I sit across from him -- a large man in his mid-thirties, with a bald spot barely covered by his slicked-back, greasy hair. He is staring at me from beneath his prominent eyebrow (yes, ONE eyebrow). "So we finally meet" he says, and I press myself even farther into my chair. He looks like a cat, ready to pounce on his prey. One more minute and he'll lick his lips... I'm waiting for that. It looks like something he would do. To his credit, I have to admit, he is definitely the sleaziest man I've ever been on a date with -- and I've known my share of sleazy dates. And as I stare into the flat-screen above my head, pretending to be very interested in baseball -- I have to rest my eyes somewhere, as I awkwardly make polite conversation about my work and hobbies -- I once again tell myself "Never again!"
The chain of events that brought me to this little "corner pub" is very simple. Girl is single. Girl signs up for a certain popular dating website. Girl receives an avalanche of winks/nods/hotlists/emails. Girl ends up meeting more peculiar men (that's a PC way of saying "crazy"), than she ever thought it was possible to meet. Girl promises herself she'll never go on one of those "dates" again, but in the back of her mind she still hopes there is one normal guy out there in cyberspace. After all, she is there, and she is normal... ...Right?
So after repeated harassing by this particular gentleman (who obviously had good reasons for not posting his photos in the profile), I agreed to meet him. I can see the waitress giving me a pitying look. She probably thinks he is my boyfriend, by the familiar way he addresses me and I turn red. It's pretty hard to appear an asshole to someone you're trying to impress (and he is clearly trying -- with all the talk of his Mercedes, expensive neighborhood where he lives, great job), but my friend, Uni, manages. He is rude to the waitress, he has no manners -- doesn't open the door for me or use eating utensils, and keeps smoking my cigarettes! Twenty minutes into our "date", and 40 minutes away from the time I feel it is polite to say goodbye, Uni decides we've mastered the whole getting-to-know-each-other business. "So, what happens now?" he asks. I look at him in alarm, "I'm sorry?" Uni smiles widely, "I mean with us. Are we going to be dating?" (Yes, the awkward speech pattern is yet another one of his endearing qualities). I mumble something about "Not looking for a relationship... You know how it is...". Uni assures me that he understands and continues his blabber about -- not sure what it was about, I stopped listening around the seventh inning.
Another horrible ten minutes tick by. The game is over and I try not to stare at the humongous gold ring on his right hand. Seriously? Does it have to be this big and ugly? Finally he pays our bill and we walk out the door. It is only 9:15 on a Thursday night. I desperately want to go home, but I feel that I have to be polite and at least stay another 15 minutes. It's only at 9:30 that I usually feel justified in saying that it's time for me to go to bed. Before that, I'm afraid they'll understand that I'm lying, and I don't want to hurt his feelings. Being too nice to strangers has always been my downfall.
And then the Compliment begins. Because you see, dear reader, it's one long compliment without pausing for breath. I am given to understand that, among other things, I am beautiful, intelligent, funny, sexy, laid back, tender, sensual, graceful and classy. Uni, being the excellent psychologist that he is, was able to extract that from the few lines of polite chit chat I forced out of myself in the last 45 minutes. At the "tender and sensual" part I start slowly inching towards the parking lot. It's never good when you are called tender and sensual by a big burly man with one eyebrow on a dark street. To my horror I see one of his paws reaching for my shoulder, as he figures his words will have more effect if he pulls me close. "So, what about us?" he asks again, oblivious to my quickening step and lack of any verbal indication that I want to continue the conversation. I pretend that a fit of sudden deafness prevents me from hearing his booming voice in my right ear. "I really want to kiss you", confides Uni, after 2 minutes of silent power-walking on my part and regular pace on his . (He is a foot taller than me, after all.) I finally look him in the eye: "No!" "Why not?" (Apparently Uni has never been the brightest crayon in the box). "I told you I just want to be friends." I start walking even faster. "So you don't kiss your friends?" "No!!!"
