First Date - Can I kiss You?

“Can I kiss you?” she said.

Of course.

A meeting at a sleepy pub with an Irish name.

Her mom kissed her goodbye as she got out of the car, nervous anticipation visible and felt from a distance.

A kiss for luck as well, perhaps?

A shared smoke and whiskey on the warm and vacant patio. There was a bowling alley nearby.

Let’s blow this sleepy joint.

Orange Eight-pound balls.

An old phone prank comes to mind.

Nerves. A spilled drink, a too-long wait to get a towel.

She’s going to think I can’t handle my liquor. This is off to a good start.

“I’m just glad it wasn’t me.”

A gaze into her hazel eyes sent them floor-ward, cheeks pinkening, head cocked and slowly, subtly turning.

That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

A verbal slip and another. We laughed at ourselves and together.

A turkey and two victories for her, followed by a 4-block wander to a bar that took a map, satellites orbiting the Earth and a compass to find… “Gossips.”

 “Becauze Drugz,” she wrote on his forehead in indelible ink.

Sense of humor, adventurous, outgoing. Amazing.

“Can I kiss you?” she stated.

Of course.

At the end of the night, I dropped Tina and Shayna off at another man's house. Keith was his name. I spoke with him briefly. He asked me if I had any weed. I later learned that he was a meth dealer. A lovely end to a first date and no red flags at all!

Texting

Although I was divorced, I was temporarily still staying with my ex-wife, Jessica. I had my own bedroom and there was nothing romantic or sexual going on with my ex. It was just a roommate arrangement. She'd got the house in the divorce, so I was paying her rent to stay in my old house in Minneapolis.

It was the Sunday after I'd met Tina and I was lazing in bed, reflecting on my life, the women I knew and kind of lamenting that I was basically alone. My situation was uncomfortable. Although Jessica and I were cordial, I didn't find her to be good company at the time.

I remembered meeting Tina on Friday. She seemed really nice and we'd hit it off. I had her number, so I decided it was time to reach out, see if I could arrange that tour of Minneapolis we'd talked about.

"It was fun meeting you on Friday night. When would you like me to show you around Minneapolis?" I texted.

Alas, there was no response.

Days went by and I didn't hear back from Tina. I figured she wasn't really all that interested, and wrote her off as I carried on with my daily life.

I was laying in bed, getting ready for sleep on a Monday night, checking email on my phone in the dark, when it buzzed in my hands. A text message arrived.

"It's 11 O'clock on a Monday night, 8 days after we met... I've been thinking about you since that handshake, and I really would like to meet up with you sometime (if, of course, you're still interested). After the 4th sometime?"

I was surprised and delighted. I hadn't expected to hear back from Tina by that point.

"Nope. You ignored me... Bored now," I replied.

Not wanting to blow the opportunity, I immediately followed up with "Ahhh... I'm kidding of course. You were too fun to ignore."

"Anyone bored wouldn't respond so quickly," she quipped moments later.

"It would probably have to be after July 13th," I wrote, considering my social obligations. Even though we were divorced, I was planning a birthday party for Jennifer the weekend of the 10th. My Mom's birthday was the day after. "But, I'd feel privileged to show you a good time on the town, my style."

"Besides, I've been told I'm kinda cute. After the 13th sounds good. Your style? Hmmm..."

Not to seem desperate, I replied, "It just so happened that the phone was on hand, but I wouldn't argue with anyone who said you're kinda cute. 'Kinda' cute might be an insult actually." I conjured a fuzzy memory of her appearance in my mind. "I'd argue you're very cute."

Her reply was rapid.  "You're not exactly hard on the eyes, either. Bedtime for me. Sleep sweet!"

I was pretty excited and feeling flattered. It feels pretty damn good to have an attractive young lady compliment your looks. I went to sleep feeling quite contented after mapping out a few ideas in my mind of what sights to show Tina.

June 19th, Continued

“So, tell me more about Ireland,” the blonde said, lighting up another Camel 100 and absently flicking her foot over a crossed leg. “Do you have family there?”

“Kind of,” I replied. “Hey. I just realized I don’t even know your name yet. I’m Dan.” I extended my hand.

“Tina,” she replied, taking my hand in hers. It was warm and soft and something else. 

