Entering, I see no single man waiting for a date, so I’m only irritated further. Chris, an old coworker from another restaurant, is thankfully one of the owners and sits with me as I down a beer, becoming less and less open to the idea of this date…
My hands. Tonight I am in love with my hands. They are delicate things, much like the rest of my cellophane and Diet Coke body, dexterous from years of classical musicianship. Yet they are marked with a few too many lines around the bends, lines I once abhorred for making them look old, lines I now hold up in drunken defense of my “old soul.”
Like, if I knew that woman in real life, I’d be kind of scared and maintain a safe but still involved social distance, the kind where I see her at parties, we talk and drink at glossy social gatherings, rarely in the sunlight and she’s much more useful as a conversation topic than a close confidante. I love her but I don’t Love her.
I’ve never tried to find love. I’ve never been on a blind date. I’ve never dated anyone for two months without it starting to “get serious.” I’ve never been flat-out rejected. I’ve never been a tease and I’ve never slept with a bad kisser.
When I go out, there are only three things I want to do: drink, get laid and dance. And dancing is the most important on this list. I always, always want to dance, because there’s something wonderful about expressing how much I love my friends when we’re jumping around to Arcade Fire or how much I am down to take you home when I’m grinding to “You Can Do It”, a kind of something that words just cannot convey.
Your thoughts regarding this ex turn into a palate of black and white. He’s trying to make you jealous or he’s trying to make you mad. You want him back; you want him to rot in hell. The new girl is a slut or, well, the new girl is a slut.