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Dear Lord,
Please put me out of my misery.
Love, Clover
A fake smile is pasted on my face.
I nod at the appropriate time. Feign interest. Murmur “mm-hmms” and “wow” every now and then.
The truth? I have no fucking clue what this guy is even talking about. He yammers on and on and on. I’m lulled into a trance, listening to his droney voice.
“Clover?” He raps his knuckles on the table.
I’m jolted alert. “Yes, I’m listening.”
“Were you asleep?” He leans back, offended.
“No. No.” I shake my head. Smile. “I was just resting my eyes. I was out late last night.”
A little white lie.
He studies me. Nods. “Yeah, I get it.”
Sighing, I look across the table at Frank, a perfectly friendly man. Nice-enough looking. Checks all the “average-guy” boxes. Medium height. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. White dress shirt. Blue jeans. Navy blazer. Brown shoes.
He’s just so freakin’ boring.
I had such high hopes too.
We met in line at Starbucks in West Hollywood. He bought my coffee and asked me to dinner. It was the first time anyone asked me out like that. In my effort to do the opposite of what I’d usually do, I said yes.
Still, he’s a stranger. I knew it wouldn’t be good for him to pick me up at my house. I live alone, after all. My brilliant idea was to meet him here at BOA Steakhouse on Sunset. I thought: high traffic location, valet parking, good food. What could go wrong?
Well, I’m out of practice. I didn’t remember BOA is a celebrity seen-and-be-seen spot. Paparazzi camp out around the building an hour before it opens until closing.
Six months ago, I wouldn’t have cared. No one would have looked in my direction.
They do now.
Marketing and PR for the show have been on overdrive. I’m on national entertainment shows. My face is plastered on several billboards around Hollywood. Even my social media is exploding.
All of this exposure means I’m recognizable again, which brings its own set of challenges. It never occurred to me I’d need security. By the time I fought my way in through the barrage of flashes, the host took mercy on me and showed me to a back corner table. Where I waited. And waited.
This guy was friggin’ thirty minutes late!
One of my biggest pet peeves.
God. I should have freakin’ left.
Because as if being late wasn’t annoying enough, from the second he sat down, this guy hasn’t stopped talking about himself. He owns a high-end plumbing fixture store frequented by, apparently, very wealthy clients. My God, the name dropping. Stories that go on too long. Laughing at his own jokes.
I’m so over this date.
“Frank, if you don’t mind, I’m going to skip dessert tonight.” I give him my best smile. “It’s been such a long week.”
He looks disappointed. “Oh, I was hoping we could go grab a drink at SUR.”
“The Vanderpump Rules bar?“ I’m surprised. He doesn’t seem like the target audience.
