One of my blind date’s arms was tan; the other pale. “I ran out of spray-on,” he admitted, “and I don’t get paid until Friday. I needed all my cash for my date with you.” He changed the topic to the yellow Crocs he wore, boasting, “I have a different color for every day of the week.”
My blind date had invited me to his place for dinner before the movie. When I arrived, he warned me, “We have to be quiet so we don’t wake my Mom. And you reeeally don’t want to get on her bad side. Ever.”
His basement unit had no windows. A bare lightbulb illuminated the dirty socks on his couch. And dirty pants, underwear, and shirts. “Oh,” he said dully. “You want to sit.” He cleared a spot. Somebody giggled in a darkened corner. A man with wild hair and even wilder eyes. “You’ll get used to him,” my date said. “He follows me everywhere. Keep track of your purse.”
While we dined on pressed potato chips, past-date salad in-the-bag, and bologna slices, we discussed his two favorite topics: telephone poles and foil. “I like foil,” my date said. “A lot. Really a lot.”
After dinner, my date said, “I bought you chocolate. Lindt chocolate. The kind with hazelnuts.”
That’s when I knew.
I had found the perfect man.