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Holly's on another first date. Ok. Fine. Inorder to find out what he's really like fast, fast, fast....there'll be a bit of a test.....

Living the Life of Holly
By Holly Winter
© 2005
First Date Test

“You choose.” I smiled, narrowing my eyes.

He picked up the wine menu. “Red or white?”

I tilted my head. “I love white. But. Anything goes. I’m flexible.”

I leaned back into the cushions, trying to hide my growing smugness. Why do I relish testing my first dates? Yes. Mostly because I want to figure out who they are as quickly as possible. Why waste time?

I love to watch the way a man picks wine. Will he mull over selections? Pick randomly? Ask the bartender? The anesthesiologist had studied the menu carefully, then picked out the best year. The lawyer ordered a glass for himself and left me hanging. The baker closed his eyes and let his hand crawl haphazardly around the menu, resting on a Merlot that was perfect for our steak. The politician got annoyed he had to decide, which meant I wouldn’t see him again. Flexibility. That’s what I’m looking for. Easy going flexibility.

The poet leaned over the menu. “Chardonnay or zinfandel?”

I nodded. “Chardonnay sounds great.”

Maria introduced us. She works with his sister. He writes long, lyrical poetry which gets published all over the world and in his own books.

Poet ordered a bottle of wine and propped his chin in his hand. “Why’d you start writing?”

I laughed. “Was tired of mowing the lawn. It seemed like the perfect procrastination.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. There was no acknowledgement that I had spoken. The conversation died.

I bit my lip. “Why poetry?” Yes. A small stab. How would he handle it?

“Why not?” He shot back.

I smiled, hiding a frown.

He sat up straighter. “Well. Mostly. I had a high school teacher who let me sit around after school as long as I was writing. I didn’t have any ideas for stories, so I wrote random ideas. She insisted I was writing poetry.”

“Really? That’s a great story.” Oh. How I yearned for a good story. How many would he share?

“I still talk to her from time to time. I’m her only writing student who ever made it.”

“Nice.” I joked, inserting an ambiguous word for effect.

A cloud passed over his eyes, but he didn’t say anything.

“My turn.” I said. “What makes you laugh?”

“Dumb movies.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Dumb and Dumber.”

“You liked that?”

“It’s hysterical! A classic. I laughed so hard I had to leave the theater.”

The bartender picked up the bottle to top off our glasses. I gave him a wink on the sly. He filled my date’s glass and gave me an invisible pour.

Poet sipped his wine. “What do you laugh at?”

“Ok.” I thought a moment. “Let’s see….Ducks chasing kids. Running for the bus. Leaving for work late but arriving early.”

Again. The conversation died. For a man of many words, he seemed to be running short tonight.

I hid yawns while he explained his last three relationships in detail. Was he joking? Were his past girlfriends’ PMS trials really a topic for a first date? I let him drink most of the bottle of wine.

“Shall we get another?” he asked.

“Sure!”

I let him talk about growing up in Arizona where he and his friends snuck into movie after movie without paying.

I nodded my head as he unloaded the most mundane stories I’d ever heard from anyone: getting sunburned in Mexico, shopping lines too long, women too short, sleepy cats. Was he trying to be uninteresting in a poetic kind of way?

Was he testing me?

I let him drink most of the second bottle of wine.

“Who’s your agent?” He asked. “I’m looking for someone new and fresh.”

“She doesn’t do poetry.”

“Will you give me an introduction?”

“Nope. She doesn’t do poetry.”

He sipped his wine as the temperature between us dropped fifty degrees.

“I’ve bought you two expensive bottles of wine and you won’t even introduce me to your agent?”

I laughed a long time, trying to breathe on the inhale. “Were you only interested in me for my writing connections?”

He exhaled quickly. “Yes.”

“That’s great.” I perked up. Finally. A first date with an interesting conversation.

“I need a new agent, and I heard a rumor about who yours is….”

I pointed my finger at him as a light of understanding wafted into my head. “Is that why you told all those boring stories? Because you only wanted me for my agent? You didn’t want to get real?”

He folded his arms and pursed his lips.

“Wow.” I dropped my hands to my legs, letting them make a loud, slapping sound. “This is the first time someone wanted me for my connections. How cool is that?”

He looked away, then back at me quickly. “Exactly which story did you find boring?”

My eyes got big; my mouth got small. The conversation died. And. Then, test over, I ran…all the way home.

Wanna try another column? How about #213 My Twelve-Year-Old Fashion Guru, which is about going shopping with someone who knows.

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Copyright © 2004 by Holly Winter
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