The Date

He was late. I ordered a glass of Merlot. After twirling it around and watching the legs creep down the inside of the goblet, I sat admiring its ruby reflection on the tablecloth. I picked up my phone. No new messages. I flipped through the menu deciding to order two small plates, the brie with garlic crostini, and the crabmeat stuffed portobello caps.

Almost ten minutes. The only reason I’m here is because my brother, Jay, thinks I need to get out. He even set up my eDate account. The guy looked okay-ish, but who knows if it’s really him? The last time I did this the guy was superhot, five years younger which isn’t that bad, and claimed he was a doctor. I let him PM me on Facebook. He kept saying, “Okay,” whenever there was a conversational lull. At first I thought he was saying, “Okay, I’m done here.” He told me his name was Dr. Milk. Seriously? He said he worked for Doctors without Borders somewhere in Africa. Then the “okay.” And as we continued messaging he said “he prayed the gods to heap great blessings on me.” He had no profile info, only two pictures of African teens, boys. Quick researched proved DWB wasn’t even in that county. Even quicker delete and block.

Me to Jay: He’s not here.

Jay: Be patient. This could be the one.

Me: Dream on.

Jay: Dream date?

Me: Eye roll emoji.

Maybe I should just stay and eat anyway. I looked around for the waiter who was bringing someone my way. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. Please don’t stop at this table. But they did. The waiter placed a menu across from me as Mike pulled out his chair. He had a burgundy long sleeve dress shirt tucked into black pants. His shoes were black running shoes. His tie was a 1970s throwback to the Grateful Dead. It fell a little short due to his potbelly. His ponytail swung as he sat. His hair, receding on the sides, was slicked back and gathered with black hair ties into six or seven sections all the way down until it reached the end where it curled. I could only imagine it getting caught in his ass---no, no, no—don’t go there. To round out the picture, he had a gray mustached blending into a scraggly white goatee.

We said hello. He picked up the menu, not bothering to apologize for his lateness. The waiter came over for his drink order. Mike said, Just water, I’m trying to lose weight. The waiter said he’d give us a few minutes. After he left, Mike said, We’re doing this dutch, right? Yeah, sure, I said and in that moment I decided not to order small plates. I could just see him wanting to sample what I was paying for.

Needing something quick and not shareable, when the waiter came back I ordered soup and salad. He ordered the chicken and waffles, small plate. When it arrived, he said, God, I forgot the chicken is fried! So much for the diet, but I guess this is a special occasion, right? I smiled and ate my soup.

He talked on. And on. And on. Everything was about him. He talked about work and his boss expected him to work overtime, but not get paid because he was salaried. When I pointed out that’s one of the things about being salaried—no overtime—he seemed put out. He went on to say that’s why he quit being a social worker in a clinic—everyone took advantage of his time.

To change the subject, I asked what do you do for enjoyment? Kayaking. I go out in the bay, and up to the springs. You probably saw the picture of me? Yes, I said. The one where you were wearing a bathing cap? I couldn’t see your ponytail. Yeah, you know, it gets tangled and what not if I don’t wear one. I nodded, been growing it out long?

No, I used to have short hair, back in college. And I’ve trimmed this over the years. Probably cut a couple of feet off in all that time. The Ex hated it, the beard too. You don’t talk much, do you? Don’t smile much either, huh. Pretty gal like you should smile more. He cleaned his plate, wiping up the sauce with the last piece of waffle.

It was all I could do not to reach across the table and yank his ponytail. Or slap him. Why do men think they have the right to tell you to smile because you’re pretty? Instead I said, I find that an awfully presumptive statement on your part. You don’t even know me, nor have you asked me a single question or let me talk.

He dropped that last piece on his pants. Aww man! That’s gonna stain. He dipped his napkin in his water glass, wiping furiously, accomplishing nothing. His ponytail swung forward, dangling in his way, and into his glass of water. I started laughing. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. I tried to cover it with a cough, but the more I tried to hold it back, the worse it was.

Well, I can see how this is going, he said, pulling an enormous wallet from his pants, removing a ten dollar bill and dropping it on the table. Big spender, didn’t even cover a tip. I was dabbing at my eyes, and waving him away, “Sorry,” I choked out, still laughing. He pushed back his chair and stalked off, ponytail swinging angrily. I buried my face in my napkin, laughing.

The waiter came by asking if I was okay. Yes, thank you. Would you like another glass of the Bright Cellars? I looked at him, oh, the Merlot? Yes, please. It’s been the best part of the night.