I just got back from my strangest date ever. I’m really tempted to put this in the pit.
I contacted her Sunday but her return email didn’t come till Wednesday…it had her phone number. Since it said she was flexible, call any time, so I did on Thursday night. But she had to put me off because she was in the middle of visiting a friend who had a new big screen TV. I had hoped she would contact me the next day but didn’t.
When I awoke this morning, I planned to call her but I never figured on asking her out. 48 hours seems like the minimum advance notice. Around 10:30 AM, I called—oops, woke her up. I guess she went to bed late but didn’t pry into the why. She was very glad to hear from me, however, and said so. “I felt bad that I couldn’t talk the other night…”
We talked for 1 hour 45 minutes. I won’t say it was totally magical but it had its moments. I said I’d like to get to know her and she said when? I was about to say, “Maybe next weekend we could do something” when she said, “Maybe tonight?” I said sure, suggested some putt putt and she said she loved putt putt.
“When should we meet? I mean, do you have church in the morning?”
“Oh, wait—isn’t today Friday?”
“No, it’s Saturday.” [I didn’t pry but I discovered she’s unemployed and I think probably on disability…long story]
“Oh, well…church tonight at 5:00…”
Yadda yadda. First she was going to skip church, but I thought we could get together after church; she said before would be better. Fine. She wanted me to pick her up at 2:00.
I’m driving up to her complex when my cell rings. She’s running late. No problem.
I was wondering whether this was a “date” or whether we were going out as friends. Either way was okay. She comes out maybe 5 minutes late, no big. She kisses me on the mouth—no tongue but it had a bit of emphasis behind it, not at all a quick peck. Strong hug. Note to myself: this is a date.
“I’m so sorry…my cousin called and we got to talking. I looked at the clock. I said, ‘Oh no! My date’s going to be here in 10 minutes and I’m not even ready!’” Note to myself: yep this is a date!
So we get in the car. She takes my hand, squeezes it. I have a 5 speed so I needed that hand but throughout our time together, she occasionally takes it.
I was surprised they wanted $15 for two for Putt Putt, but ok. We had fun; more handholding, occasional kiss, yadda. A bit of mild innuendo, e.g. “I know how to swing…wait, not that kind of swing!”
Afterward we’re trying to navigate to a restaurant she wanted to go to. We got on the wrong road, and turning around isn’t easy, nor is finding the turn off once you’ve turned around, so we decide to improvise a route back. “Man,” she says, “I’m hungry!” But it turns out that part of the reason she wants this restaurant is that they had set aside a table and “named” it for her mother, when she was alive. So besides eating there, my date wanted to know if it were still named for her.
We fail horribly at finding a different route, but she realizes we’re heading toward her mother’s place. She’s a bit weepy. “She was my best friend; I don’t know how I can ever get over losing her.” I notice that as we’re driving there, sometimes she speaks of her in the present, as if her mother is still alive.
Waiting at a long stoplight, she says she doesn’t date. I look at her; she does some weird little shiver of the shoulders, like, ‘Surprised you, didn’t I?’ She continued, “Yeah, my friend said, ‘Well, you see some men.’ Yeah. ‘Do they buy you dinner?’/Yeah. ‘Do you kiss them?’/Yeah. ‘Then what are you doing?’/ Hanging out.” I thought, ‘When you came out late, you said that you told your cousin your DATE would be here in ten minutes. What was that?’
“Some expert said that you need at least eight hugs a day. I like hugging people; I’ll even hug strangers. But I guess some guys get the wrong idea about that.” I say, very mildly sarcastically, that I can’t imagine why.
Her mother passed away back around Easter but the place is for sale and she needed to do some things. Frankly, she can’t face the empty place alone. She’s the only relative in the area so till the place sells, it’s up to her to check in. Only she hasn’t been doing it.
I notice some black garbage bags near the entrance to the house. They don’t look good—like maybe there’s some food or whatever that should have gone to the curb awhile ago.
We go in and she’s teary-eyed for parts of it. I don’t know what she really did while we were there. Maybe just made that sure lights were on, that nobody had broken in, etc. And she showed me the boxes that have both her parents’ ashes in them—postal boxes, presumably with urns inside. Mmmkay.
We leave, lock the door. She crosses the street and I think she’s telling the neighbor to please keep an eye on it for her. She returns and starts dragging a garbage bag to the street. “He said he thought it would be okay if these sat by the curb till Monday. In some places they fine you—I didn’t want to get a ticket.”
And then, by virtue of her moving a bag, I smelled the worst thing I ever smelled in my life. If you took some cat diarrhea, mixed it with the rankest vomit you could find, etc., then let it ferment—well, that still would be cologne compared to this. I don’t hurl easily but for a moment I wasn’t sure I would keep my stomach contents down. This was an entity.
Chivalrous imbecile that I am, I helped her by dragging two myself. I had one bright moment in realizing that if either of these heavy bags broke, a shitstorm of putrefaction might be unleashed. Hence, I dragged them across the grass.
She did not; she lifted. And while neither of hers actually broke, there was apparenty a leak in the bottom so that some nasty goo landed on her leg, sock, and shoe.
“Well, let’s go,” she said.
“Um, do you smell that? You got some on you.”
“Oh geez, I did.”
We unlock and go back in. She’s wiping with a wet paper towel; I’m not paying much attention. “OK, let’s go.”
As she’s walking out, I notice a big splash of ‘puree’ on the back of her leg, discoloration on her shoes that should have been obvious to her, etc.
“Um, I think you want to try that again.”
She looks. “Oh, wow.”
So she goes back to the kitchen, takes off her leather tennis shoe, and washes it in the sink, wipes her leg.
Finally we get back in the car. We can still smell it. The sock, right. She says something about dinner and I say, “I—wonder if you want to take a shower before church.” If I had been sharper, or had given a fuck, I would have said that restaurant probably wouldn’t have welcomed us. Oh well, served the purpose.
“Oh, you’re probably right. Yeah, the smell is stronger now. OK, let’s skip dinner.”
“Man, that was about the worst thing I ever smelled.”
“Yeah, it had been sitting there for about two months.”
I’m thinking, :eek:
Back at her place I drop her off, glad that the stench will be leaving my car. “I had fun, thanks! Let’s do it again some time!” No kiss, hug, anything, though at this point I didn’t really care any more.
I feel kinda bad for her. But not bad enough to go out with her again. Ever.