Finally we reach my car. It looks very tiny and pathetic next to his Mercedes, I can't help but notice. I press the unlock button, clearly ready to say good night and never see him again in my life. But Uni isn't done with his Casanova ways. He still has a few tricks up his expensive sleeve. "So you're not going to invite me in for coffee?", stretching his arm towards me again. I can't believe I just heard him say that. I sweetly smile, slam the door of my car and drive off into the night.
The chain of events that brought me to this little "corner pub" is very simple. Girl is single. Girl signs up for a certain popular dating website. Girl receives an avalanche of winks/nods/hotlists/emails. Girl ends up meeting more peculiar men (that's a PC way of saying "crazy"), than she ever thought it was possible to meet. Girl promises herself she'll never go on one of those "dates" again, but in the back of her mind she still hopes there is one normal guy out there in cyberspace. After all, she is there, and she is normal... ...Right?
So after repeated harassing by this particular gentleman (who obviously had good reasons for not posting his photos in the profile), I agreed to meet him. I can see the waitress giving me a pitying look. She probably thinks he is my boyfriend, by the familiar way he addresses me and I turn red. It's pretty hard to appear an asshole to someone you're trying to impress (and he is clearly trying -- with all the talk of his Mercedes, expensive neighborhood where he lives, great job), but my friend, Uni, manages. He is rude to the waitress, he has no manners -- doesn't open the door for me or use eating utensils, and keeps smoking my cigarettes! Twenty minutes into our "date", and 40 minutes away from the time I feel it is polite to say goodbye, Uni decides we've mastered the whole getting-to-know-each-other business. "So, what happens now?" he asks. I look at him in alarm, "I'm sorry?" Uni smiles widely, "I mean with us. Are we going to be dating?" (Yes, the awkward speech pattern is yet another one of his endearing qualities). I mumble something about "Not looking for a relationship... You know how it is...". Uni assures me that he understands and continues his blabber about -- not sure what it was about, I stopped listening around the seventh inning.
Another horrible ten minutes tick by. The game is over and I try not to stare at the humongous gold ring on his right hand. Seriously? Does it have to be this big and ugly? Finally he pays our bill and we walk out the door. It is only 9:15 on a Thursday night. I desperately want to go home, but I feel that I have to be polite and at least stay another 15 minutes. It's only at 9:30 that I usually feel justified in saying that it's time for me to go to bed. Before that, I'm afraid they'll understand that I'm lying, and I don't want to hurt his feelings. Being too nice to strangers has always been my downfall.
And then the Compliment begins. Because you see, dear reader, it's one long compliment without pausing for breath. I am given to understand that, among other things, I am beautiful, intelligent, funny, sexy, laid back, tender, sensual, graceful and classy. Uni, being the excellent psychologist that he is, was able to extract that from the few lines of polite chit chat I forced out of myself in the last 45 minutes. At the "tender and sensual" part I start slowly inching towards the parking lot. It's never good when you are called tender and sensual by a big burly man with one eyebrow on a dark street. To my horror I see one of his paws reaching for my shoulder, as he figures his words will have more effect if he pulls me close. "So, what about us?" he asks again, oblivious to my quickening step and lack of any verbal indication that I want to continue the conversation. I pretend that a fit of sudden deafness prevents me from hearing his booming voice in my right ear. "I really want to kiss you", confides Uni, after 2 minutes of silent power-walking on my part and regular pace on his . (He is a foot taller than me, after all.) I finally look him in the eye: "No!" "Why not?" (Apparently Uni has never been the brightest crayon in the box). "I told you I just want to be friends." I start walking even faster. "So you don't kiss your friends?" "No!!!"
Finally we reach my car. It looks very tiny and pathetic next to his Mercedes, I can't help but notice. I press the unlock button, clearly ready to say good night and never see him again in my life. But Uni isn't done with his Casanova ways. He still has a few tricks up his expensive sleeve. "So you're not going to invite me in for coffee?", stretching his arm towards me again. I can't believe I just heard him say that. I sweetly smile, slam the door of my car and drive off into the night.
1 comment:
nice one, I think you should start write a book. Very funny, by the way! Very talanted work
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