Our First Official, Second Technical, Last Date

Our First Official, Second Technical, Last Date 

By Lisa Gayle 

I sat across from Garrett in the swanky restaurant and listened to him drone on and on about wine. It was our first official date. We should have been exchanging questions and privately passing judgment on the answers. That’s the way a normal first date is supposed to go. Instead, the conversation was one-sided.  

I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was the kind of guy who talked a lot when he was nervous. Maybe he wanted to impress me. Truth be told, I wasn’t much of a wine enthusiast. He would have learned that about me – if he’d asked. Still, I liked him so I leaned forward, maintained eye contact, and did my best to look engaged.  

We had met at work months prior when I started at a new company. At 58, he was 14 years older than me. I loved how his silver hair contrasted with his blue eyes. His 6’1” height was perfect for my 5’8”. I could tell he worked out. He was from Brooklyn, New York, but had been living in Texas for over 30 years. His diluted big-city accent contrasted with my southern drawl. He exuded charisma. 

For weeks, I sent him meaningless instant messages and flashed my best smile when we passed in the hallway. He politely responded but nothing more. I had accepted that he wasn’t interested when one afternoon he popped into my cube and asked me to dinner for Friday two weeks hence. I found the timing odd but assumed he was a busy guy. I was excited to get on his calendar and accepted the invitation.  

A week before our scheduled first official date, I had gone to bed early when the phone rang. It was him. His plans that evening had ended early and he asked if I would like to meet him at a local bar. It felt a little like a booty call, but we were too old for that nonsense. I jumped out of bed, splashed on some lip gloss, and zoomed out the door. 

Our unofficial first date lasted for a drink. We kissed our first kisses, gossiped about coworkers, laughed, and enjoyed each other’s company.  

When he got up for the bathroom, a woman sitting at the bar asked if he was my boyfriend. 

“It’s our first date,” I twittered. 

“Oh,” the woman said. “You look so happy together.”  

I told Garrett about it when he returned. He said that he had overheard her complaining about her boyfriend to her friend. I was pleased that someone envied my love life. 

We ended the short evening with enthusiastic words about our first official date scheduled for the following Friday. 

When the big day arrived, I met him at the restaurant wearing an outfit I had carefully selected. The sleeveless top was black silk and low cut. The gray pencil skirt was form-fitting and accentuated my long legs. The heels were black two-inch stilettos. I got the reaction I had hoped for when he looked me up and down and commented how amazing I looked.  

When he checked in with the hostesshe greeted him by name as though she were well-acquainted with him. I dismissed it as good training. We were escorted to a booth in the back of the restaurant. The waiter appeared to give us the drink menu and greeted him by name also.  

Everybody knows who he is, I thought. Does he bring a lot of dates here?   

Garrett seemed to know what I was thinking. “I bring a lot of clients here,” he said. “The manager, Javier, gives me special treatment.”  

Clients? We’re peers at work. We don’t have jobs that entail entertaining clients.   

Two hours later, he ended the wine lecture and asked me a single question about myself.  Delighted in his long-awaited interest, I started to answer when the waiter interrupted with the dessert tray. Another lecture ensued about the style and presentation of the dessert options, which lasted long after the waiter had gone.  

“You didn’t let me finish what I was saying,” I said, emboldened by my boredom. 

“I was protecting you,” he replied. “The waiter didn’t need to hear your personal business.” 

Protecting me from the waiter? Is this guy for real? 

We had been sitting in the booth for three hours. I was restless and wanted to leave. The booth sconce was too bright for the dim room and I had developed an intense headache. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. In the stall, I rubbed my temples. God! Does he ever stop talking?  

At last, it was time to go. As we waited for the valet to bring our cars, I brooded over my disappointment in our first official, second technical date. Instead of making the romantic connection I had hoped for, I was the victim of narcissistic verbal diarrhea. 

As I drove away, I realized he didn’t ask to see me again. I was relieved that it would be our last date.