“You’re making this awkward.” This was how the date ended.
It was the 11th of September and we agreed to meet at a cocktail bar. I arrived first, sat at the bar and looked through the menu. The bartender was your typical neo-Brooklyn-ite – a slight Ohio accent, facial hair that only made sense in the time before reflections, and extended earlobes. He asked me how my 9-11 was going, anything explosive happen? I wished him cancer and ordered a drink.
My phone buzzed with a message from my date that she’d be about 15 minutes late. I focused on giving the bartender cancer. It looked like was beginning to metastasize around his stretched ear lobes. He smiled at me. I read the news on my phone. 20 minutes passed. Another message: Sorry, just a few more minutes.
It was a lazy Sunday so I was in no rush. And besides the bartender had not died yet. I gave up wishing his death because the drink he made me was tasty. From the look of his Garanimals life choices I realized he was barely alive. Oh well, I’ll have another.
My date arrived. First dates tend towards the awkward. First dates that blossomed from a few words shot across an online dating site make them more awkward. Would they look like their profile pictures? Were they as witty as their bio suggested? She showed up 30 minutes late, drunk and reeking of garlic. I love garlic, but this was a violent mixture of salvia disolved garlic and nervous sweat.
Was it the consumption of alcohol for the first 30 minutes or an internal flaw that kept me there? Anyone else would have slugged her and ran for the door. Whatever. There might be pussy. And her messages leading up this date were smart and funny, not a combination that I get every day.
We grabbed a table and she decimated a cocktail napkin; every syllable was matched with a tiny tear of the napkin. Was she nervous because she was drunk or drunk because she was nervous? Can I offer her a breath mint? I tried to duck her every exhale. I made a joke about the stretch HumVee outside the bar. This led to her talking about her childhood gender identity issues.
“You’re making this awkward.” We left the bar and started walking. I was heading towards the subway and assumed she’d veer off towards her own destination at some point. Instead, mid-conversation she stopped on the sidewalk in front of a Chinese restaurant and a shoe repair shop. What was I making awkward? “I live here.” Above the Chinese restaurant were some apartments.
A second passed and then she attacked me with her face. Kissing her is what I imagine prison would be like. Her teeth slammed into mine while her tongue tried to reach for my prostate via my esophagus. I pushed her off me and made sure that all of my vital organs were intact.
“I’m making this awkward?”
“This was fun. We should do this again.”
Stunned, I let out a slight whimper that she took as a yes. She went inside and I went home to have night terrors for the next week.