True Dating Stories

Dice, The Next Generation
by Caterina Christakos



For me, first dates are like the anticipation of climbing the first hill of a roller coaster, and the nausea that inevitably ensues. This first of firsts was no exception.

After spending several hours teasing my hair into a follicular sculpture which would rival the masterpieces of any Vidal Sassoon and searching the deepest, most uncharted recesses of my closet to find the perfect pale blue pumps, which flawlessly matched the carefully selected pair of panties for the evening- not that he had any chance of seeing them - nevertheless this fastidious sense of matching gave me a great sense of inner comfort, you can imagine my sheer delight in being driven to the Discount Dollar Movie Plex and having my prince charming whip out his newly acquired free passes for our evening’s entertainment. One would think with a body as large as his, there would be plenty of room for a brain. Time and experience proved the error in jumping to such a far fetched conclusion.

There we sat, chair to chair, his hand resting on my arm, as his thumb roamed in little circles on the top of my wrist. As the lights dimmed, I leaned forward, anticipating a romance or light hearted comedy. What I got was the flare of guns, car chases, and the spill of blood, as inner city gangs fought over drug territory and prostitutes. As I sat quaking in horror, my simple minded Lathareo leaned over and questioned -" Good movie, huh?"

About to blast him into Arctic territories, yet unseen by man or seal, I had the misfortune of looking into those big, soulful eyes and lost my ability to speak, let alone blame him for the night’s disaster. And when he asked why I kept flexing my hand throughout the movie, I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth - that his thoughtful thumb massage had put my hand to sleep. No, one look from him or one simple touch and I would make Marcell Marcieux sound like Chatty Kathy.

Weeks turned into months and at last I regained my ability to speak. Unfortunately, I began to resemble my namesake in Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. In all due fairness, it wasn’t necessarily the things he did that set me off - although his growing collection of vodka bottles on the wall and the overpowering stench of month old laundry didn’t help- but the innate differences between us. I lived for Tennyson’s sonnets and he for Jug’s Magazine. Don’t get me wrong, when things were good between us, there was no greater high, like the time he hired a gondola to take us around a nearby lake or those moments cuddled in his arms when he would sing to me in a voice angels would envy, but when the pains of reality, such as his friends bursting in on us without notice or knocking - hoping to get an eyeful, came into play, the fires of hell would have been a welcome reprieve.


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