The first text arrived at 7:30.

A moment later, I met Steph by the front door of the restaurant, going through the now-familiar motions that The System dictated: the knuckle-pound, the one-and-a-half-thumbs-up, the playful shoves, the casual touches to condition an appropriate kinesthetic response. It felt less like genuine social interaction, and more like some bizarre science experiment; that, or a perverse urban reinterpretation of Groundhog Day.

I could taste bile in the back of my throat. As I’d said to DJ StrangeLove, I really liked this girl, and the idea that I was hitting her with a bunch of prepared routines made me feel, simply put, like a big, raging sphincter. Why couldn’t I just be myself? Make your affections worth something? What was wrong with just doing something nice for a woman? Why did I have to turn my interactions into transactions? Why did I need a bunch of routines and expressions and so-called Science? I liked this girl.

Shouldn’t that be enough?

Steph seemed distant as we talked. Her responses were lukewarm, her body-language closed-off, her knuckle-pound hopelessly flaccid. It was as if she’d invited me out, and then spent the next eighteen hours regretting it. My failures from the previous date swirled around in my head: the panic in the Panini shop, the awkward kiss in the hallway, the four-and-a-half minutes of outright boobery in my apartment.

“You look nice,” I stammered.

“Thanks.”

Her response was flat.

“Here. Let me get that for you,” I said, reaching for the door.

She forced a thin smile.

“No, I’ve got it.”

Make your affections worth something.

And, I realized, in that moment, that if I didn’t follow DJ StrangeLove’s advice, I could lose her forever.

So, trying to keep my voice level, and free of self-loathing, I said:

“Listen, man, this better be good. If it’s just a table full of girls, I’m leaving.”

Suddenly, she wheeled around and grabbed my arm, fixing her face into a mock-pleading expression. Gone were the dismissive gestures, the closed-off body-language.

“Come on,” she said, “you’ll be fine. And I’ll totally owe you. I’m only staying for one drink anyway.”

So, it was official: it worked.

DJ StrangeLove was right.

As much as it burned me to admit it, the bastard was right again. The proof was right there; with only a few well-placed words, despite my exhaustive donkey-fuck of a first-date, she’d actually fought for me to stay.

“Besides,” Steph laughed, “I just got over that throat thing.”

I stopped in mid-step.

“Throat thing?”

“Yeah. What a relief. I was worried it was laryngitis or something.”

A moment later, I was in the restaurant bathroom, texting DJ StrangeLove.

As I squatted, fully-clothed, over the toilet-seat, the phone rang.

“Well, fuck me,” DJ StrangeLove screamed into the reciever, “you may actually have a shot.”

“What do I do?”

“Say you have a party later, so you can only stay for one drink.”

“What?”

“You can’t look desperate, so tell her you have somewhere to go.”

“But I don’t.”

“Of course not. But that way, when you do end up staying, it’s because she ‘won you over’. She worked for it.”

“I don’t want to lie to her.”

“Just trust me. Six hours from now, when she’s in your bed, and she sits up and goes: ‘how did I get here?’ you’ll be thanking me.”

“I’m not cool with this.”

“Do it.”

“I won’t.”

“Ian.”

“No, man, That’s not how I roll.”

“Listen,” DJ StrangeLove hissed, “I’m going to tell you something: you suck with chicks. Like, a lot. I’ve seen you. It’s painful. I, on the other hand, do not suck with chicks. They like me. They hang out with me. They do things to my penis on a regular basis. So, what do you say you shut the fuck up and listen to me for once?”

“Fuck this,” I spat, and hung up the phone.

Who the hell did he think he was?

Two hours, and three drinks later, Steph and I stumbled from the restaurant.

“So…” she asked, holding my arm for support, ”what’s your night looking like?”

“Well, I really should get to my buddy’s birthday,” I replied, again filled with a substantial dose of self-loathing.

But again, the oddest thing happened.

She drew closer. She nudged my arm, and said, a playful grin skittering across her face:

“Or, you could come downtown with me.”

So, two things were official: it worked, and I was an asshole.

“For what?” I asked, my voice heavy with mock-suspicion.

“I need to top by work for a sec, so this artist can hang some pieces.”

“Well, only if it’s tons of fun,” I said, gravely, “I only do things that are super-awesome.”

She tried to keep from grinning.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You totally tricked me into this.”

