Another Time

"Is your soup any good? We can send it back if it's bad."

"No, it's fine! I really like it, actually."

There's a blob that resembles chicken nestled in the broth, but I decide to ignore it. People don't know how to deal with vegetarians on first dates. I get it. Especially because this guy really looks like he wants a burger.

"So tell me about your family. Like, where are they from? Where are you from, I mean?"

I fucking hate this question.

"Oh, I'm actually from New York. Queens."

Maybe my smile doesn't look as suicidal as I think. Maybe he won't say it.

"Oh, are you a Yankees fan?"

Fuck me.

"Um, I really don't follow sports. I know, such a bad New Yorker."

His smile drops so instantly it's impossible not to take offense. The manic-pixie dream girl fantasy has been dropped; I don't follow baseball, and that must mean I don't follow football, and how can I ever be a quirky good American housewife if I can't make witty remarks about various meathead athletes and then get back to baking pizza rolls?

"Really? In your profile you're at a stadium or something, so I guess I just assumed..."

"A friend had an extra ticket, so we went together. Yeah, I don't hate games or anything, I just don't really follow it, I guess. Never been my thing."

"Oh."

He looks down at his fried rice, exposing a rather prominent bald spot on the left side of his forehead. I'm out of his league but he doesn't seem to know. Yet somehow, I think even if he did know, he wouldn't care. Guys like him, guys I always end up on dates with, always think they're some great prize. Why are you not dazzled by my commentary on The Wolf of Wall Street? You must be a bitch.

"What about you? Where are you from?"

I'm here now. Might as well try.

"I'm from, uh, Chicago."

"Oh, cool! I actually went to college in Chicago. Yeah, I loved it there, it was such a fun place to be in my 20s. How long did you live there?"

"Until I was, uh, 28."

"Why'd you move to San Francisco?"

"Uh, work."

"Which do you like better?"

"Chicago, I guess."

"Why?"

"(Grunt)."

He's more up-front than most, which I kind of respect, in a weird way. A lot of these guys will pretend they're still interested in what you have to say even though you've shattered their dreams by revealing some imperfect truth about yourself. What do you mean you don't like Quentin Tarantino? Why don't you want to have kids? How can you think makeup isn't lying? Anything, anything at all that ruins their vision and they zone out, but most are more subtle and gradual. First sign of a crack in our potential future? This guy is gone.

"How old are you again?"

"I just turned 34."

"Don't you think that's a little old for Tinder?"

"Aren't you 37?"

"(Grunt)."

"Okay."

I wave the waiter over and ask for the check. My dignity is far gone enough by now; I can sacrifice the bill. Of all things to go with the death of modern chivalry, men paying for things is one of the sadder ones to part with. In his mind, paying is probably the least I can do for exposing him to such a horrific evening. It's clear I make more money but that's not the reason why my card is on the table. It's my fault for exposing this catch of a male, covered in cat hair and wearing a scarf (in August), to my fatal flaw of being completely uninterested in athletics. Sorry, my lord. Most sincere apologies.

He finally looks up from his meal and looks me up and down. Chugging the last of his wine glass, it's clear what he's about to ask is probably the most offensive part of all of this.

"So wanna come back to mine?"

I look at him and try to hide my exasperation. This is a terrible date and we both know it. He's clearly deemed me an unacceptable girlfriend, but I guess my rack is still suitable for a one night stand. Hooray me! I've been selected by this fine specimen to be mated with! What an honor! A privilege, truly!

"Oh, I've got an early morning tomorrow. Meeting with some clients, going over briefs and whatnot. We should do this again, though!"

He looks at me like the last straw is me mentioning my job. I know it's trivial, but I have to find some way to hold on to my pride. The best thing I could think of is reminding him of my success, but I forgot: no man ever wants to be reminded of my success. Only to regale me with tales of their own. Oh, artisan coffee! How wonderful, Jonah!

"Yeah, yeah, for sure. Um, good to meet you.."

The last bit of confidence I had left leaves. He forgot my name? This donkey of a human being forgot my name?

"Erica."

I hope I sound as bitter as I feel.

"Right, right. Bye."

Just like that, he's gone, leaving a trail of cat hair in his wake. I decide to wave the waiter over and get one more glass of wine. It's essentially undrinkable, but I don't feel like calling an Uber just yet.

I google the restaurant we're in, just for shits and giggles. 0.5 stars; so bad it's comical. Frankly, I don't know what else I was expecting. I never know what else I'm expecting. Some great love story, I suppose, a diamond in the rough if I just dig hard enough. But that's beyond me. Beyond every woman on Earth, just about, except for the few who are perfect enough to land the good ones. Even they have to be acting. The requirements are so ridiculous and arbitrary nobody can possibly meet them all; it's like chasing an impossible rainbow, expecting the gold but just met with mist.

I down the last of my glass and order my ride. It's 8:30 and nobody else is here except the staff. Cars pass by outside, a few honking, probably at some girl with an ass good enough she might just be the one. I look at my reflection in the glass storefront, and I look damn good.