The Short Date

Er… he’s short. i.e. vertically challenged. Try to keep up. Tsk.

Horkay, so I went against some rules because it was a lame Thursday night.

On hindsight, I’m always prey to those post-ladies’-night nights when the loneliness of the night wind lulls one into settling for second best. Like how you travel 18 kilometres for wanton (no pun intended) noodles only to realize it’s closed. Then settling for the yummy hor fun (no pun intended again) albeit satisfying, is never considered a prized treat.

Point is, I accepted a drinks date with Frodo, the witty one I met at the Martel Party. Witty. Check. Clever SMSes. Check. Looks. Sigh. So I guess he deserved a Thursday night – cos there’s nothing good on TV and it’s the night with the lowest probability of getting caught by the paparazzi.

We met at a bar I will not mention, at a time I will not reveal and I was wearing a dress I will not take off. (at least that’s what I swore to myself). He was surprisingly laid-back. Who wouldn’t be, compared to me? I was as nervous as I would be, going on a date with Sting, Feeling like that on a date is great news. But it was for all the wrong reasons. I kept wondering if I should’ve wore shades, a fake mole and an oversized straw hat.

The first thing he said was “hey gorgeous, think you forgot the rest of your skirt.” I was wearing a long skirt which I pulled up as a mini tube dress - cinched at the waist with a fat leather dominatrix belt and dear me, I had no clever reply. So I did what I did best - I deployed a disarming smile and hit him playfully on the chest.

And I looked nervously around, ready for a reputation whipping.
Which happened fairly quickly.

Bartender yelled:
“Hey! Miss Whiskey Water!” I looked up and saw my favourite bartender from another bar.
And I said “Oh hello! What are you doing here?”
“Same management.” He quickly replied, waving his finger in the air, dismissing my question.
“your boyfriend ah?” he jerked his head up towards my date, raised his eyebrows and gave a cheeky grin.
“NOOOOOOOOOO” I said too quickly.
“Not yet. But I’m working on it buddy” he butts in. “help me out and get me a beer and give the lady her whiskey water will you?”
“Sure sir. Good choice” And the bartender winks at him.
“make it strong, so I have lesser work to do, she’s a tough one” and we all laugh.

I was mildly impressed. Here sits an ugly guy. With no looks, no height, but a pocket full of cash and a brain full of crack. He’s really very suave. And like the first time I met him, I found myself constantly studying him with renewed interest. Every time he spoke, he ignited the charisma his looks extinguished. And after 3 whiskey waters and one of the most-engaging and stimulating conversations I’ve had in a while, I did something that shocked even myself.

“Give us a tray of sex on the beach shots” I said to the bartender.
“I thought someone wanted to step down from the AA?” he said.
“Parting shots” and I giggled at my own joke.
“we celebrating anything?”
“my incredible legs and good conversation.”
He looks down condescendingly at my legs “hmm… give it another 2 months, we’ll drink to good conversation first”
And I did it again – I smiled and hit him playfully on the chest. Gestures like these irritate me tremendously. I still don’t know why from time to time I do bimbotic things like that, just like times I say “Oh dear” and realize it’s not cool.

“Come on little drunkard, game of pool.”
“I’m not sure your ego can take a beating”
“it’s ok,” he slides up close to me, breath on my face “there’s no one here to see you win”

So he racked up and as he did, he looked up at me and smiled. My stomach was a knot. And I found myself angrily wondering WHY CAN’T HE BE CUTE?!?!?! WHY WHY WHY???

I won the first game. Balls and me? Come on.

“let’s play for something. Best of 3 games. It’s 1 0 for now”
“ok… loser will have to rip his underwear out and cut it into shreds”
“and if I’m not wearing any?”
“it’s gonna be painful then.”
“deal.”
“okok. Loser just takes the underwear off for the rest of the night.”
“deal. Winner keeps it?”
“no la. Don’t be sick. I don’t want your crocodile underwear in my bag”
“Deal”

And he won the next two games. Fucking Hustler.

I had so much fun. It was so simple, so casual, so unpretentious. Maybe because I had no expectations. Correction. Maybe because I had bad expectations… I laughed a lot. I talked a lot and I asked a lot. I listened a lot and I hit him on his chest a lot. I wasn’t even flirting the whole night. And he certainly wasn’t trying very hard. I was me and he was him, and we both know we can be great together. Again I talked a lot. And I asked a lot. He listened a lot and he asked a lot. He had all the right answers. He made me feel like a little girl. He played with my hair. He looked in my eyes. He was looking better as the night wore on, and I got more uninhibited.

OH MY GOD. I’m drunk.

Next thing I knew, we were at his apartment. At the rooftop. By the Jacuzzi. (oh yes. Nice pad) I was on the deck chair and he was sitting in front of me. We were facing each other and there were no more words left to say.