Date

I went on a date the other night. I had chatted this fine looking chick up at an art gallery opening of a business acquaintance. She was looking at an O’Keeffe painting; I figured I knew enough about O’Keeffe to strike up a conversation. And it worked. It turned out she was working in another art gallery.

I put on my Armani Exchange ensemble, one I usually wear on first dates, buttoned up sports blazer, pressed white shirt and pants. Polished Hugo boss shoes, three whiffs of the bloody cologne. All set.

I wasn’t too inventive on this one; I had suggested watching an art film, ‘Music of Bueno Aires’ to continue along the line of the art gallery encounter. I picked up the tickets, and waited outside the theatre. Leaning against the stone façade, one foot backed against the wall James Dean style, catching up with the news from my Blackberry. Looking to the sides of the street only occasionally; I wanted to appear nonchalant when she showed up.

Whoops. There’s my date. She bobbles when she walks; up and down like one of those glass bottles you see bobbling on the surface of the ocean. I wondered to myself if it was because of her choice of shoes, or was it an idiosyncrasy?

“Hey Charlotte.” I smiled.

“Hey, you.” Charlotte smiled back somewhat nervously as she pecked me on my cheeks.

I studied her quickly one more time before we went into the dark theatre. Five seven, perky boobs, small round buttocks and long legs. She reminded me a little of Heather Graham. Not bad, I thought to myself.

The film was fantastic. It told the story of the evolution of tango music as a popular and important cultural and artistic symbol of Argentina and South America.

After the film ended, we headed to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner and on the way exchanging our reviews of the film. I noticed another idiosyncrasy about Charlotte; she was flailing her arms excitedly as she spoke, even at the most uninspired statements, which pretty much made up most of our conversation anyways. Was it to get my undivided attention or was she drowning in her own river of awkwardness?

We sat down at the nicely lit restaurant, made our orders and while waiting for our appetizers, she asked,

“So, have you been to Argentina?”

“No, but I have been to other parts of South America.”

“Oh, like?”

“Brazil, Chile, Peru, and Venezuela.” I wondered if she would notice that I had named them in alphabetical order.

“Oh, that is cool.”

Cool. She said cool to that. I waited to see if she had something else to say. Silence. Nothing. Awkwardness.

“How about you?”

“I have never travelled out of the country before.”

“What? Why? You are thirty-five and you have never gone on a plane out of America?” The words came out of my mouth faster than my brain could order my oratory muscles to shut up.

Her face went white. The next thing I knew, she placed the napkin on the table, got up, took her bag and bobbled out of the restaurant.

I felt like a moron. I had wasted her time and mine.