(Based on last night. No hard feelings for Mr. Date)
In a small, dark, dive bar, the
bartender makes me
a negroni. I sip.
He arrives in a fluster.
I stand, he
turns- No hug, no touch. So I
sit, he perches: Nervous, or alert?
We talk. He asks, I respond. I gain
myself strongly, this
is my passion, it’s
important it is
life and truth and-
subject. “That’s not appropriate
first date fodder.”
So we talk. I question, he
rambles, I nod. Do we want
another drink? No, let’s go- that band is playing soon.
We walk, with space between us,
no tension, just empty
boredom- up the blocks, I focus on avoiding
He pays the cover fee, but I opt out-
like I’m choosing
a TSA pat-down
over possible radiation exposure,
except this option involves much less