The next day, I anxiously awaited a text from my betrothed. I began to lose hope until much later that night I finally received a text. I’d hardly call it a love note, but it was all I needed to launch myself back into planning our future together.
I decided to put him out of my mind for the night and the girls and I went to party downtown. Towards the end of the night, we wandered into a dance club. I don’t quite know how to put this, but lets just say it was a club that put me right back into my Save the Last Dance-fantasy, in which I play the part of Julia Stiles. It was amazing. I was frisked upon entry, and later surrounded by ankle length jean shorts, Swisher Sweats and a fair amount of illicit grinding. I looked to my friend Lauren, who was somehow already fisting a bejeweled microphone.
“This is the DJ,” she told me, gesturing to her new, unsmiling friend.
Unfortunately, I’d decided to wear my seersucker skirt out that night. Huge mistake. I looked like a fish out of water, or more accurately, a piece of lint in the chocolate milk. It was mortifying. At first, no one would take me or my dance moves seriously, but I managed to overcome all obstacles and woo them with my signature spastic routine.
I emerged from the club looking like a wet rat and smelling like the inside of a shoe. My white skirt was stained dark blue, presumably from the heavy amount of dark denim it had encountered throughout the night. My mascara was down to my chin, and I’d sweated off all four layers of my bronzer. I was a sight to behold, and at this point I was certain no male suitor would be offering to pay my cab fare.
As my friends and I prepared to make our way home, something glorious flashed across my peripheral vision: it was Marco. He was in a cotton button down shirt and slim fitting jeans. His blouse was unbuttoned and slightly askew, leaving no chest hair to the imagination. The wind whistled between the spikes in his aggressively gelled hair. He was beautiful. I marched towards my bronze beloved in a wordless daze. We embraced, and after feeling the dampness of my skin and clothing I’m certain he regretted it. I asked him if he had a Facebook, and he said no. It wasn’t my best effort.
We tore apart and I headed home with the rest of the girls. I sat the entire cab ride home with my head out the window like a Labrador en route to the park, startling every passerby with my delirious grin. My damp, sweaty locks blew about my face as I let the warm Florida breeze dry my streaky bronzer. I was a woman in love.
As soon as we got back to the hotel, I received a text message from Marco. I was floored — usually, I’m the first person to initiate a creepy SMS exchange, so I enjoyed the change in routine.
His first few texts should have warned me that there would be trouble in paradise. To put it mildly, he used far too many emoticons for my taste. His fondness for exclamation points nearly threw me into a cold sweat, and with each winky face he sent, I became haunted by visions of him giggling like a little girl.
Next, he began persuading me to come back out to go for a “drive.” I was skeptical. Not only did I question his sobriety, but I also wondered if he had a legal driving license, or U.S. citizenship for that matter. When I told him that I was in for the night and that I had eaten too much peanut butter to come back out, he proceeded to send me the most uncomfortably “romantic” alliteration I have ever encountered.
I was horrified and confused. Where had we gone wrong? I’d imagined our romance as a beautiful thing that I would someday write about like in “Under the Tuscan Sun” or “Eat, Pray Love.” His lewd words soiled my dream, and I didn’t think I’d be able to rekindle our innocent flame.
Unsure of how to tactfully decline his offer, I didn’t respond. After that, things cooled off between us. We stopped talking to each other, and by that I mean he stopped returning my messages.
To this day, I haven’t heard from him. I’m not in the least bit surprised, but I wish him the best of luck wherever his white linen pants may take him.