breadsticks from hell : part iii
He wanted to go on another date.
I do not think that is a good idea, I said — cautiously.
Look, I had to say, I am not going out with you again. Stop calling me.
This was a grown man. The first date I stood him up. The second date ended with him standing in a parking lot shouting after a car screaming down asphalt faster than God or Henry Ford intended. AFTER I purposefully risked running over his feet and maiming him for life AND facing legal charges for hit and run — just to get away from him. I had ignored and not returned [too many] phone calls for three solid days. I had used every known polite Southern discouragement to dissuade his advances and interest — and invented new ones. And, when forced into the final corner of no retreat, had picked up and abandoned all vestiges of decorum and civility to tell him flat out not no, but fuck no. And first he argued. And then he demanded explanations?
What was this? Debate team dating? I win, you lose, now you have to date me? Does any male on any planet think that is charismatic or attractive or actually works? It had to be clear I feared, loathed, and held only contempt for him. Yet still, he wanted to date me?
Where was his pride?
Where was his dignity?
Where was a hit man when I needed one?
And. More importantly.
What was I supposed to say?
[Um. Because you chew with your mouth open, try to give a woman noogies in front of strangers, do not understand the word no, failed chemistry, I had to wash your lip goo off my fucking car, and you are lacking in all social graces and also a pervert confused about promiscuity and its relation to the decade?]
Because I said no.
Please stop talking.
I have to hang up now.
It took three more of those —
To make my point.
You can dial.
But I do not have to speak.
— The End