It’s dark on his street. My car is running; moonlight pools on the dash.  He lingers in the passenger seat for a moment. I grapple for something to say. “Well, all right. Bye, I guess.” He leans in. A pale round head float towards me. Lips puckered. Eyes closed. I squirm as his small baby lips suckle mine. Suddenly, the car jolts forward. Thankfully, I had forgotten to put the car in park and my foot slipped off the break— saved by my lack of suaveness.

As he shut the car door, an involuntary laugh exploded from my lungs, the kind of laugh that happens when you watch a comedian start to tank, when something is so humorless it is funny.

*     *     *     *     *

Six years ago I met him and was overcome with a putrid odor (which I later discovered was a hotdog cooking in a moistened paper towel in his dorm microwave). We talked awkwardly until I feigned illness and called my mom to pick me up (I was still in high school). We subsequently went on one blind date, (just to rule out any chance of love) but all of the details have escaped me, except for one: it was boring.

I did not hear from him again for several years but six months ago I began receiving mysterious text messages from someone who would say “Hi” or “How are you?” (I had given my number to someone else, but neglected to put his number in my phone, and so I assumed it was this other suitor.)

I agreed to go on a date with this mystery number, but when I reached the restaurant my tall, dark date was nowhere in sight. Instead, a short, Norwegian-looking character poked his head around a booth and called my name. It wasn’t until midway through the date that I realized who had bought me a chicken Caesar salad.

Although he was still boring, he seemed to have grown up. Gone was the dirty, mealy-mouthed undergrad. Here was a cleaner, more cautious techie pursuing his MBA.  (And since I was always complaining that I can never find any nice guys) I agreed to go on a second date. I though that maybe it is possible to change.  My mistake.

A few hours before our second date, he texted me, “Do you want to ride together?” My first clue that all was not right in this land of long lost love and second chances. Are we co-workers who carpool? How about a little initiative: Can I pick you up?

Soon, I was driving us to the restaurant I picked out. The conversation droned on and as much as I tried to see the gem within, all I could do was sip water to avoid yawning. When I asked him what he liked to do, he gave me a list of things he didn’t like to do. When I tried to ask him about his MBA program, he said it was boring—I supposed he would know.

His one redeeming quality? He seemed to really like me. He remembered every detail about our one nondescript date, every cheesy joke I said, what we ate, what we saw. He remembered every text he had ever sent me. And as endearing as it was, it was not enough to absolve him from what happened next.

The bill arrived. Forty-five minutes passed and he made no attempt to pay it. As the restaurant began to shut down, the waiter returned to ask us to please close out our tab. Still, he did not take the bill. I reached for it and set it down between us. “Here,” I said, hoping a verbal cue would move things along. After several more minutes, exhausted from the ordeal, I reached for my wallet. “How do you want to do this?” I asked.

“Well, uh…” he stammered. “I don’t know. What kind of girl are you?” he said while reaching for his wallet.

A slut? A feminist? I didn’t know what he was asking. So I just put down my credit card and waited for him to put down his.

“Oh ok. Well, thanks,” he said.

*     *     *     *     *

$37.80 later, I am parked outside his condo. It’s dark on his street. My car is running; moonlight pools on the dash.

And I’m waiting to slide my foot off the break.