One Shirley Temple

On Date 8 I learn new words like: clucks. When I ask my date, “What's a cluck?” He explains they are chickenheads, druggies in New Mexico and then does a stumbling impression of what can only be a chicken without a head, drunk, bumping into people, his eyes turned upward and he says, “Ooops sorry” like he's banged his chest into a stranger.

Later I find myself asking, "What is a mook?"

“Mooks,” Date 8 tells me, “are New York know it alls. Ya know,” he says, “How are ya? How you doin?” and proceeds to laugh while posturing and doing his best imitation of a New York wise guy, using his hands to gesture wildly, then his arms, then his whole body.

In all my years in NY – ten – rarely did I encounter such a fellow but sure, they exist, especially in the boroughs but more commonly in movies and on TV. Isn't that where the rest of the world gets their ideas about what New Yorkers are like?

Date 8 provides amazing physical humor. He's funny and sweet. Date 8 has been hurt. His heart may be breaking right now; it is too big. We talk about pet loss, break-ups, and I like him but do I like-like him?

He arrived early, waved at me energetically as I entered the bar, Moon and Sixpence. Immediately, I felt comfortable. He was sitting when I arrived, which meant I couldn't yet see his body except from the nipples up. He was wearing a funky type hat. I don't like to use the word funky, ever, but it was. My mind flashed to that movie with Jon Cryer playing that alternative boy.

The bartender joked with me about what my date's last name was, long story, and I noticed they had, on tap mind you, Belgian lambic frambois or whatever the hell it's called, which I hadn't had in years. As I recalled, it was a slightly sweet beverage, both frothy and tasty. In reality it was like drinking corn syrup straight from a bottle chased with a stiff Shirley Temple.

Gnats swarmed my beverage and my arms. Something bit my shoulder, swarmed under my glasses and landed on my eyeball. am not making this up, The conversation went along as Date 8 and I swatted bugs from our drinks, arms and faces. Finally, I gave up and watched as several committed suicide in my drink, which by then I'd pushed far off to the side. I'm sure there's a metaphor in this: bugs attracted to something so sweet that they die in the gluttony, the sheer act of sipping it, if bugs sip, and then drown. Like Narcissus staring so hard at his reflection that he falls in.

I can't help but think of D.

“I'll have another,” Date 8 tells the waitress, while I decline.

Another? It took him an hour and a half to drink the first drink. I might fossilize here, drop dead, from sheer conversation exhaustion. This has nothing to do with Date 8 and everything to do with me. On the Meyers-Briggs I was nearly 100% introverted. That translates to first encounters like this one sometimes feeling tedious. No reflection on Date 8.

“I'll be back in a minute,” he informs me and for the first time I see his body: narrow and thin, long shorts with bunchy socks, a tattoo on a leg, in essence not my type. I'm too tired to have a type anymore though and Date 8 throws dance parties, does silly impressions, a cool job involving forrests, and has deep pet relationships. I egg myself on: give him a chance. For christsake.

He suggests walking me to my car and while accepting the offer, I think: please don't kiss me.. I wish I felt otherwise. Date 8 opens his arms out wide and there is a warm hug. He asks me out again and I accept. Never one to be quiet I say, “You're funny. You're really, really funny.” If someone could smack me on the head right, I would have been grateful.

I arrive home by 10pm, past my preferred bedtime, quickly check messages (one from D. thank god, there is a god) and take A. on her walk around the block. She's so happy to see me, she jumps up to my face, lands kisses on my chin and cheek, leaves scratch marks on my arms.

If only my dates and I had such enthusiasm.