I also don’t mean all that “will he call me if we do it?” worry. I am talking about being prepared. There is nothing worse than being cured (mani and pedi), waxed, douched and ready to go, with clean sheets and a recently scrubbed toilet, and the opportunity just doesn’t present itself.
So, on my third date with Shaun, I was prepared. Not that we had so much as kissed, but I had a feeling the electricity was mutual, and I was sure that the accidental hand-brushing and the gentle palm on the back routine was not as innocent as it seemed.
It had been a long time, and to be honest, a decent-looking man could ask me where the Brooklyn-bound N train was, and I would tell myself optimistically that it had been a veiled attempt at a pick-up.
“Oh, the nearest stop is 5th Avenue and 23rd Street,” I trill, and he would reply, “How about the nearest Starbucks instead. Wanna join me?”
In reality, he would just mumble a thank you and trudge towards the subway.
I am always wary of bikini waxes; apart from the fact that they hurt like all get-out, I always assume that the little Asian ladies are talking about me.
“Man, you should see this one. You could knit a sweater with this!” And the like. Or my worst paranoia, that there is a web cam hidden somewhere in the back room of these nail salons, and perverts are spying on me at www.gyneewax.com.
Nonetheless, waxed, mani’d and pedi’d (cured), cellulite rubbed to within a millimeter of its relentless existence, there I was, ready to have dinner with Shaun. The doorman announced him promptly, and I made sure I was wearing my casually prepared but not eager expression when I opened the door.
“So, this is your habitat, huh?” he smiled.
“Sure, come on in. Glass of wine?”
There was no answer. His charming smile had become a grin of Congressman proportion, and his eyes were bulging out of his head. I followed his gaze to the television.
“You have cable?”
“Well, yes,” I murmured, in an embarrassed fashion. “I mean, I really only use it for old movies I want to catch. And of course PBS. You know, you can’t really get a signal in the city unless....”
My words faded away like spring rain. I wasn’t getting through to him.
“Can we order in?” he asked hopefully.
Four hours later, I was cleaning up take-out containers of mediocre Thai food, and Shaun was a third into a “Gilligan’s Island” marathon.
“I thought you didn’t watch TV,” I said between gritted teeth.
“No, I said I didn’t have a TV.”
“You said you got so much more done...”
“Well, here’s a case in point! They don’t make shows like this any more. At least, I don’t think they do. How would I know? I don’t own a TV!”
He laughed delightedly. I was happy he found himself to be charming, and cursed the $65 I had spent at the salon.
“Well,” I performed a perfect fake yawn, “I have to turn in soon.”
“Yeah, that’s OK. You don’t mind if I just stay up and watch this, do you?”
Of course I did. But I had been out of this world for so long, I wasn’t sure how to handle it. I hesitated for a moment and then snapped out of my haze.
“Actually, yes, I do mind.”
I strode to the door, which is hard to do dramatically in a tiny apartment, and flung it open.
“Good night, Shaun.”
He barely looked at me, his eyes were so trained on the screen. The commercials had ended and he was straining to see the very last frame before the door hit his perfectly formed ass.
I watched him walk down the street, and saw him take out his cell phone. He was probably calling up likely cable television owners, looking to snag some more of the Professor and Marion. I could hardly believe my eyes as I watched him weave and bob, oblivious to all, and never once “pulling over to the curb.”
Lying bastard.
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