It’s an uncharacteristically sunny March day in
D. is tall, jovial, and as thirsty as I am, making for a lively conversation. We’re both freelancers, so it isn’t long before we’re talking business and I’m pleasantly surprised with some of the professional insight D. shares. Instead of secretly composing this 100 Dates post, I’m actually writing notes with tid bits of advice D. is dropping in my lap. Being ignorant to my work woes, I’m sure D. didn’t realise what a boost of confidence he had given me for the week ahead – though I’m sure the beer did it’s share as well.
As the pub turns baren around us, I start to feel an awkward moment materialising. I just know D.’s going to say something serious or (worse) heartfelt. Then, almost on cue the bartender offers us a plate of bar snacks on the house – perfect way to soften the mood. While we put away the greasy finger foods, I take a moment to reflect on our date. Why is it that as soon as I feel a heartfelt confession coming, my flight instinct takes over. I’m on a date, am I not? Isn’t this the point, to get the guy to like you?
For some reason, that’s the opposite of how I feel. Sure, I want the guy to like me, but not like me like me. Between bites, I look at D. and wonder what my problem is. He’s successful, funny, closer to me in age than S., and actually interested in what I have to say. But again, that chemistry thing isn’t happening. Maybe I’m being picky, or letting superficiality get the best of me (that’s a big nose, buddy) but I just don’t feel something special.
Then again, maybe the idea of a ‘spark’ is like a night in shining armour – it doesn’t exist.
These thoughts mill around in my head when we get another round. The conversation picks up again and we launch into friendly gossip about our mutual acquaintances. After a few minutes (or a few beers…) D. starts fidgeting and getting a little serious. After a confusing round of apologetic excuses he comes out with it, “It’s okay of course, I don’t care or anything,” - oh goodness, here it comes – “You’re a lesbian, right?”
Wow. Not what I was expecting. I do my best to convince D. I am indeed not a lesbian, despite his supportive “It’s okay if you are.” According to D., I’m “a lot like him,” and while I’d agree we have similar jobs, and tend to rely on sarcasm/humour as a deflector I do draw the line at a mutual romantic interest in women.
The final sips of our last round go down, and we pick up to leave the bar. I’m by no means offended at my sexual “enigma” as D. calls it, but I think we’re both ready to head home now. Our goodbye is short and sweet (think slap on the back, nod of the head), and we head off to our respective homes.
Wow, I think later, lesbian, eh? What was I saying about a boost of confidence? Where's the chocolate ice cream...