Guest Spot: What Happens When You Take A Friend On A Date
Tired Dad wrote this. It was a comment on my last piss-poor post. I like it.
* * * * *
It wasn’t via the internet. And it wasn’t *me* bringing a friend.
I am 20. I am student and barman.
Unfeasibly beautiful woman returns at end of term from her far-away University and always acquires casual work at the same bar as I. We get on. I pretend not to like her.
This amuses her.
We get on even more.
She jokes about us going out together.
Beauty is one thing. But self-awareness, wit and intellect are another. They rarely go together. Except in her case.
She is massively out of my league.
Fuck it. I ask her.
I see the moment of blind panic in her eyes. I shut it out. She still says yes. She is that wonderful.
I know I KNOW that so far as she is concerned, me grabbing her by the hair and bending her over her mother’s kitchen table is a far-off possibility.
But we get on. We are friends. I make her laugh.
Maybe.
I choose a suitably out-of-the-way venue. The city has more pubs and restaurants per square mile than anywhere aside from London. I am well known. I do not want to be troubled by regulars, barmen, waiters, chefs or proprietors, all of which know me.
SHE BRINGS A FRIEND.
Not only for security. I have seen said friend giving me the eye. One I have not returned.
*You have no chance* is the gist of this gesture. *But here are some scraps from the table.*
I buy them both a drink. Of a non-alcoholic nature. ( They were BOTH driving?!)
I think the evening could not be going worse.
In walks SadSack.
SadSack is a regular at my bar. Bit pudgy. Late thirties. Who regales me with tales of the Jag he is reconditioning. Of how he finds it quite hard living with his mother. Of the work that he does for the Ministry of Dfence that he cannot tell me about. But most of all HOW HE DOESN’T HAVE MUCH LUCK WITH THE LADIES.
Obscenely Beuatiful Woman is delighted to see him and invites him over.
Me and SadDack very quickly get very drunk. I know this will be the happiest ending the night has to offer.
Ridiculously You Wouldn’t Believe It Unless You’d Seen Her Beautiful Woman and Now No Longer In The Slightest Bit Interested Friend leave quickly.
SadSack shakes his head in a sorrowful manner. He reaches for my hand. Instinctively I take it.
We shake. As we do so, he says,
‘What do we poor sods think we’re playing at? I mean, as if?!’
I have just shaken on a Faustian pact. But not with the devil. But with the Prince of a Bit Shit.
I then spend a year shagging anyone slightly below my league and generally being a bit caddish in order to shake-off SadSack’s perceived kinship.
I was 20. Leave me alone.
All is ace now. Today-and-forever’s Stupidly Beautiful Woman is still massively out of my league, but our two children level it out.
* * * * *
It wasn’t via the internet. And it wasn’t *me* bringing a friend.
I am 20. I am student and barman.
Unfeasibly beautiful woman returns at end of term from her far-away University and always acquires casual work at the same bar as I. We get on. I pretend not to like her.
This amuses her.
We get on even more.
She jokes about us going out together.
Beauty is one thing. But self-awareness, wit and intellect are another. They rarely go together. Except in her case.
She is massively out of my league.
Fuck it. I ask her.
I see the moment of blind panic in her eyes. I shut it out. She still says yes. She is that wonderful.
I know I KNOW that so far as she is concerned, me grabbing her by the hair and bending her over her mother’s kitchen table is a far-off possibility.
But we get on. We are friends. I make her laugh.
Maybe.
I choose a suitably out-of-the-way venue. The city has more pubs and restaurants per square mile than anywhere aside from London. I am well known. I do not want to be troubled by regulars, barmen, waiters, chefs or proprietors, all of which know me.
SHE BRINGS A FRIEND.
Not only for security. I have seen said friend giving me the eye. One I have not returned.
*You have no chance* is the gist of this gesture. *But here are some scraps from the table.*
I buy them both a drink. Of a non-alcoholic nature. ( They were BOTH driving?!)
I think the evening could not be going worse.
In walks SadSack.
SadSack is a regular at my bar. Bit pudgy. Late thirties. Who regales me with tales of the Jag he is reconditioning. Of how he finds it quite hard living with his mother. Of the work that he does for the Ministry of Dfence that he cannot tell me about. But most of all HOW HE DOESN’T HAVE MUCH LUCK WITH THE LADIES.
Obscenely Beuatiful Woman is delighted to see him and invites him over.
Me and SadDack very quickly get very drunk. I know this will be the happiest ending the night has to offer.
Ridiculously You Wouldn’t Believe It Unless You’d Seen Her Beautiful Woman and Now No Longer In The Slightest Bit Interested Friend leave quickly.
SadSack shakes his head in a sorrowful manner. He reaches for my hand. Instinctively I take it.
We shake. As we do so, he says,
‘What do we poor sods think we’re playing at? I mean, as if?!’
I have just shaken on a Faustian pact. But not with the devil. But with the Prince of a Bit Shit.
I then spend a year shagging anyone slightly below my league and generally being a bit caddish in order to shake-off SadSack’s perceived kinship.
I was 20. Leave me alone.
All is ace now. Today-and-forever’s Stupidly Beautiful Woman is still massively out of my league, but our two children level it out.
posted by NON-WORKINGMONKEY at 3:26 PM
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