For some reason, I got a bit of a tingly rush from the contact, but I dismissed it as quickly as our hands separated. She was just a random smoking buddy at a bar that I’d never see again. I wasn’t even from around Farmington, after all.

I told her the tale of Fungie the lone dolphin that likes to race tourist boats in Dingle Harbor on an eastern peninsula of the Irish Republic. Apparently, he doesn’t get along with other dolphins, but he loves humans and likes to show off his swimming skills when the engines challenge him.

I showed her video of Fungie keeping pace with the high-powered boat we were riding to the Great Blasket Island and talked a bit about the history I’d learned there. 

She seemed enthralled when I told her my fear that Fungie wouldn’t be around much longer, but he had become a big tourist attraction for the little cliff town of Dingle. 

“How long to Dolphins live?” she asked. 

“About 50 years,” I said. “And Fungie is estimated to be about 30. I guess he used to be a lot more playful, leaping out of the water and stuff, but he still likes to race and he can keep up with the big boats.”

I couldn't honestly say how long we conversed. It might have been 20 minutes or  couple hours. Time was losing meaning. We talked about music, books and life in general. Our conversation was growing intimate. I felt like I'd known Tina a long time. We were old friends, already.

I thought she spoke like a writer. "You're a very literary person, aren't you? I like the way your mind works," I said.

We got on to enthusiastically talking about our mutual hobby of reading.

“Are you from around here?” Tina asked, snuffing out her cigarette in the ashtray on the black mesh table. 

“Not really. I live in Minneapolis. I just came to town to visit my friend over there.” I inclined my head towards Larry who was presently engaged in conversation with Linda, the out and about cancer patient. 

“Yeah. I saw you guys a few times tonight. I like his shirt,” Tina told me.

“It’s noticeable, isn’t it?”

We chuckled. 

“See that guy over there?” She made a subtle gesture to the hapless dick in the dark, still trying hopelessly to strike pay dirt.

“He grabbed my ass earlier – both cheeks! I would have elbowed him in the face, but I thought it was just one of my girlfriends fooling around,” she told me. “That’s kinda why I wanted to sit by you guys. You look like decent men and I can’t be intimidated by a Dragonball Z shirt.”

I laughed.

His ears must have been burning, because the hapless and ineffective “flirt” approached our table. “Hey. One of you guys have a light?” He swayed a bit as he spoke. Rocking back and forth, right to left. 

I offered up my recently obtained Guinness Zippo, but kept a grip on it and lit his cigarette for him.

“I’m Andy,” he said, more to Tina than the man who offered him fire.

“Tina, and this is Dan,” she replied for us. 

He tried in vain to engage us in conversation, but we were quickly bored with Andy and fell back into our own talks. 

“So, Minneapolis, huh? I’ve heard that’s kinda scary.”

“What?!” I was floored. Farmington is only about 35 miles from my home city, so I couldn’t imagine that perception. "No. That's silly."

“Lots of gang violence, shootings…” She suggested.

“No. No. No. It’s not like that. It’s really nice,” I said. “Sure, there are places, people and circumstances to avoid, but if you know where to go, it’s no problem and it’s really great. All the best stuff is in Minneapolis.”

It was silent for a few beats, then she fixed her eyes on mine and asked, “So are you offering to show me around?”

I had to reevaluate everything at that moment. I’d considered her no further than a random smoking conversation as will happen at bars. I looked her up and down (subtly). I reflected on my time in Wales when my friend Thea was almost beating too-young Welsh girls away from me with a shoe – apparently the American accent is quite an aphrodisiac for young Welsh women.

She was simply dressed. Jeans and a well-fitted camo shirt. Long, wavy blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders. She was by no means fat, but not a twig, either. She was pretty, but simple. Next to no makeup. She wasn’t trying to look like anything other than she was. 

I thought back on Thea’s strong disapproval of my occasional philandering with younger women while we were in Ireland and Wales. “How old are you?” I asked. Even in party-mode, I could see that she was younger than me, but I figured her around 30, not so much for her looks, but her intellect.

Now, to be honest, I was a bit tipsy myself by this point and math was becoming a challenge.

She gave me a number.

That’s close to thirty, my slightly submerged brain assured me. Thea would approve.

I honestly don’t know why that was important, but Thea had taken to watching me like a hawk whilst we were overseas together. 

“OK. Sure. Why not?” My final answer. 

