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2003-03-04 || 11:13 p.m. || for love of the semi-blindish date || god love the unsuccessful love connection dates. being this close to barfing all day and having a lovely and promising pre-date phone call to figure out the details. parading a good three outfit possibilities in front of very kind supportive roommates. pulling down the oval mirror hung on the living room wall to make sure make sure make sure and then running out of time and sweeping down the front steps like a movie starlet. circling the pre-arranged restaurant because you're nervous and there's a good song on and you're not quite ready to descend on this particular point of your personal timeline: this is it this is when it all started. walking in and shaking hands of all things by the kitchen. drinking too much water and interrupting sentences and looking away when his face says his food's too spicy or there is a lull in the conversation. hoping you don't have food in your teeth or at the corner of your mouth or balancing quite gracefully atop your left boob. making notes: he doesn't believe in ghosts and doesn't seem amused that your wholeheartedly do. he has a strange aversion to a certain type of tree. he talks about cats in the way you wish boys would. he seems to have a very dreamy house that you can quite easily imagine. letting the summations form and solidify while he gets up to go to the restroom. you are sitting there, in a booth, with your lucky outfit and lucky calculator watch and cursed persistent zit and possibly indeed some kind of food on your face, waiting to catch his reflection in the window so that you know to straighten up and look interested and kind and altogether appealing. even though you know even at this point that it's not what you had hoped for (while nauseous while unable to sleep while driving in the car the day before). and for some reason afterwards outside when he asks if you are tired and want to go home (is that how this feeling translates?) you brighten up and offer drinks at a bar. and on the separate drive there you haven't let it sink in that this in fact is not a love connection and you turn up the radio to sing along with that song in that mid-twenties i am out on a date way because that is how this evening was supposed to go. and sitting outside sipping your beer and dear god most thankfully getting to smoke cigarettes you don't have a bad time. there is good conversation and you have lots in common even and it isn't so scary now that you're in a bar under dimmed lights and heat lamps. but you just know. you somehow make it clear after a while that it is time to go home, and you're afraid from his expression you were perhaps a little blunt about it. but you walk to your respective cars and there is stopping at the corner and hemming and hawing and 'it was nice to meet you.' on the way home you're singing the same song loud and smoking another cigarette and wishing you hadn't indulged in the move for a hug. you wish you hadn't given that uplifting 'yay' somewhere in the proximity of his right ear right there at the very end because that quite possibly is the exact opposite of how you actually feel about the state of the evening. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |