It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date. My real life has been busy. And Trump.
Recently, I had my first Tinder date in months. Since that nasty Nastya.
We met in a bar that was too loud, too crowded. The text and Tinder chat lead-up had been anything but promising. Her photos were cute, but our interaction had left me a bit cold. Nonetheless, we went ahead with a meeting.
I was there first. I texted her, asking what to have waiting for her. She replied about her location, but was non-responsive as to beverage preference.
She walked in. I saw her coming. I was disappointed. Not in her looks – she was as cute as in her photos. But there was something in her carriage that told me, even before we’d spoken, that there would be no chemistry.
She clearly felt the same.
I spoke five words – “What can I get you?” See – I play things out, and, to a fault, this often includes my seeking to seduce someone whom I’m not even sure I want to seduce.
She spoke seven. “This isn’t going to work for me.” She looked anxious, nervous, maybe scared.
She evidently didn’t have the same compulsion I had.
And it was over. Less than ten seconds from start to finish.
I have to say… I’m grateful. I was headed somewhat compulsively forward. (As I have been before, in this very same bar.) She stopped us.
On another day, the rejection might have been devastating. On this particular day, I was relieved.
“Thanks for your quick verdict,” I texted her. “Good luck.” She didn’t reply.