Dating and Drinking

There’s the siren again. “Hi,” he says and shakes my hand. “I’m Carl, I’m thirty-five, and I work in advertising. I like the basic things in life like long walks and Sunday lunches, and I hate pretentious foreign films. What about you?”

Taken aback by this bonsai approach, I widen my eyes slightly and take a deep breath, preparing to rise to the challenge. “I’m Jess.” I tap my badge. “I’m thirty-four, work in television, hate long walks, and love foreign films. But I’m with you on the Sunday lunches.” He laughs and I find myself feeling quite attracted to him. My spirits rise slightly, heartened that maybe this speed=dating business isn’t going to be such a damp squib after all.

With a sudden bolt of courage I didn’t know I could muster, I reach into my pocket and take out one of my calling cards. “So if you fancy sharing a roast one Sunday, here’s my card.” I hand it over and feel encouraged when he quickly accepts it, stuffing it into his shirt pocket.

He places his elbows on the table and leans forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. “So…” His voice is low. “What’s your favorite sexual position?”

At first, I’m not sure if I have heard him correctly above the din. But his leering expression suggests I have.

Both appalled and angry in equal measures, with one swift flick of m hand I reach into his shirt pocket and retrieve my card. “Forget it,” I snap. “You’re not my kind of guy.”