chicken wing guy || dating disasters

“I don’t understand…” came the soft sobs of the man sitting across from me in the booth. Eyes red. I couldn’t fight the mental image of comparing him to a strung out lab rat who was about to attack the next person who made him run that damn maze again… Not politically correct in any sense. 

The bartender came over with my third drink of the night. We had gone to high school together, so for whatever reason, I felt a bond with her. She was a woman. I was a woman. She had my back, knowing that alcohol would be the only way to navigate these salty seas.

 “It’s not you...It’s me…” I had said it at least thirty times before. I guess I was hoping it would stick on the thirty-first time.

“How could you---,” a choked cry, which seemed gut wrenching at first---until my date’s wings arrived. “How could you say there wasn’t any spark between us?” A trail of honey barbecue sauce dripping down his chin, complemented by the saltiness of his tears, probably made a really nice sauce. Taco Maco isn’t advertising it.

“Um, I don’t know…I thought I, like, should be honest.” Isn’t that the goal? Honesty. Communication. Aren’t strong relationships built on a foundation of trust. I was setting us up for success!

“You had your tongue in my mouth, pulled away, and said you didn’t feel a spark!” Yeah. His outrage would have come across a little more intensely had he not spit out barbecue sauce onto my cheek from across the table. Or was that a tear? Can you have projectile tears? 

People were staring now. Who am I kidding? The guy’s sniffles as soon as we walked in were merely the preview to this electrifying performance. 

“I didn’t mean to make you upset. You seem like a nice guy. I--I---,” I started to panic. Who was I to know what the hell I was doing? I had dated like three guys in my entire life. Maybe this would be one of those stories that we told our kids one day. Yeah, mom made dad cry on the first date. Now look how happy we are?

But sitting before me was a man that, I kid you not, had his whole hand in his mouth in an effort to get the sauce off of it. 

“I am a nice guy!” If he has to shout it at you in the middle of a restaurant, he’s not that nice. It’s like when guys say, ‘I’m a grown ass man’. If you have to say it... No, buddy. You’re not. How was I supposed to know any of this though? How was I supposed to know that I wasn’t the complete bitch? I mean, I made him cry!

“You are! I know! You really seem nice,” said the three purple drinks I had been given by the bartender. I didn’t ask what was in them. There was an unspoken force between us. She was giving me the courage to call this guy the f*** out… Alcohol doesn’t work that way on me though. Alcohol makes me adore everyone I meet. Oh, you’re the type of person who takes up two parking spaces? Love you. You like to open every bottle of foundation and put the bottle back on the shelf? Let’s make out. Your wife doesn’t understand you and I’m the love of your life? Yes, I am. 

That is what alcohol does to me. So, obviously, it didn’t help this situation.

“I’m willing to give it another shot,” the guy added as though he was doing me a favor. Honestly, I don’t remember his name either. He was that unremarkable. When you sob for forty-five minutes in the booth of a Taco Mac, your name really isn’t the most interesting thing about you...

“Seriously? You think we can make this work?” I asked hopefully---again, I thought the bartender had my back. F*** her. 

“I don’t know. It’s going to be really hard for me to trust you after this.” To trust me… as though I had betrayed him. Look, I didn’t take the last poptart out of the box, Skippy. I just told you that you suck at kissing.

That’s what I should have said. Instead, three-drinks-Virginia, hopeful that this would be the last first date she ever had to go on, grabbed those sticky fingers. “I promise you can trust me. I’m so sorry that I hurt your feelings.”

Looking back, I’m not quite sure the worst part of that date. Was it the kiss that was so wet I had to wipe off my mouth? Could it be that the sports bar had to turn up fourteen televisions to drown out the sobs of my date? It could have been the fact that I ended up paying for the whole date out of guilt?

No. The worst part came the next morning when I received a text stating...

“You’re too dramatic for me and a bit sloppy. This isn’t going to work for me.”

Not even the worst of my dates.