When You Ask Me, ‘How Was Your Date?’


I went on a date, once.

How did it go?

Well, do you ever feel like a sociopath? You know, one of those hyped up self-indulgent types who get what they want when they smile pretty and then their partner pieces together their façade and invariably get bored.

You always get bored first though, that’s why you don’t bother with dating, really. You eat another slice of naan and garlic hummus and down a second glass of Napa pinot, gazing longingly at the Kebab Shack because you feel as you must, in a literal sense, devour the remnants of your feelings and wash them away with any sort of beverage, preferably liquor.

Our last drink was a Long Island Iced Tea in an aquamarine ceramic teapot. Have you ever had Long Island Iced Tea in a teapot? It was wholly and understandably very un-British because there were no crumpets, and no tea, among other things.

It’s because you’re always trying to figure out ‘me things’ and other people keep obstructing your eight fold path (granted, you let them) but if you pull that Alexander Supertramp type of shit you might die in the woods alone with an unfinished novel and a dog-eared book on poisonous mushrooms in your knapsack.

What’s the fun in that? So we date now?

It didn’t even go so wrong, it probably went right actually, for a little, because we talked about aesthetics and form. I think he was in love with the idea of me, that happens sometimes, but I just needed to talk ideologically about Cezanne and whatnot and that’s hard to articulate over text. He made some comment about how men preferred structuralism to post-impressionism but who can even be bothered using gendered stereotypes about art historical movements as a turn off?

When I cut my hand on the broken glass and ate all the chicken wings at The Cav it didn’t feel uncomfortable, even when I hid my arm under the table trying to hide the blood, not because I was ashamed but because I didn’t want him to touch me. I used to be an artist you see, I still have scars from the lino cut prints, among other things, that he didn’t need to know about.

I went to the bathroom and opened 15 snapchats of taxidermy animals from an old flame then I told this other guy I wanted to see him and he laughed, virtually, with emojis. Spoiler alert: I went to bed alone with some dried mango strips. He said it was a booty call and maybe that’s what it was but I didn’t need that I needed a warm body and a shaggy dog to lick my face.

I woke up early this morning with my shoes on and noticed a jar of peanut butter next to my bed and three mugs adorned with an array of questionably moldy Tibetan tea bags. My friends.

My date had a ‘friend’ at the second to last bar, I called him California Blondie Boy, hopefully not to his face. I reckon he listened to Best Coast in his Jeep Wrangler at least once with the top down. He probably has a shaggy dog and a surf board. I wanted to talk to him more but thought it inappropriate. So, maybe it wasn’t a good date.

But it ended. I said good bye and ate peaceful, solitary, falafel, if for but a moment. I thought he went the other way, my date, but suddenly we were forced in the confines of the Kebab Shack like the strangers we were until we noticed each other again. We talked about chick peas and the inflating rate of taxi cabs. He didn’t text me back.

Maybe I’ll go on a date again, to a park, or something. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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