Date Four. Part Two.

I. Was. Trashed.

Like really trashed. Like trashed to the point where I was having to think verrrry carefully about what I was saying, so that I wouldn’t slur my words.

I am actually usually quite good about not drinking too much on dates. I always stick to a two drink limit and it’s never been a problem. But the lack of food in the past 48 hours had given me no buffer for the alcohol whatsoever. So even though I’d only had 3/4 of a vodka soda, I was a drunken mess.

Stupid juice cleanse.

It didn’t really matter though.

I’d known soon after I sat down at the tall bar table, that this was not to be a love connection. And it wasn’t just because after introducing himself, he’d muttered, “I need to get rid of my gum,” and instead of flagging down our server for a napkin, he’d taken a potato chip from the bowl between us and crumpled his gum into it, creating an odd little pile that he then placed on the table.

No, it wasn’t just that.

He started off asking about how I’d come to NYC, which if you’ve read The Wordsmith Series, you’ll know that’s a tricky topic for me, so I –


Guys, I have rewritten this post over and over in the attempt to make it interesting. But the truth is, no matter how many pictures you see of someone and how many times you read their profile or how many messages you exchange, until you meet face to face and see them moving and breathing and speaking, you really don’t have a sense of them. And it was pretty clear to me pretty quickly, that he and I were not a match after all.

Don’t get me wrong – he was a very nice guy, excellent dresser, perfectly polite but well…when it’s not there, it’s not there.

After forty-five minutes of blundering attempts at conversation, both of us watching the awkward silences seeping across the table between us, I found myself gripping my glass tightly and thinking, “Fuck. I have got to get out of here.” I was trashed, we were not connecting and I just wanted to get home and eat a goddamned cleanse-approved chicken breast.

When we parted, I said my thanks and gave him a stumbling hug before I headed out into the crowd of 42nd Street. I could tell from his expression, he also knew we would not be seeing each other again.

“Do you think you would have liked him if you hadn’t been on the juice cleanse? And weren’t so, you know, wasted?” asked Lux, the next morning, after I’d told her the not-so-scintillating details.

“No,” I said, and scowled at her. “Come on. If there was any chance, I would have liked him MORE if I was drunk.”

“Good point,” she said, nodding.

So that’s it.

That was Date Four.

I wasn’t that disappointed though. Date Five was just around the corner.


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