Five Dates Nobody Was Really Into
The first is an electrical engineer who wears a white turtleneck and pleated trousers. He has soft hands and a hushed voice. He is intelligent. I am fascinated by his job, his work. He is modest, even though he designs things that save people’s lives. I keep forgetting he is Christian. I swear continuously and make off-colour jokes, at which he smiles gently and changes the subject. By the time coffee arrives, I have grown to loathe my own passionate reactions to, well, to everything. I skid on his calmness like a blade on clean ice. I feel like a tangle of barbed wire. I would cut those soft hands to pieces.
The second tells me, with a laugh as dry as a dog coughing, that he is a pusher. He is a pharmacist who has worked the night shift for seven years. Behind the counter, under the constant fluorescence, he has grown an indelible smirk. Boredom, as bitter as the pills he dispenses, has twisted up his mouth. He has never married, never traveled, never threatened nor dared. All I can do is shake my head and wish him luck. (And, come to think of it, pay for his dinner.)
Third is a mining engineer with a huge head like a bear. He has an interesting story to tell, and brown eyes with deep, crinkly lines. He presents as well used but well built, solid and inviting, like a house you might want to buy. He has sons and an ex-wife. He is not visibly injured. He drives a Land Rover, he throws raku. I regret not finding him physically attractive, but that big head is really off-putting. It’s like a cement block. I imagine that if I found it lying around the house, I might trip over it and bash my shins. I would never be able to move it on my own. I let him down gently. Later, I discover he has a girlfriend he was hoping to cheat on. That big head, it turns out, housed all sorts of secrets.
The fourth date is the chef at my favourite restaurant. At first, I can barely believe my good fortune. We walk through a market, talking about food. He knows more about it than I do, and I know a lot. He is funny. He talks really fast, condensing his life in wittily rueful bursts. As the evening progresses, I catch an insidious note on the tip of my tongue. It’s the taste of mistrust. He has spieled out so many romantic, professional, and personal disasters, reduced and glazed them for my delectation, that I realize he is more than I can chew. He’s a broken sauce of a man. He’s gone off.
A friend hooks me up with number five, a massage therapist whose spiritual convictions I admire. But he has a million plans, and one of them is to stop touching people for a living. I can understand that, I want to understand it, but I also want someone to touch me. I want someone to teach me something. I am slowing down while he is speeding up. He’s a train going the opposite way, and when I meet him by chance on the street, he’s forgotten my name.
The second tells me, with a laugh as dry as a dog coughing, that he is a pusher. He is a pharmacist who has worked the night shift for seven years. Behind the counter, under the constant fluorescence, he has grown an indelible smirk. Boredom, as bitter as the pills he dispenses, has twisted up his mouth. He has never married, never traveled, never threatened nor dared. All I can do is shake my head and wish him luck. (And, come to think of it, pay for his dinner.)
Third is a mining engineer with a huge head like a bear. He has an interesting story to tell, and brown eyes with deep, crinkly lines. He presents as well used but well built, solid and inviting, like a house you might want to buy. He has sons and an ex-wife. He is not visibly injured. He drives a Land Rover, he throws raku. I regret not finding him physically attractive, but that big head is really off-putting. It’s like a cement block. I imagine that if I found it lying around the house, I might trip over it and bash my shins. I would never be able to move it on my own. I let him down gently. Later, I discover he has a girlfriend he was hoping to cheat on. That big head, it turns out, housed all sorts of secrets.
The fourth date is the chef at my favourite restaurant. At first, I can barely believe my good fortune. We walk through a market, talking about food. He knows more about it than I do, and I know a lot. He is funny. He talks really fast, condensing his life in wittily rueful bursts. As the evening progresses, I catch an insidious note on the tip of my tongue. It’s the taste of mistrust. He has spieled out so many romantic, professional, and personal disasters, reduced and glazed them for my delectation, that I realize he is more than I can chew. He’s a broken sauce of a man. He’s gone off.
A friend hooks me up with number five, a massage therapist whose spiritual convictions I admire. But he has a million plans, and one of them is to stop touching people for a living. I can understand that, I want to understand it, but I also want someone to touch me. I want someone to teach me something. I am slowing down while he is speeding up. He’s a train going the opposite way, and when I meet him by chance on the street, he’s forgotten my name.
posted by Allison at 12:57 PM
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