She winked.

“Well, you tricked me into your house last time, so I guess that makes us even.”

The ‘sec’ at the coffee shop ended up being close to an hour, but I didn’t mind. Steph spent that time snuggled up close to me, head on my shoulder, her earlier reservations clearly blown away by my superior Dating Skills. But, try as I might, no matter how close we were, I couldn’t summon the nerve to kiss her.

“The cardinal rule when it comes to kissing a woman,” DJ StrangeLove had said, “is: don’t leave it ‘til the end of the night.”

I began to panic.

“Is there a bathroom around here?” I asked.

Steph pointed, and, a moment later, I squatted above yet another toilet-seat, frantically texting: “NEED KISS TACTICS” into my phone.

I emerged from the bathroom with purpose. However, when I returned to the shop, Steph already had her coat and hat on.

“Want to grab something to eat?” she smiled.

I forced a chuckle, and watched my chance of kissing her vanish all over again. Why did anyone bother to date at all, I wondered. It was so exhausting.

“Uh, sure,” I stammered, “what are you into?”

Her face clouded.

“I don’t have a lot of choices downtown.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, because I’m a vegeterian.”

And, in that moment, I think I fell in love with her.

“So am I,” I breathed.

The mood was light as we walked in search of Falafel; talking, laughing, our hands “accidentally” brushing one another, which I, in my infinite conceit, took as something of a good sign.

And I enjoyed her, the very essence of her being so much, that, there and then, I decided to chuck the whole thing.

The System.

DJ StrangeLove.

The knuckle-pounds, the one-and-a-half-thumbs-up, the kinesthetic response training. I would leave it all behind.

I didn’t need it. I didn’t want it. Fuck DJ StrangeLove and his “Ian, you really suck with chicks,” and his stupid routines, no matter how well they might have worked. I just wanted to lie with her under the stars.

But, before I did, there was one final matter to attend to:

The Kiss.

In my estimation (and I think modern science would back me up, here), to a modern, North American man, the circumstances surrounding a first-kiss are basically the most difficult to arrange out of anything that has ever transpired in the history of human civilization.

How do you get close enough?

Do you go in slowly and quietly? Under the radar, like Patton might have done?

Or quick and deadly, like Bruce Lee?

If it was right, it was funny, sexy, cute, something she could someday tell her grandkids.

If it was wrong, it was something she’d only tell her girlfriends.

“Don’t leave it ‘til the end of the night.”

And now, things were winding down. We’d finished our Falafel. Had another couple of drinks. We were getting ready to leave the restaurant, and my chances were running out.

It had to happen.

If I ever wanted to see this girl again, it simply had to.

And soon.

And, as much as it burned me, as much as I wanted out, I knew there was only one man who could help me.

I was Pacino in the Godfather: “Just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in.”

“Excuse me,” I said.

I paced the bathroom, informing DJ StrangeLove of my failings, and asking, one last time, for advice. A moment later, the response came in:

I was quiet as I walked Steph to the bus-stop, my mind running through every possible scenario.

“Are you okay?” Steph asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well, you’re going to the bathroom a lot.”

Certainly not the opportune moment I’d been hoping for.

We stood in silence, Steph checking the stop times, me discreetly vomiting in my mouth. Then, finally, after a minute of mental agony, I reached out my hand, and pulled at her purse-strap. She smiled, and stepped back to stand beside me. Her head went onto my shoulder. I weighed the possibilities of chin-pull vs. throat-line.

Which was superior in this situation?

Which was Grandkids Material vs. Girlfriends Material?

Or, could I, perhaps, have both?

Heart pounding, I reached under her chin, and turned it toward me.

Our eyes met. She smiled nervously.

“What?”

“Well, I’d really like to kiss you,” I said, “but, you know, I have this throat thing.”

And just like that, she was back at my place.

We spent the next several hours savagely making out, surfacing occasionally for air, or, if the mood struck us, to have a conversation.

“Ian,” she giggled, attempting to smooth out her touseled hair, “this is crazy. How did I even get here?”

The bastard was right again.

Just then, I heard an incessant buzzing from my phone.

It was DJ StrangeLove.

“Who is that?” Steph asked, rolling over.

“Nobody.”

“Do you need to call them back?”

I grinned.

“Absolutely not.”

And without a moment’s hesitation, I switched the phone off.