Scene: A local marginally fancy Italian restaurant. I’m sitting alone at the bar, drinking a glass of red wine and waiting for my wife. A woman in her thirties is standing near the door, alone. Three sips into my shiraz, she walks over to me.
All of that really happened. The rest, below — only in my head. Welcome to my delusions.
Woman: Um… hi. Are you Charlie?
Me: Uh, yeah. I’m Charlie.
Woman: Oh, hi! I’m Denise! It’s good to finally meet you!
Me: Well… um, yeah. Hi there.
Woman: So — wow, this is awkward, huh?
Me: Er, yeah. Actually, it is, sort of. I think you might be —
Woman: You know, I didn’t expect you to be so tall. That’s nice. I like tall men.
Me: Yes, but — really? Tall guys, eh? Well… thanks. But I don’t think —
Woman: You know, you’ve still got a lot of hair for a forty-eight year old. Not in great shape, though. And really, you wore that shirt? Please.
Me: Now, look — first of all, I’m not forty-eight. And — wait, what’s wrong with this shirt? I like this shirt.
Woman: Well, there’s no accounting for taste. It’s okay, it’s okay — I don’t mind taking on a ‘project guy’. You’d better be packing heat in those jeans, though. Now lemme taste that wine.
Me: What the — ‘project guy’? Hold on, there — I am a catch, dammit. Honey, you are lucky to be here with me, And if you want to see what’s in these pants, then you’d better —
Woman: Wait. What is that on your finger? A wedding ring? Oh, you bastard. The dating service is supposed to screen you people out. And all those emails we sent? The cybersex — the cybersex?! You were typing with that hand the whole time? Or… or worse! Ew! Dammit! I am out of here. Asshole!
Me: Wait, you don’t understand — I’m not Charlie. I mean, I am Charlie, but not that Charlie, whoever he is. It’s all a mistake — come back. We’ve never even had cybersex, and… oh. Hi, honey. Boy, you got here quick. Light traffic tonight, eh? Heh. Super.
Wife: Yeah, hi. You’re an idiot. Now buy me dinner.
Me: Yes, dear. Of course, dear. Say, by the way — what do you think of this shirt?
So, yeah — that never happened. Actually, the girl came over and asked if I was ‘Frank’. But I wonder what would’ve happened if her blind date had been with a ‘Charlie’. Or if I’d been thinking quickly enough to pretend I was ‘Frank’. I think I’d be a lot happier if I could just let shit like this go. Super.Permalink | 2 Comments