Dating. Why?…

When I was with the Woo-Woo Medium, she blurted, “And you don’t date, why not?” That nugget was not information I had shared. Perhaps disgust is written all over my face. The topic comes up again in a conversation with work pals.

Every once in a while, I can be coerced on a date. Generally, they go well enough for me to remember why I prefer the company of a skittish tabby. The last one may have sealed the deal.

Sisterella and I are known to share dinner and the crazy occasionally. On this particular Thursday, we meet for an Italian meal.

Mid-Grey Goose martini, extra dirty with two olives, a voice, “Hello Beautiful.” I’m out of practice but I like an attention-getting opener.

Turn to take in an age-appropriate gentleman with striking blue eyes. Knee-wobbling blue. I hate when the universe actually listens to my wishes. He sits. Charm oozes-his, not mine, and my guard lowers courtesy of my Grey Goose friend.

Enough chemistry has alighted that I later tell a friend about Blye Eyes. “Oh be careful. What if he just wants one thing?”

“Is that a problem?”

“You’re right, probably not,” she notes. “Just don’t get roofied.”

“Do you really think men are roofying women our age? To what end? We’re not all that hard to catch.”

Two weeks go by. Grey Goose had me leave the restaurant without sharing numbers. Back we go to said establishment and there is Blue Eyes. “I’ve come here every night to find you.” Charm, right? “You’re not leaving without giving me your number and going with me to a party this weekend.”

“Okay.” That was hard.

At the party, the guy’s a little handsy, okay a lot handsy, grasping at things not generally public-handsy appropriate. Excuse me, sir? His group of friends, however, is super fun and we end up back at the restaurant. I order my signature dirty martini and the bill is placed before the gentleman.

He calls the bartender over. “What is this four-dollar charge?”

“The lady ordered Grey Goose. It’s a premium.”

“Hmm, well I guess that’s okay,” loud enough for all to hear. To me, “Fancy girl huh?”

Say I, “Do you want your four dollars?” He is deadly serious when he says, “No, that’s okay. I got it this time.” Color me unamused. Exit stage left.

He pulls a flask from the car’s console and takes a long swig. “Have some,” he says. No thanks. I haven’t passed a flask in a car since high school. It was Boone’s Farm. The car was overpacked with girls without seatbelts, all young and stupid. If I’m going to drink in a car, it will be a martini with a driver ala Southern Charm’s Miss Pat thank you very much.

The mind flashes to Middle and Baby Chicken and just how grounded they would be for staying in a car with a guy drinking from a flask. And I’m, well, older. Shame on me.

Arriving at the condo, he doesn’t forget all his manners. He opens my door, helps me out, and says, “Am I coming up?” I take back the manners part.

“Sorry–no thanks. I have work in the morning.”

He hasn’t called. Is my heart broken? Not much. I found a new serial killer doc on Netflix.