The prospect of Date # 3 begins quite grand. The Friday morning before our Saturday night date he texts me asking if I’d like to accompany him to the see the National Symphony Orchestra at the Kennedy Center, to which I reply, ‘that sounds amazing.’
He’s pulling out all the stops. This man wants to get laid. I think.
I tell my sister, who is uber-excited for me. Frankly, more excited than I am. And later, when I mention it to my brother –in-law, he confirms my thoughts.
He’s definitely looking to get some.
Shit! I will most definitely have to hold myself to a one drink minimum. No booze, no bootie! I think.
Saturday goes by without any glitches. I sleep in until 10:30. My workout is not rushed. He does not text to cancel, or move the date to a later time; instead our only texts discuss the planned time of our meeting, which is my decision. ‘6:20 if we want to grab dinner before the symphony, or around 7:20/30 if we want to grab dinner after.’ We have box seats, so we can dip and eat if you get hungry.’
I choose 7:20, hoping the extra hour will allow me to do some writing. I always have such high hopes.
I meet him at his condo (that he owns, might I add) in Foggy Bottom at the appropriate time. After calling him to let him know of my arrival, I wait. A few minutes later he taps on my window and I open the door to find him in the exact same outfit he had worn on our first date. I might have been farshnikert, but fashion I never forget!
We make our way to the Kennedy Center. In the cab, he lets me know that he sent one of the top entomologist a sample from his condo.
‘He’s going to be flying in to take a look at my place.’
Am I supposed to be impressed? I wonder. Frankly, I find that a tad excessive.
The night is cool, crisp, like a tall refreshing drink. We arrive and snag our tickets from will call. I glance to the ticket. My eyes immediately scan in on the price, 60 bucks.
60 bucks! That’s $120 total, and we haven’t even gone to dinner yet. On my budget of $20 a day I could live off of these two tickets for six days, six freakin days! Oy, Vay!
As we wait for the music to begin, we discuss our day. He spent his writing an article. I spent mine writing one (on him) as well. At times, I feel we are so similar, at times; his overflowing wallet reminds me that we are not. Besides us, another young couple sits. I watch as she moves her chair towards him, puts her hand on his knee, and grabs his hand. I move my own towards him, one on top of the other, subtle, but obvious, he is oblivious to my body language. His hands remain in his lap. Not one to make the first move, I quickly move mine to the other side.
The first act, Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony No. 6, begins. The conductor, a Hungarian half bald fella, moves his arms with veracity. The music moves from mellifluous to melancholy, and then ends with great intensity. I glance to Bocher #1, he mentions that he wishes he had some Twizzlers, and we both laugh. Act 1 commences and he says that he needs to use the little boy’s room. I concur and so together we make our way to the restrooms. Oddly, this is an action that has become routine. Our bladders appear to be linked, which is strange, considering I have to pee almost every five minutes. It’s refreshing to know that someone else also has a bladder the size of a tiny lima bean.
After our trip to the restroom, he asks me, ‘Everything come out okay?’
Questions such as these leave me farmisht.(confused)
Is he trying to be crude, witty, all of the above?
I never know exactly how to respond. Although I would like to give him a raise of the eyebrow, I simply giggle and grin.
After taking our seats for the second act, Bela Bartok’s The Wooden Prince, he mentions that he is in need of a diet coke, and asks if I would like a beverage as well. I politely decline, and he leaves. A few minutes pass and I smile at the couple sitting besides us. The doors close, the symphony begins. His seat remains empty. I stifle my apprehension.
He’ll be back.
Twenty-minutes pass and I glance to the door. Again, I smile to the couple next to me. Their grins say it all, ‘Poor girl, left by her date, and at the symphony. How sad!’
Sad, indeed. I try to focus on the music, the flute, the harp, and the loud booming drum, but my eyes continue to look over to the door hoping he’ll make a grand entrance. I can no longer enjoy the melody, the beauty, the ballet; he has now ruined it all. Angry and verklempt (ready to cry), I continue to hope he will appear.
An hour later, and still no Bocher, the symphony players take their last bow, and I walk briskly to the door.
Outside, Bocher #1 waits, hands in his pocket, looking kalamutneh.(gloomy)
It was my fault, says the usher. People aren’t allowed in after the symphony has started. It distracts the conductor.
I look at her, miffed, and he smiles at me and asks, ‘How was it?’
I cannot be mad. I want to be mad. It’s not his fault.
‘ Amazing!’ I say. I’m so sorry you missed it.
‘Well, tell me about it.’
I try to, but I cannot do it justice.
‘The good thing is that I’ve made us dinner reservations, and Virginia is going to join us.’
Virginia is the Asian cougar (women seek the company of younger men) who resides next door to him. After recently losing her husband, she has taken up the hobby of scouting young men. I believe that Bocher #1 is among one of her prey.
‘She’s very excited to meet you.’
Odd. I think.
We enter the cab where he tells the driver to take us to Westend Bistro, adjacent to the Ritz Carlton on 22nd Street.
Yet again, my mind wanders to his wallet, his true intentions, and the money I could have saved. We enter the restaurant and I look around for Virginia.
‘Where’s Virginia?’
‘I was kidding, although she did want to join us at the symphony.’
At times, he leaves me stumped. We each order a drink; a glass of wine for myself and a vodka cranberry for himself.
One drink minimum. Two max. I tell myself.
The conversation flows smoothly. He wants to see my current writing. I swiftly change the subject to our meal of mussels and salads. It is a known fact that most men find baggage unattractive. I come with a shit ton of it, and a third date is usually not the time to reveal this. I might want a fourth date, or even a fifth, and so skirting the issue is always best.
By the time dinner ends, it is almost twelve. We walk to his condo where he asks me if I would like to come up. Slightly buzzed, I accept. As he opens the door to his condo, a chill escapes into the hall and as we make our way inside I understand why. It is an igloo. Not like an igloo. It is an igloo. The AC reads 62 degrees. Chill bumps grow on my body at any temperature below 75 degrees. . The hair on my stubble free legs has now grown bag. The task of shaving was for not.
‘Shit! It’s cold in here.’
‘Well, I read that any form of bacteria is killed at temperatures below 65. And since I’m still not sure about the flea infestation I’m just being safe.’
That’s meshugeh. I think
He grabs his only comforter (the others, as well as all his clothes are at the cleaners, due to the feared infestation) and wraps it around me. He leads me to his bed, and my blog begins to sound like a Harlequin novel, but No, I am no longer buzzed, and he simply receives a kiss (or two or three…). We talk and he lets me know that he really likes me, and I let him know I feel the same. He invites me stay, but I decline and say ‘another time’, because past nit (it isn’t proper) and it is freezing. He walks me to my car and tells me to text him when I get home.
After putting on a long sleeved shirt, sweat pants, and wrapping myself in my heated blanket I text him and thank him yet again for a wonderful evening. Before sending it I add, you make me happy, thanks. He responds ‘ditto’ and I smile as the hair on my arms finally falls back into place.
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