This whole mask-no mask, vaccine-no vaccine thing reminds me of trying to discuss contraception while you're both naked. There's no way to do it smoothly, yet it has to be done.
Marley: Still going to Carmalina's?
Me: Yes. Reservations for 7
Marley: So I'll expect your text around 7:30
She's not being mean; she's being a realist. I'm the eternal optimist in the friendship because I always charge into things expecting the best. Hell, it's why I'm letting social media set me up in the first place. Also, Trent is the only person I've dated in recent history that I knew in real life and not from social media or an app, and we all know how that turned out.
The first thing I notice about the guy standing in front of the restaurant is his height. He's well over six feet.
"Oh, wow. I didn't know you were so tall. I couldn't tell that online." Stellar opening line. Score one for Ophelia.
"I like short girls."
Yes, this is our first interaction. It's not exactly romance novel material. My brain automatically rewrites the scene, including a magnetic gaze and instant chemistry. I hope I remember it when I get home.
"Well, I'm short," I say lamely. I don't know how else to respond. My head is tilted almost all the way back, just to look at him. I have a feeling I'm going to have a sore neck by the time this night is done.
"No, I don't play basketball. The weather is the same up here. Yes, my parents are as tall, and 6'6".”
That's a lot of information all at once, none of which I asked for. Okay, I was curious about how tall he was, but the other things people must ask him are just uncalled for. It's like me getting asked if I need a booster seat or if I'm a jockey.
"I understand how you feel." This could be a bonding moment. Someday we'll look back and laugh and tell our grandchildren that this was our first conversation.
"I doubt that. Short people have it easy. You have no idea how I feel."
Scratch the grandkid idea.
"Okay then. Should we go in?" I don't know what else to say.
The hostess seats us, eating up a few minutes of time. He starts talking, but I'm having trouble processing what he's saying. I resist the urge to look at my watch or phone. There haven't been any major red flags—yet—that necessitate me texting Marley, so I try to pay attention to what Jeremy is talking about.
"So then, I tell her she's gotta stop following me around. I'm not taking her back for the fourth time."
Uh-oh. I don't know what I've missed, but now the first red flag has been waved. It's still too early to tell which one of them is not stable. I should probably be paying more attention.
"Well"—I clear my throat—"what looks good to you?"
"I'm not big on Italian food, and I am lactose intolerant."
I look at all the cheese-laden options on the menu. "Okay, why did you suggest an Italian restaurant then?" There are literally thousands of other restaurants we could have picked from.
"Chicks dig the aviance here."
Aviance? What the hell is he even talking about? I keep repeating the word to myself if only so I can remember to tell Marley. Also, the fact that he actually used a sentence that began withchicks dig.
When the waitress comes back, the first thing Jeremy does is tell her he does not want to add the three percent kitchen appreciation fee onto the bill.
According to the fine print at the bottom of the menu, the kitchen fee goes directly to the kitchen staff to help account for rising costs, instead of raising menu prices. "Um, why wouldn't you want the people working hard to get compensated?" Having worked in a restaurant previously, what I really mean is, "Why did you just invite them to spit in our food?"
"If you want to pay that on your portion, go ahead. They get paid. At least the ones who are here legally."
Oh hell no. He did not just say that. Flags are popping up like the front of the United Nations. "That's not a fair assumption to make."
"Yes, it is. I'll take the crazy alfredo."
Didn't he say he was lactose intolerant?
