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Jack is not as advertised.

He resembles his profile pictures. Marginally. If you squint and look at them in very dim lighting. Loosely at best. The person in the pictures could have been his son. His taller, more smiley, much better looking son.

His hair is thinner in person. And grayer.

He's shorter. Much.

He's as muscular as he looked but I probably still outweigh him if I leave my shoes on.

He's not smiley. At all. His features are harsh and frowny and he has Bitchy Resting Face Syndrome.

I fretted over what to wear. He obviously did not.

He sits on the bar stool next to me. I immediately wish my bar companions were back at my side. Even the screechy one.

However, we have an easy time making conversation. We don't know each other at all so there is lots of ground to cover. I don't even know his last name.

And after about ten minutes I know I am not even interested enough to know his last name. With each new thing I learn, the picture gets a little more dismal.

For all his spouting off about adventure and being adventurous, he has barely left the safety of his own back yard. He grew up in the city, went to college around the corner from his family's row home and lives only about 15 minutes from there now. And the bar we're in? Walking distance from his house.

His career in "Bio Pharma?" He's a Lab Tech. He works for a Bio Pharm company but he's in research...and not in lab research. His big project currently is calling people on the phone from a list of people who are prescribed their latest drug and asking if they read the insert about the side effects before washing down the tablets with a Dixie cup full of water. Zzzz.

His place "at the shore?" A one bedroom condo on the mainland across the bridge over troubled waters from the actual shore. Definitely not a beach house.

And it does not ever improve from there.

He's snarky. Not funny snarky, mean snarky. Not an ounce of cleverness. Just an asshole.

He's never been married. I should have picked up my purse and fled at the mere mention of that fact. No one who is at all sane gets to be 52 without getting married. The closest he came was a live in girlfriend that lasted less time than a football season. I would love to know who ran out on whom but I am guessing that it was she who walloped him over the head with a cast iron skillet in a rage and fled the dwelling with nothing more than the clothes on her back.

He is one of seven children. He has nothing nice to say about 5 of his sibs and the best thing about his youngest sister is her dog.

Oh. He has a dog.

This is the most endearing part of the conversation. I lean in. If there is something redeeming about this man, this might be it. I should pay attention.