Dating is Dated

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Dating is dated

I’m eating dinner with a girl in the presidential suite. I can see her eyes slowly gaze past mine toward the furnishings on the more expensive tables. I feel like writing ‘help’ on the napkin using this unnecessary ocean spray introduction. The bubbles in our champagne clone are staring at us as if we are tourists. Tea lights cast strange shadows onto the satin finished ceiling. Her fingertips remind me of the tops of matches, but I try and resist the urge to move my flammable tongue any closer. The forks are ganging up on the spoons as the knives introduce each new round. I’ve instigated my usual 10 topics, and she’s still as cold as the broken radiator in the kitchen. I can feel pulse through the cheap mahogany table, and it’s constant. She picks at the broken laminate on the menu, until the waiter asks for her order. I think I’ve seen her iris twice. This is like pushing a yacht into a sea of concrete. I watch her endlessly portion off her food in order of colour. The cheap decor is matching the fruitless output of her mouth socket. My food tastes like wallpaper paste thrown into a blender with a sachet of sugar. I can see the eyeballs of the chef from between the serving racks, staring at my mouth as if I’m about to eat the last slice of genuine moon-rock. The atmosphere is like a summer in Arizona wearing a skin-stitched Santa costume. We try and find common ground, but it’s not for sale. When she visited the restroom, I considered changing the opaque salt shaker for the pepper, but she’d probably not even notice. I resort to telling stories about hurting my piano on my fingers. I wait to be corrected but the green light never illuminates in the dusty attic of her thoughts. My favourite shirt is using its buttons to give me evil eyes. I try to reflect them to catch the attention of the meandering waitress so that i can settle the score and leave this sandpaper situation. She removes the card from my hand as if it were a pin from a grenade. I can see the temptation crawl over her face as she considers adding a ‘side order’ that we didn’t have. I keep the receipt as a memory of a terrible evening spent in the company of misery personified. I remember my manners and thank this empty case for a splendid evening and I proceed to call her a cab. We murmur about waiting times and taxi-driver conversations until some headlights start to enlarge in our direction. And so I send her off into the night with a charming smile and my fingers crossed. I begin the mile walk home, hopeful of bumping into someone who’ll appease my situation with wit and intellect. I only manage to bump into the remains of snowmen. My apartment is as warm as an Eskimos beer, but I feel obligated to make a ‘safe-home’ phone call. She answers with a delicate voice and a willingness to speak. She invites me to an art gallery in the city next month, but I decline on the grounds of watercolour hatred. She is clever enough to decipher the snooze-tones of my vocal sound, and say goodnight. Some connections are like WIFI and some connections are cabled and messy and erratic and dysfunctional and expensive and chaotic. She is the tangle of cables at the back of my atriums. The photographs don’t always line up to expectations. I didn’t give a tip tonight, because the soup burnt my mouth and the girl froze my heart.

Created: Nov 30, 2010


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