Not Giving Up

Bonefish.  Friday night.  Another meet and greet.  He offered me a drink, I ordered a club soda, and he asked if I was Mary Poppins.  I assured him that I was the furthest thing from Mary Poppins, to which he simply shrugged.  His body language seemed more appropriate for sitting on a bench waiting for a bus than being on a date.  He had a weariness about him, like, why bother trying.  But I dug in my heels, pulled out my sassy side, and he started to warm up a bit.

I learned he was born in Puerto Rico to Cuban parents, went to college in the Midwest and spent some time in San Francisco before moving to Montana.   His description of himself:  investor, black sheep, surfer, pharmaceutical rep, snowboarder, Trump supporter.  Uh oh.  He said he was a hippie then “everything changed” when he moved to Montana.  The better part of me should have asked what changed, but, frankly, I was enjoying myself, and intuitively knew it was only going to go south from there.  He accused me of being judgmental when I told him the Trump thing was a deal breaker, to which I admitted, was probably true.

We both got quiet, and sure enough, out came the wallet and the signal to pay the bill.  I wasn’t sure how much hostility I was dealing with, so I offered to buy my club soda and coffee, which he said was ridiculous.  My response, “well, I felt like things took a nosedive.”  Maybe my bluntness surprised him, but he cracked a smile.  I suggested we go outside and duke it out.  He laughed.  Once outside, he lit up a cigarette and I got into my best boxing stance.

He texted me later and said some very nice things and offered to be available for anything I wanted, whether it was comedy, tragedy or romance.  He seemed so jaded in person that his words surprised me.  I said thank you, but I knew that was going to be that.

Next week:  BOGO.  Pack a Bag Guy and the Pessimistic Sales Guy

 

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