Once I take a long and humiliating T ride on the C line home, I open ClikClak.
So the second date was worse than the first, if you can believe it.
Involuntarily, tears begin to fill my eyes.
I don't know what's wrong with me. Why are men like this? All I know is I give up, and I won't be going on any more dates. Please stop splicing and tagging me. I'm done.
Sundance comes over and headbutts me, a universal sign for "I agree, all men, besides me, suck, and you deserve so much better." Or, he just wants his ears scratched.
My phone dings. I don't have the strength to analyze my latest laughingstock with Marley. It's easy for her. She's got a great boyfriend who worships the ground she walks on. I need a Jamal for myself.
Except it's not Marley. It's Xavier Henry, sending me another DM through Instagram.
Xavier: Saw the latest ClikClak. Sorry.
Me: You and me both.
Xavier: How was it worse? The first date seemed pretty bad, but now you seem traumatized. How dodgy was he?
I sigh.
Me: Can we FaceTime? I don't want to have to commit this story to words just yet.
Xavier: Give me your number.
I type in my phone number and close Instagram. And then I wait.
A minute goes by. Then two. Then five.
I open Instagram and my digits are still the last message. He's seen it. Shit, I'm even getting blown off virtually.
Screw it. I go to the bathroom. I'm just flushing when I hear my phone ringing. I quickly run my hands under water, not for the recommended two minutes, and sprint out to find my phone. Because my hands are sopping wet, and probably still have soap on them, the phone goes flying out of my grip. I make a lunging dive for it and manage to finally answer the FaceTime.
"You alright?" Xavier asks, his brow slightly furrowed. Gosh, I'd forgotten how attractive he is, and that he speaks with a British accent. It's hot.
I'd also forgotten, in my haste to answer the phone, to think about my angle, and now this fine specimen of a man is getting a great view of my double chin, as well as my hair that seems to be rapidly escaping the messy bun I'd piled it into when I got home from my disastrous date.
Oh good God.
I sit up and tuck my chin in as fast as I can while simultaneously trying to smooth my hair. Needless to say, I'm not that coordinated. As a result, I'm not able to improve my appearance much.
"I will be someday. Maybe, in like fifty years, I'll be able to laugh about the time I went on a date and bent over to retrieve my napkin only to find out that the guy I've known for all of ten minutes is sitting in a restaurant with his dick out."
I can't believe I just said dick.
Also, I should have warned Xavier because he was taking a drink of something. I know this because it's now all over his phone screen.
"Bollocks. Hang on." The image jostles as he puts his phone down and begins wiping it off. I take the opportunity to rip my hair out of the bun and finger comb it.
It's a slight improvement.
"You're joking, right?" Xavier is back, still wiping things up on his end. "Please tell me that was a well-timed joke with the intention of making me spit out my bevvy."
I can see that his eyes are a steel-gray blue and his jaw is the type of square that romance novelists comment on. He's got a bit of facial hair—more than stubble, but not quite a beard. Whatever it's called, it works for him.
"I wish I was." I sigh. "And they say chivalry is dead."
"Was he crackers?"
