trying to be someone you’re not. Just be yourself and see if I like you. If I don’t I don’t, but you have way higher chance if I can see who you really are.”
“You’re wise beyond your years, young pad-wan. But you need to finish that story asap.”
“I keep getting sidetracked, sorry. Anyway, Mr. Fancy Suit walks in comes to the table. So, naturally, I stand up.”
“Naturally.”
“Then he tries to pull out my chair for me.”
“Aww, that’s nice at least.”
“Sure, if a normal man did it. But I started to see that everything Dan did involving women was bizarre. He went to sit down in his own seat first, and so I did the same. By the time he remembered to be a gentleman, he literally jumped up from his chair, but there was a problem.”
“Besides him jumping up in a restaurant for no reason?”
“Even worse. I didn’t really describe him physically to you.”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t a troll or anything—I have standards, but let’s just say that his gym membership expired sometime around the Clinton administration.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, he had kind of a big belly. I don’t know how else to say it, and the belly was lodged under the table after he sat down, so when he jumped up. . .”
“His fat belly hit the table?”
“Hit doesn’t even do it justice. His fat shot upwards like a geyser. His whole side tilted towards me, and for a second I really thought the table was going to fall on me.”
“So what did you do?”
“I leaned back. I didn’t even think about it, it was just a natural reaction to the sound of glass falling and silverware clanking all around. But I leaned back too hard and fell over.”
“Oh my God. This is real? You’re not embellishing just to make me laugh?”
“I wish. I’m not that creative. And what’s that expression? Truth is stranger than fiction. Well, the truth about dating is way crazier than any story I could make up, trust me.”
Listening to this girl is making me forget my own issues for a second. Not only that, she’s a great storyteller and really funny. She’s right, she has the material to work with, but she’s got my attention. What the hell is she doing slinging cappuccinos and lattes?
“So finish up. I want to hear the money part. Not that stopping there wouldn’t still make it the perfect dating nightmare story.”
“Speaking of nightmares, there I was, at a restaurant whose name I couldn’t pronounce if you paid me to, on my back in the middle of the dining room, and by this point I was also wet from my glass of water spilling on me, and felt a strange pain in my back. Sprinkle more than a little embarrassment on top of that shit sandwich and you have a slight idea of how I was feeling.”
“Did he help you up at least? Tell me he did that.”
“He did. He ran over again.”
“He likes to run and jump, huh?”
“Apparently. He was like a fat little puppy. Too much energy, no social graces, and kind of a scattered mess, but not a bad guy.”
“Just a clumsy guy who knocks his date onto the floor, possibly injuring her in the process?”
“That’s right.” We both laugh. “By the time he gets over to me he’s apologized like three or four times. He really felt bad. He helps me up, I brush myself off and try to pretend like I don’t feel like running away in embarrassment. The rest of the dinner was kind of normal—nothing approaching that level of weird or crazy. Until the end. When they brought the check.”
“Oh no, don’t tell me. . .”
“That’s right. After ordering the most expensive items on the menu, he slides the $400 check over to me and tells me that he’ll—and I’m quoting here—‘get me next time.’”
“And what did you do?”
“I walked out. Literally. I know I shouldn’t have ‘cause he obviously didn’t have the money, but that was the dick move of all dick moves. I felt bad for about three seconds, and then I got an Uber and went home and blogged about it.”
“You blog?”
“I do. It’s a hobby. Mostly for me to vent. I don’t have a huge number of readers, but I have a few.”
“How many is a few?” I ask.
“Like, three thousand or so.”
“Sabina, that’s really good. How long have you been blogging?”
“Like a year or so, maybe a little less actually because I took a few weeks