But he was a Bad Blind Date. Such that The Project Manager pulled me aside mid-course, during intermission, to provide the disclaimer: “I don’t know what my friend sees in him that he thought I would actually find this asshole attractive.”
I nodded.
“I mean, he hasn’t said one word to me all night long, but he’s managed to talk to everyone else.”
I sipped my cocktail as The Project Manager excused himself to order another round for the group of friends we were with.
The Bad Blind Date approached me.
“Do you need a ride home? I can give you a ride home,” he said, his voice deep and gravely, the outcome of two daily packs for decades. His salt and pepper hair combined with his leathery face that reflected the age of a continuously good time. His presence was playful, the depth of his wrinkles containing the memories of yesterday’s parties. A designer shirt and designer jeans hung on his body oddly, as if he was more about brands than fit.
“I live two blocks from here; I don’t need a ride,” I said.
He cupped his hand around an electronic cigarette and took a draw; the LED-tip glowed.
“It’s water vapor. With nicotine. I don’t smoke anymore.”
“I see.”
“So let me give you a ride home.”
“I can walk, it’s just two blocks.”
“Please. You’re adorable, and this guy, I mean, please, save me. You’ve got to save me. Please don’t let me get to the point where I have to give him a ride home.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