“Cool. Should we exchange numbers?”

“Are you on facebook?” I asked, pulling out my phone.

“No. I don’t use that,” she said, pulling out her rather antiquated ‘dumb’ phone.

I flipped through the screens and got to my contacts app. “Here. Put your name and number in here. I’ll call you.”

Tina took my phone, scrunched her brow and began typing on my touch screen. She handed the phone back to me. “How’s that?” 

I glanced at the contact profile she’d created – first and last name, phone number, saved.

“Perfect,” I proclaimed. I noticed her last name was distinctly Polish. "Ah. A Pollock, huh? My Grandma was Polish."

“I’ve never done that before.”

“Never done what?”

“Well, I’m not used to smart phones and I’ve never just given my number to a guy at a bar before,” she replied. "I'm surprised I was able to do it."

I smiled at her. “I’ll call you tomorrow and set something up.”

“I prefer texts.”

“OK. I can do that.”

Sensing that things were winding down, and number in pocket, I turned my attention back to Donovan and Tina rejoined her party.

Donovan was about ready to walk Linda home and they’d been chatting it up as long as Tina and I had been. I didn’t quite know what I was jumping into when I sat at their table. I learned more than I wanted to know about cancer treatments, but we all hit it off. 

When Linda was ready to go, Donovan insisted on walking her back home.

Donovan walked Linda back to her apartment and once they were inside, I sat on the grass, leaned back on a handy fence and waited. 

He was out shortly, told me he was aware I was following and was ready to head home.

Back at Donovan’s, we had a couple more beers and discussed the night. I crashed on his couch in the wee hours.

The next morning, I was still feeling the effect of the prior night's revelry, but the blonde I'd met at Pizza Man was my first thought upon waking.

“What was that girl’s name I was talking with last night, again?” I asked Donovan.

“Tina,” he said. 

"Of course it is," I said, scanning through the contacts in my phone.Tina Szydlowski. The smart, cute polish girl who liked to read...

We Meet

I was two-months divorced and fresh back from an amazing trip to Ireland, the night I met Tina.

I’d gone to Farmington to visit one of my oldest friends to regale him with tales of my adventures, have a few drinks and laughs. 

It was a warm June evening and the sun was just setting. 

I met Donovan at the run down, ancient former farm house that he was renting for his family at the time. 

Donovan pretty quickly mentioned that there was a street festival called Dew Days going on just up the road. That sounded like a rare diversion for the area, so we took to our feet and went to check it out. 

After securing some wrist bands that indicated we were old enough to drink, we procured a couple beers and wandered around the fair-like environs. 

There was a bandstand set up and some local “talent” was performing some loud, but not particularly well executed hard rock music. We lost interest pretty fast. 

After a bit more wandering and eating some cheese curds, Donovan suggested a place to hang out, get a drink other than the beer proffered on the streets and smoke a few cigarettes. 

“Let’s check out Pizza Man,” he said. 

Didn’t sound like a very exciting hangout to me, but he insisted it was cool. 

We started in that direction and ran into some old acquaintances who were there for a classic car parade. We’d missed the parade, but a lot of the old hot rods were still parked around, so we ogled them a bit and got back on our way to this vaunted pizza joint. 

The place was pretty packed and a DJ was keeping a group of young women dancing in the front. Squeezing up to the crowded bar, Donovan ordered us a couple mixed drinks. Whiskey-Coke for me and Rum and Coke for himself. 

It was busy, so it took a while. The music was loud – modern pop-ish dance music sprinkled with some dirty country. The crowd swirled, the girls shouted raucous remarks as they got their funky white girl groove on.

Drinks eventually in hand, Larry led me to the back of the pizza restaurant-turned nightclub and pushed through the back door. 

We emerged onto a spacious fenced-in patio replete with several open tables, ashtrays, unused outdoor heaters and speakers, so we could continue to enjoy the urbane beats the DJ inside was spinning at a thankfully lower volume. 

We sat at a wire mesh table in a corner, lit our smokes and sipped our drinks, catching up with each others lives. We hadn’t seen one other for a while. No doubt, I dominated the conversation, so enthused was I about the trip I had recently returned from. 

We ascertained, after a while that a bunch of the younger ladies at the pizza joint-turned-party spot were together for a birthday party. One of the revelers was a very intoxicated young woman in a wheel chair being pushed around by a long-haired blonde girl. She had a cast on her leg, so we had to ask. 

