I’ve never been on a second date. Not since I moved to Chicago. Or started using dating apps.
Usually, we just never speak again.
Getting this guy out was like pulling teeth. Can’t tell if he’s into me anymore, but I guess that’s what we’ll find out.
I need to chill.
I look like Joe Pesci.
I couldn’t find my traveling hand lotion so I went elbows deep in Aquaphor on the way out of the house. I hope it lasts.
I have arrived.
I am the only person in this bar.
The bartender was reading a book.
It is dead silent.
My beer arrives as my date informs me he will not be coming.
I can hear the bartender microwaving his dinner; he can hear me breathing.
His dinner is ready.
He came out to talk to me.
I’m trying to figure out how to close my tab without making it obvious I’ve been stood up.
We talk about jury duty.
I take a Lyft line home and I’m the only passenger.
There is a God.
At home, I am fucking fuming. I realize there’s humor in this situation, and that I will be perfectly fine tomorrow, but for the moment, I am pissed. My time is precious. My free nights are everything to me. I don’t make time for dating because I’d rather do just about anything else. But the first date was great, which never happens. So I agreed to a second.
I don’t feel sorry for myself. I feel mad for myself.
I missed going to see a movie with friends for this! Now I’ll never know what happened in 1917!
I cried for a while, which felt good.
I had some wine and biscotti, which felt better.
I watched Real Housewives of New Jersey and am now cured.
I’ve still never been on a second date.