Blind Date's Second Date

My first blind date behind me, I realized that I had enjoyed my time with my date.  Afterward, we kept in touch, chatting via text at least every other day.  After about a week, he asked if I would like to have dinner with him again.

Yes.  I’d like that.  I said.

What’s your favorite sushi place?

I don’t have one.  You pick?

He did.  The following night, when I arrive at the correct place and time, he’s there waiting.  He gets out of his truck to greet me, hugs me, and kisses me gently on the lips.  The kiss is nice – soft and warm.  I pull back and smile.

“Hello, how are you?” I ask. 

“I’m good.  I don’t like heels,” he says flatly, having noticed that I’m standing eye-to-eye with him even though he’s several inches taller than me.

“You and my wardrobe aren’t going to get along then.” I reply.  “You don’t like tall women?”

“No, I don’t.”  He narrows his eyes at me, “You’re almost too tall without the shoes.  No heels.”

“That might be a problem,” I purse my lips, teasingly.

“Hrmm.”  He considers me and then turns and gestures to the restaurant door.  As we walk toward it, we discover that the place has moved to a location just up the street and we jump in my car together.  

Once seated in the new location, we peruse the menu.  “What kind of sushi do you like?” he asks.

“I don’t.”  I say and make a placating gesture with my hands when he drops his head and gives me an incredulous look.

“You let me take you to a sushi place, when you don’t like sushi?”

I smile shyly, “They all have something cooked.  There will be something I can eat.”  As he continues to peer at me I add, “You wanted to come,” and give him a look that says, ‘WHAT?’

He considers me a moment longer and then turns back to the menu.  When the waitress appears, he orders hamachi, saki, and rolls.  I order dumplings and soup.  He purses his lips at me again.  “What?  I like dumplings.”

“Um, huh” he says.  “How is your project coming?”

I answer him with the details of the work project I had mentioned earlier in the week and we talk about work – mine and his – until the waitress brings our food.  I’ve just finished my project the day before, and he is in the process of reorganizing his business.  It sounds like a lengthy process that has been in the making for a long time, but he seems to welcome the change. 

As we eat, the conversation shifts toward television shows, and upon hearing that I’ve been watching The Handmaid’s Tale he steers the conversation toward the atrocities and appalling merits of the totalitarian, alternate society.  He has read the book upon which the show is based, several years before the show emerged.  I explain that the entire premise makes me so angry that my blood wants to boil, but the show is so well done and it makes me think.  He finds it to be a stark commentary on the way that extremists are able to exploit complacent societies.  

Our discussion ranges over several literary and film series by the time our dinner is finished.  The restaurant is full and bustling, and loud. 

“There’s a small coffee place around the corner.  Would you like to go for dessert and continue our discussion in relative quiet?”  He asks.

“Yes, let’s,” I answer.

After he pays the check, I drive us to the little café, only another street or two over.  It’s cozy and quiet.

“May I treat you to dessert?” I ask.

“You may,” he says, smiling.

We get our coffee and dessert -  cake for me and parfait for him – and find a comfortable perch – a large couch with enough space for us to sit facing each other.  After another hour spent engrossed in conversation, we take leave of the place and I drive him back to the old restaurant.  I thank him for dinner; he thanks me for dessert.  Then, he leans in and kisses me, pulls back a moment, considering me, and tells me goodnight.    

We turn onto the street, one vehicle after the other.  As I’m driving toward the nearby traffic light, my phone rings.

“Well, hi,” I say lightly, smiling although he can’t see it.

“Hi.  Your tail light is out.”

“Thanks for telling me,”  I say.

“You should get it fixed, I wouldn’t want you getting arrested,” he teases.  

“Would you bail me out?”

"Maybe,” he pauses, “Drive safely.”  Then, “Have a good night.”

“Thank you, goodnight,”  I say softly.

He didn’t have to call and tell me.  He wanted to make sure I knew.  It’s a small gesture, but it tells me that he’s a caring man.

I spend the rest of the evening thinking about our dates.  I think about our kisses and, sadly, note a lack of spark.  I remember how engaging our conversations have been, and I try to find a way to be attracted to this man, but I’m simply not, despite his merits.  Unfortunately, though he is charming, engaging, caring, and successful, he’s not for me. 

The next afternoon, I text him to say that I enjoyed the time we had spent together, but I didn’t think we would be a good dating match.

He replies.  I agree.  The intangible simply isn’t there.

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and feel a quick twinge that he wasn’t interested, but realize the ridiculousness of that rather quickly.  I feel relieved that my friend’s friend isn’t offended or pissed off at me – that would’ve been awkward. 

My phone chimes again.  You up for grabbing a movie, platonically, some time?

I smile.  I am.  I could always use more cool, interesting friends.  Absolutely.

Great.  I’ll be in touch.  Have a good day.

You too.

Sometimes, you really can turn a dating situation into a good friendship.