“Skiing accident?” I teased. 

It turned out that she had simply stepped off a stair too hard and broke her ankle. I imagined that she was probably less sober then than at the moment I was observing her. Her name was Shayna and she was quite a boisterous character. A tiny little impish brunette.

“Can I sign your cast?” I asked, after a bit of chit-chat. 

“Yeah!” she slurred enthusiastically. I made my mark, large and bold and was amused, since I didn’t know the girl at all (yet). 

My friend Donovan also made a more modest “Get well soon” signature on Shayna's pinkish cast. 

There was a twenty-something young man making his rounds on the patio, hitting on everything with two legs and lumps under their tops. My forty-something friend and I observed bemusedly, almost taking pity on the poor soul. Almost, but not quite. He was striking out left and right. Probably a problem with his technique, I thought, which was very much confirmed just moments later. 

The blonde who’d been pushing her chair-bound party mate around needed a break and seemed to see safe harbor with Donovan and I. Donovan, who like myself is a bit of a sci-fi and fantasy nerd was wearing a rather loud Dragonball Z shirt. Myself in a wool flat cap I’d just obtained from Ireland, with a conservative, but colorful button down shirt and slim-fitting jeans. We must have looked approachable. 

“Is this seat taken? She asked us. 

“Nope. Have a seat,” Donovan replied.

She lit a cigarette. 

Paying her little mind, I continued on with telling Donovan a story from the Emerald Isle.

“So we’re wandering down this sleepy lane for a good half-hour, and hadn’t seen a car at all, taking in the sights on our way to the Irish Sea,” I said. 

“Uh huh.”

“Rich and Thea were on the right. I was on the left looking over a wall with a high hedge row at some pastures below. All of the sudden, from a blind curve behind us, a car came roaring in doing at least 60 miles an hour. Being an American, I was startled, because it’s on the 'wrong' side of the road and coming right at me with no signs of intending to stop. 

“There was only a walk path on the right, so I had nowhere to go. I pulled a Spiderman leap up on to the hedge row. I was saved, but bleeding. The damn hedges were all thorny! The car never even slowed down.”

“Oh my god,” Donovan exclaimed.

“After the car had gone by, I peered to my left and saw the drop. It was easily 40 feet to the ground. If I’d missed the hedge, I was dead. If I hadn’t made the leap up, I was dead. I was bleeding from a hundred little cuts, but alive.”

“Holy crap,” responded Donvan.

“Wow. You got really lucky,” the blonde at our table interjected, taking a drag off her cigarette.

“I gingerly climbed back down off the hedge, over the wall and onto the street. Rich and Thea were smirking at me from across the street and then, the best part… An elderly couple was walking down the designated pedestrian path on the right. The Irish gentleman doffed his flat cap towards me and said, ‘Very elegant, sir.’”

Donovan and our blonde interloper howled with laughter. I did too. I almost died, but it was pretty fucking funny. 

“Do you travel a lot?” The blonde asked me. 

Almost noticing her for the first time, I turned towards her. “Not as much as I’d like, but I’ve been around.”

“I bet you have.”

We snickered. 

“Ireland was my first trip overseas, but I’ve been pretty much everywhere west, not too far East, except DC in the states. What about you?”

She thought a moment. “I just got back from Florida and I’ve been to Guatemala,” the young blonde informed me. “I’ve been to Alaska, too. I’d like to go back there someday.”

We talked about the seemingly endless days and nights, the Aurora Borealis and other things Alaska is known for.

“I bet that was really cool up there. I’ve seen the Northern Lights from my family’s cabin once or twice, but it was very faint. No colors. I'd like to see it from Alaska.”

We went on like this. Our conversation began to escalate in intensity. The world grew smaller.

“My dad works for an airline, so I’ve been able to travel a lot,” she explained. 

“Awesome. I’ve mostly done road trips, until I went to Ireland, but I’ve flown to Los Angeles a few times, Houston and DC.”

By this point, Donovan ceased to exist. He noticed a growing connection between this blonde wheelchair pusher and myself, and left us to it, turning his attention to a woman closer to our own forty-something age whom I later learned was suffering a plethora of cancer-related problems. She was out on the town, though, having a good time.