A few weeks ago, I went out for a second time with a tall, fit blonde-hair boy with dimples, and as I sat across him, sipping wine and nibbling a cheese plate, I only could conclude I was drunk on our first date.
Because otherwise, why in the world would I have agreed to go out with him again?
Now, forgive me for being critical (it wouldn’t be the first time someone suggested such a thing) – but there wasn’t anything wrong with him per se. Except that he was upset that I choose to sit at a table instead of the bar (since I arrived 5 minutes early and he arrived 10 minutes late, I got to take my pick). And that he spent the better portion of our date complaining about his job, and the last few minutes of our date laughing telling our handsome European waiter (who was interested in my work) that he doesn’t “read shit like mine.”
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