Almost a year ago I tested the dating waters without any success. And then Dad got sicker and I had no time, or desire to think of any other man. Perhaps I’ll start again. The grief is a bit less, and I’m not worried constantly. I didn’t want to miss any time with him. Looking through my notes, I found this story that I thought was too pathetic to share, but now see it as pretty funny.
Match.com says we are a match. He loves my smile and is very attracted to successful women. He’s been a writer for the NY Times, and a few television shows. An old school marketing whiz, without a website. Date1 has branded himself as a sophisticated city bachelor. He wears a suit everyday, has a driver so he never interacts with the dirty streets, and travels to Europe on vacation. We’re to meet in North Beach in San Francisco. He asks me to wear a sexy dress with high heels. My instructions are to take BART to the Embarcadero and catch a cab to the bar. I bring my flip flops and walk.
The night is beautiful.
I meet him at his favorite neighborhood bar where he’s perched on a bar stool watching a movie on his iPhone. He pops up and is short, really short. And old. Shorter and older than his profile. I tower over him in my heels. And indeed, he is wearing a beautiful thousand dollar suit, polished shoes, and the perfect tie.
The bartender asks what I’d like. His tight pants, and hip haircut make my date look even older. Sophisticated City Bachelor tells him a glass of the house red. I jokingly ask the bartended “ “so Sophisticated City Bachelor is a friend of yours” expecting to hear a story of how he’s the greatest guy ever, how nice it is to see him with a beautiful woman. Detective work on my part. Instead he responds “he’s a client” and walks to the other end of the bar.
Sophisticated City Bachelor asks how the cab ride was, I tell him I walked. He scows at me, and said that was crazy to do. The hills, the tourists, the wind. I tell him I like to absorb life. I know the date is over.
I feel guilty and think about leaving before he pays for dinner. But he’s bounced up to tell me all about the revival of North Beach, how he knows the chef at the up and coming restaurant we will be dinning at. It’s a retelling of an article from this week’s Sunday Chronicle. That’s the problem with smart dates, they read too. But for once, I stay quiet.
On the corner is a homeless man exchanging compliments for donations “Wow, he says. It’s nice to see such a beautiful couple on a beautiful night. I smile, I look deep into his eyes, and I tell him “thank you”, “that was really kind of you to say. It is our first date”. Enjoy the evening”.
Sophisticated City Bachelor grabs my arm. Firmly. I stumble to catch-up. He negotiates for a good table, because last time his table was terrible, and he knows the chef and comes here often, so make sure it is good. It is. We watch the tourists read menus, haul luggage, and dream of love.
I get a lecture for speaking with the man on the corner. “Why? I ask”. “Because they are assholes”. “But I didn’t give thim money.” “It doesn’t matter, say Sophisticated City Bachelor”, if you acknowledge them they think it’s OK to do what they are doing.” “But they are human beings and he was kind.” “They are assholes he says.”
I choke down my dinner. During the 10 minute cab ride back to the Embarcadero station, we don’t talk, He’s busy giving the driver turn by turn directions. I prepare for the end of the date. BART card in hand, I stuff handfuls of bills at him in an attempt to blot out the evening, and advert any type of kiss. He’s aggressive. Grabbing my boob, and licking my neck. I shove him away. On BART I text a thank you and that I’m safely on my way to the East Bay. He doesn’t respond.
The eyes of the homeless man were a faded sea blue. I never looked into my date’s eyes, but I bet they were an angry black.