introduce myself.
I’m terrible at this in real life—I don’t doubt that women have been pushed over the very edge of sexuality by my romantic ineptitudes—but the situation in which I’ve just found myself doesn’t quite seem real. It seems so surreal, in fact, that I very nearly spit out a fake name and crash and burn right out of the shoot. I try to buy her a drink, but that goes nowhere fast; the music is just too loud and the lighting is so sporadic that lip-reading is a complete impossibility.
Suddenly—and mercifully—she throws me an unexpected bone.
Slugging back the clouded dregs of her drink, she takes my hand and leads me outside. With the blare of music at our backs, she laughs nervously. “Take two, if you don’t mind,” she says. She speaks in a clipped tone that is at once guarded and approachable. In the harsh neon of the strip, her eyes shine like smoldering chrome. “I’m Mitzy.”
I let that percolate for a second before opening my mouth to respond. Maybe I didn’t expect her to be so bold with her alias, or maybe I’m just finding it hard to marry such a familiar name with the face of a stranger. Either way, I’m taken aback—and therefore immediately at a disadvantage. “Uh, Wilson,” I reply. “My friends call me Wil.” We shake hands like businessmen, and she giggles as our implants do likewise. Her xchange stats uploads to my NanoPrint almost instantly; for once, I don’t purge it.
“Well all right then, Wil. Are you going to ask me to dance, or is it too old-fashioned to expect something like that from you?”
I chuckle with a cringe. “Oh, I’m plenty old-fashioned. But I’m a miserable dancer.” Believe me, this confession is understating reality to the point of absolute irresponsibility—imagine a chicken burning alive in slow motion, and you’ll be on the right track.
“Thank goodness,” she exclaims with a nervous titter. “My roommate says my dancing is more than likely the reason I’m still single.”
“Suddenly I feel like I’m missing out on something.”
“Believe me, we’re all better off.” She apparently realizes the contradiction in her behavior thus far—leading me down a path to dancing, when in fact she has no interest in following through—because she immediately follows up with a disclaimer. “Sorry, I guess I’m not very good at cutting the ice.” Her eyes lose focus for a split second and she blushes. “I mean, breaking the ice.” A breeze brushes past us and the pheromones of her faint perfume perk me up.
It suddenly dawns on me that I’ve been flirting with a pretty sexy lady, and for some reason she hasn’t run away in tears yet. Maybe there’s some truth in what they say about men becoming more attractive simply by entering a relationship. Perhaps this woman can sense my unavailability and is subsequently helpless under its strange power. “How about a cup of coffee?” I offer. She smiles her assent and offers an elbow.
“What about your friends?” I ask, though I don’t hesitate to link arms with her. “Won’t they miss you?”
“Oh, sure. They’ll be heartbroken to lose their fifth wheel.”
We find a little diner that serves breakfast and pie all night long and I order a cappuccino and a slice of blueberry pie. I could do some pretty substantial damage to the entire menu, but some adolescent psychology has me feeling weird about eating real food in front of her. I keep having to remind myself that this isn’t a real romantic encounter—that this girl is an imposter—and that whatever attraction I may be feeling for her is just another product of her deception. Then, to my surprise, she orders a cheeseburger and fries, and rounds it out with a chocolate milkshake. Noting my boggled face, she laughs with a cute roll of the eyes. “Don’t worry, we’ll go Dutch.”
“Oh, uh—”
>> Go Dutch?
... In a courtship situation where both parties are assumed to have a similar financial standing, the
I’m terrible at this in real life—I don’t doubt that women have been pushed over the very edge of sexuality by my romantic ineptitudes—but the situation in which I’ve just found myself doesn’t quite seem real. It seems so surreal, in fact, that I very nearly spit out a fake name and crash and burn right out of the shoot. I try to buy her a drink, but that goes nowhere fast; the music is just too loud and the lighting is so sporadic that lip-reading is a complete impossibility.
Suddenly—and mercifully—she throws me an unexpected bone.
Slugging back the clouded dregs of her drink, she takes my hand and leads me outside. With the blare of music at our backs, she laughs nervously. “Take two, if you don’t mind,” she says. She speaks in a clipped tone that is at once guarded and approachable. In the harsh neon of the strip, her eyes shine like smoldering chrome. “I’m Mitzy.”
I let that percolate for a second before opening my mouth to respond. Maybe I didn’t expect her to be so bold with her alias, or maybe I’m just finding it hard to marry such a familiar name with the face of a stranger. Either way, I’m taken aback—and therefore immediately at a disadvantage. “Uh, Wilson,” I reply. “My friends call me Wil.” We shake hands like businessmen, and she giggles as our implants do likewise. Her xchange stats uploads to my NanoPrint almost instantly; for once, I don’t purge it.
“Well all right then, Wil. Are you going to ask me to dance, or is it too old-fashioned to expect something like that from you?”
I chuckle with a cringe. “Oh, I’m plenty old-fashioned. But I’m a miserable dancer.” Believe me, this confession is understating reality to the point of absolute irresponsibility—imagine a chicken burning alive in slow motion, and you’ll be on the right track.
“Thank goodness,” she exclaims with a nervous titter. “My roommate says my dancing is more than likely the reason I’m still single.”
“Suddenly I feel like I’m missing out on something.”
“Believe me, we’re all better off.” She apparently realizes the contradiction in her behavior thus far—leading me down a path to dancing, when in fact she has no interest in following through—because she immediately follows up with a disclaimer. “Sorry, I guess I’m not very good at cutting the ice.” Her eyes lose focus for a split second and she blushes. “I mean, breaking the ice.” A breeze brushes past us and the pheromones of her faint perfume perk me up.
It suddenly dawns on me that I’ve been flirting with a pretty sexy lady, and for some reason she hasn’t run away in tears yet. Maybe there’s some truth in what they say about men becoming more attractive simply by entering a relationship. Perhaps this woman can sense my unavailability and is subsequently helpless under its strange power. “How about a cup of coffee?” I offer. She smiles her assent and offers an elbow.
“What about your friends?” I ask, though I don’t hesitate to link arms with her. “Won’t they miss you?”
“Oh, sure. They’ll be heartbroken to lose their fifth wheel.”
We find a little diner that serves breakfast and pie all night long and I order a cappuccino and a slice of blueberry pie. I could do some pretty substantial damage to the entire menu, but some adolescent psychology has me feeling weird about eating real food in front of her. I keep having to remind myself that this isn’t a real romantic encounter—that this girl is an imposter—and that whatever attraction I may be feeling for her is just another product of her deception. Then, to my surprise, she orders a cheeseburger and fries, and rounds it out with a chocolate milkshake. Noting my boggled face, she laughs with a cute roll of the eyes. “Don’t worry, we’ll go Dutch.”
“Oh, uh—”
>> Go Dutch?
... In a courtship situation where both parties are assumed to have a similar financial standing, the
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