frowning, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be so complicated. This is our job. That’s your job. Why can’t you just be happy with it?”

“Because!” Aliza cries. Mordy opens his eyes wide. She’s losing him, she knows it, and part of her whimpers and begs for her to stop, stop quickly before it’s too late. But she can’t.

“Because it’s not a matter of just being happy with it. It’s about respecting the individual needs of every unique woman. Some girls need to learn more, they need inspiration to help them be happy, to see things in the right perspective. It’s complicated? Too bad, this is life!”

A white boat floats past, its little lights sinking golden feathers into the inky water. “Boats are great,” Mordy sighs, clearly ready to move on to the next topic. Aliza is incensed. “One day I’m gonna buy my own.”

She swallows. “Yes,” she agrees. He’s said his piece on the matter and he’s not interested in pursuing it further. She pauses. The game is over anyway, he doesn’t want you, I can feel it. You can say whatever you want. “I also love boats. But it needs to be at night, and I need to be on my own. Just the dark water, the moon, the quiet.”

Mordy looks at her as if for the first time, a bewildered smile on his face. “Really? That’s... different.”

Aliza swallows. “I know.”

When he drops her off, he offers a noncommittal good night and speeds off. Aliza stands outside the door again, not ready to face her mother.

This will be the first time she’s saying no.

She had warned her mother, but still, the call will not be fun. When the phone rings, Aliza slips out to the back porch. No point listening to her mother rattle on in frustration.

She stands by the wooden railing. The foliage is popping with wild autumn beauty and she watches until her eyes blur. Then she hears the high trill of her mother’s voice floating from inside, the clunk of her Aerosole slippers on the wooden slats.

“Aha, I hear, I hear.”

Aliza sighs and turns around.

Her mother pantomimes a hold on, she’s saying something. When she hangs up, she looks exasperated, but only mildly, and her eyes glitter a bit.

“What?”

“It’s the shadchan’te, sweetie. And this narishe Feldman boy — he said no.”

“I told you. And I also said no.”

Her mother waves her hand. “Whatever. The point is, he said he doesn’t feel you’re for him. But” — she rests her chin on the tip of the cordless phone and opens her eyes wide — “he says he was impressed by your depth. And your intelligence. And your strength of character.” She pauses to eye her daughter fondly, while Aliza’s heart slams. “And he has a friend just like you. So the shadchan’te wants to set you up. Somebody Marcus from Far Rockaway. Tzirel is using a dentist in Far Rockaway for years. He for sure knows everyone. Let me get his number.” With that, she spins around and clunks back inside.

Aliza puts a hand to her heart. She feels slightly ill. You just went and ruined a perfectly good shidduch. It could’ve been the one.

She lets her hand fall and sighs. For the first time, there has been no vague “we didn’t connect” or the horrible “no chemistry.” For the first time, someone noticed that she has depth and her own brand of character.

She sighs. This calls for a walk. And gummy bears.

“There’s no milk for tomorrow, Aliza,” her mother says, frowning when she notices her fumbling around the nosh shelf.

“I’ll go to One Stop,” she offers, slipping two gummy bear packets into her jacket pocket.

At the door, she looks down at her metallic blue Coach shoes.

She stops. It’s great to fit the mold, but if you don’t, it’s too bad. It would be nice to be the chatty, cute, perfect mistress of society that you really are not, but pretending isn’t doing any good.

She waits in the doorway for another moment, unsure. Then she runs upstairs, exchanges her Coach heels for her flamingo-pink flats, and slips out.

(Originally featured in Family First Issue 564)