10: Steph (Take 2)

Wednesday, 05. 5. 2010  –  Confessions of a Lonely, Single Guy, Featured

Ian Hannon

That Saturday, I sat in the rear corner of the coffee shop, shitting myself.

Palms clammy, I pulled the paper copy of my Date Plan from my pocket, unfolded it and glanced down for a quick refresher:

The truth was, I didn’t need the help.

I’d been up until three o’clock the previous morning, drilling it, and I’d been awake since 9 AM showering, choosing my outfit, shaving my face, cleaning the squalor-pit that is my apartment, and in a slightly shameful display of wholesale gun-jumping, doing a considerable amount of grooming to my nether-regions.

And now, four hours later, there I was.

Moments away from my first actual date in two years.

“Ian!” she smiled, entering the coffee shop.

I inhaled deeply, wiped my palms on my jeans, and tried not to think of the hundreds of possible ways I could fuck this up.

“Hey, man!” I grinned, “pound it.”

And, from that moment forward, I was in the zone.

I have no idea how it happened, but for the next fifteen minutes, I was firing on cylinders I didn’t even know I had.

“Don’t be afraid do give her shit,” DJ StrangeLove had said.

So, when she gave me a knuckle-pound, I chastised her on how weak it was.

When she hesitated before jaywalking across Main Street, I joked that she wasn’t quite the rebel she said she’d be.

We were laughing, and flirting, giving each other playful shoves, the way I’d seen DJ StrangeLove do, and suddenly, I felt more powerful than I ever had in my life. From there, with the ice well and truly broken, it was a simple matter to stroll a block up Main, and commence with:

The shop was empty when we entered.

“This place is amazing,” I grinned, “best vintage store in town.”

Put as many clothes on her as you can.

Put as many clothes on her as you can.

“Hey, so can I put an outfit on you or something?”

A pause.

“Um. I guess so.”

In the distance, I could hear DJ StrangeLove smack his forehead and cry: “Fuck’s sake!”

So much for “Don’t ask. Tell.”

“Uh. Never mind,” I stammered, “maybe I’ll just try something myself.”

She shrugged.

“Okay.”

Desperate, I grabbed the first shirt I saw, and threw it over my shoulders. It was only as I struggled to do up the buttons that I realized it was, in fact, a blouse.

For a twelve-year-old.

Steph began to laugh as I wrestled with the wretched thing, trying my best to close it around my chest.

“Foolish woman!” I bellowed, “this tiny shirt is no match for my huge body. I must find another, to better show off my hugeness.”

She could barely contain herself. Her breath was coming in tiny gasps, and tears were forming in her eyes.

I sighed with relief. Not a bad recovery (though nonetheless I could still hear the sound of distant forehead-smacking). I tried on several more ridiculous shirts before turning to her and saying:

“What am I, your mannequin? Let’s dress you for a change.”

I took her to the headwear section, and began piling hat after hat upon her head.

“Hold on. Just hold still. Just a few more.”

She giggled, and pretended to look displeased.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Me? Whatever, man. You can’t talk to me like that. I’ll take you down right now.”

“Whatever. I’d totally kick your ass.” she grinned.

“Okay, Half-Pint,” I chuckled, with mock bravado, “let’s take this outside right now. See who the bigger man is.”

Numerous playful shoves ensued, and a moment later (after a few more hats, and a weary sigh from the storeowner), we departed from the shop, to embark upon:

The walk to the Panini Shop was rife with shoving and flirting, and, when we walked in the door, I strode directly to the counter.

“What are you getting?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“Well, um…to be honest, I’m not really hungry.”

I froze.

Not hungry?

Fear swelled in my chest.

Now what?

In all the contingencies addressed in the Date Plan, it had never occurred to me to ask what to do if she wasn’t hungry.

“Oh. Uh. Really?” I asked, stupidly.

“No. But, you should totally get something.”

I excused myself to the bathroom.

“She’s not hungry,” I frantically texted to DJ StrangeLove, “She’s. Not. Hungry.”

But he didn’t respond. And, after a few anxious moments of waiting, I had no choice but to proceed with:

“Yeah, so, I’m not really hungry, either,” I blurted, returning to the counter.

“What?”

“Uh, I just thought about it, and I’m totally okay.”

“Um…”

She looked at me in total confusion.

“What you really should do is come to my place, and check out some more of my pictures.”

“Oh.”

“And while we’re there, we could watch some Planet Earth,” I laughed, perhaps a trifle too emphatically, “do you like that? It’s great. Man, I love Planet Earth.”

Inside, I was filled with self-loathing.

Everything was falling apart. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was pulling the chute, and I was still miles from the ground. No wonder she was looking at me with such confusion; I was sweating and babbling like a turkey, just blurting out random vowel sounds, and hoping everything would be okay.

“Um. I guess so.”

“Great! Let’s go!”

She was tense as we walked. I attempted a few playful shoves, but got no response, and when we arrived at my apartment, she stayed by the door. Neither of us said a word.

It was horrible.

When you’re on a first date, a few seconds of silence can seem like hours. Your mind races as you try to think of something to say, and, all the while, you can sense your chances of ever getting laid again slipping through your fingers.

I knew I’d screwed up. I’d violated the primary rule of bringing a girl home: Always have a reason. I’d totally panicked, jumped the gun, and now I was hurling myself headlong into the thick of:

I could taste the bile in the back of my throat.

“So, Planet Earth, eh? There’s a great one on Jungles! Just grab a seat next to me and-”

She fixed me with a pitying look, as if she were a Kindergarten teacher, and I’d just soiled my rubber trousers for the seventh time.

“Ian. Maybe we should just put on some music or something.”

I swallowed.

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

We made approximately four minutes of awkward conversation before she said:

“Listen, I’ve gotta run. I’m meeting a friend downtown, and I need to be there by six.”

“Yeah. Sure. Totally. I understand. Here. Let me walk you out.”

As we walked to the door, she turned and took one last look at the apartment.

“Is that a Ponytail Palm?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You’re really clean, eh? This place is spotless.”

I reveled in my cunning.

My heart was pounding as we stepped into the hallway.

“I had a good time, today,” I said, cringing at the cliche.

“Yeah.”

“We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah. Totally.”

“Well, uh… see you later.”

We leaned in for an awkward hug, and, as our faces drew close, I went in for a kiss. But, just as our lips were about to touch, she turned her head, and I instead received what tasted suspiciously like a mouthful of cheek.

My face burned crimson.

“I just - I have this throat thing right now,” she said, “and I wouldn’t want to get you sick.”

“Right. Okay. Totally.That’s cool.”

Then, with a look in her eye I couldn’t quite place, she turned, and quickly disappeared down the hall, leaving me with a pounding heart, a churning stomach, and, as far as I could tell, a one-way ticket to:

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