Page 29 of Experiments in Offline Dating

“Oh! Um. No, I mean, like, for work . . . or something.” Why was it that I always sounded like an idiot? I mean, I knew myself to be a woman fully in possession of a brain and a decent vocabulary. And yet . . . “Something worky? Like work? Or, like, are you retired?” Shit sandwich, I did not just say that!

“No, no. I work for the power company.” He grunted and adjusted uncomfortably in his seat again, making the wonky table move and splash our drinks. I guessed at least he was just as awkward as I was. Maybe he didn’t even notice.

“And what about books?”

“Books?”

“Yeah. Do you have some?”

“Uhh—”

“Oh. I mean, I think what I’m asking is—do you like to read?”

“Yeah. I read.”

“Oh, you do?” My voice went way too high. “Great!” I laughed. Oh, thank God! This I can work with. Should be able to kill ten minutes, at least! I waited for a moment, hoping he would elaborate on his own without handholding. But no. “And, uh. And what do you like to read?”

“I read the papers. Every morning.”

My voice went right back down to suboptimal-enjoyment levels. “The papers.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. The papers.” I nodded again, as in Oh yes, I’ve heard of newspapers. “It’s always good to keep abreast of current events.” Please do not use the word “abreast” ever again. “But what about books? Like fiction, maybe? A good swashbuckle. Or, say, I dunno, Bigfoot erotica?” I laughed giddily, thinking, hoping, that he might laugh also. But this did not come to pass.

He gave me a tight look, worried, most likely, for my sanity. “No. I’ll read no erotica,” he boomed. I winced.

“Oh, that . . . that was a joke. I like laughing. But what about . . . other stuff?”

“I don’t read books. I gotta keep moving, ye know? Can’t understand people sitting around doing nothing.”

I had a quiet aneurysm, then involuntarily let out a big breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh. Arnold looked at his watch. Sweet Lord, let him be ready to go home!

“Well, I’d better go.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Shit! Don’t say that, Maya! “I mean, oh no. Already?” No! Don’t say that either!

“I’ll just be a few minutes. I forgot to lock my van. And there are a lotta foreign people moving over these days. It’ll be hard to drive you home if they steal my van.” He said this. Out loud. And his voice was the loudest voice in all the land. I cringed my spine into a knot and slid down in my seat. “Oh, no. You can’t. Wow. Please don’t say that.”

“’Fraid so. Can’t trust ’em!”

“That’s . . . not what I meant.” Ooookay. Well, we’re done here. If the book hating weren’t a mood killer, casual xenophobia would certainly do it.

Conclusion: date unsuccessful.

Uncontrollable variable: date suffered from insidious medical condition where one’s reason is taken over by fecal matter.

Arnold, ignoring my objections—or perhaps not hearing them, as they had been at a normal decibel for human ears—left, keys in hand, and I jumped up immediately to find Jackie. I had to beg him to break this off. This man wanted to drive me home, for Christ’s sake!

The pub was getting more crowded, and I wove through the people toward the back room where the music was coming from. And there was Jackie, dancing with a beautiful older lady. They were laughing, and he was spinning the taller woman effortlessly. I hated to ruin his dance, but desperate times called for desperate measures. What if Arnold returned before the song ended? I couldn’t bear it!

I waved at Jackie. I dodged through the people and tried to make eye contact as they spun and shifted and wove through the other dancers. It didn’t work. I made a big, weird smile and widened my eyes for explicit eye contact. This also did not work. Then I moved my arms in a high X wave. Totally normal.

“Jackie?” I called out.

Everyone looked. Except for Jackie.

“Jackie!”