Oh Waiter! A Little Hemlock, Please!

It is a beautiful night. I desperately wished I did not have plans. It had rained just hard enough to make the night cool, but early enough that the late afternoon sun dried the air and it was crisp. It smelled like fresh grass, which was a nice change since Casey had Napalmed my house.

We walked along the sidewalk making conversation about this and that, and came to a point where we had to walk along side a tall hedge that encroached the sidewalk and was still wet with rain. At this point, we had to walk single file.

And since that arrangement made actual conversation less than optimal, Casey decided to simply make comments.

Remarkably, comments that went something like "Geez, the view is great from back here!" And "We can walk like this the whole way, I don't mind, heh heh."

Now, I did not get to be 40 some odd years old without figuring out my best features. I know I have a nice butt. But what kind of guy makes that kind of teenage dipshit comment on a first date? He couldn't just privately think "Lucky me!" ?????? He had to say it? As if that were going to be flattering to me? Really?

Without breaking stride, I spun around to give him a look that he obviously misunderstood to be less threatening than I'd intended. I could not believe I wasted this great outfit on this clown.

We got to the restaurant without me shoving him into traffic. I ascended the stairs first as would be customary, and he made another crack about my fanny, no pun intended. Thank God it would soon be concealed on the surface of a chair.

And to be honest, friends, the rest of this may not be fair to write. Because being who I am, once I found one thing to pick apart, I could easily find a thousand others. Casey had no shot. There was nothing he could have done to redeem himself. I was glad I paid for the wine. It made me feel less bad for accepting dinner.

Dinner which seemed to last decades. Thank God for the wine.

The waiter came and lit the candles on our table. Casey smiled. I cringed.

The wine was opened and poured. The waiter thankfully placed the ice bucket between us. A little gift from God that it was within reach.

It was time to order. I ordered salmon. Casey ordered filet mignon. And when the waiter asked how he'd like it done, he replied "Medium well."

I know I visibly winced. Even the waiter thought he was hearing things. He asked for clarification.

Casey said, "Medium well. Very little pink." I closed my eyes and grimaced in anticipation that he'd follow that description with a request for ketchup.

He didn't, but I still had to concentrate on suppressing a fight or flight impulse to go running from the building as though it were on fire.