Details I Remember
· Tango girl. We did not.
· Rubenesque opera singer with octagon lenses and glittering red frames.
· The tall girl who drew nuclear missiles on napkins and then threw them at me while making cute sound effects.
· One night stand, but apparently last night.
· Candlelight, small hands and dark, hopeful eyes.
· Sophia: The Russian who wouldn’t have me.
· “Oh, you rent.”
· After three drinks, confessed that she just wasn’t ready to date.
· Road bike, overweight, mini skirt.
· In talks to revamp her Rugby career.
· The amazing blond who swirled her wine and asked, without irony, where all the good men had gone.
· She disappears. I disappear.
· Proudly announced that the best sex she ever had occurred in India while in the presence of an uncaged cobra.
· At least forty pounds heavier and five years older.
· “You just don’t seem like a guy I’d want to fuck.”
· A watched phone doesn’t text.
· She removed her clothes and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting ready to go to bed.”
· Suddenly and rapidly vacated my apartment after glancing at an incoming text.
· More acne than her best picture, fewer double chins than her worst.
· She deleted me from her contacts, while I watched.
· Was that even a date?
· Not attractive enough. Definitely would have been good for me.
· She was looking for someone to fix her oven. Really wish I knew how to fix ovens.
· Two years clean, relapsed on our date.
· Still in love with a married man.
· Didn’t notice the prosthetic leg until we compared our sock game.
· Prone on floor, sweating, convulsing, actually too sick to return a promising follow-up text.
· “You talk like you’re gay. And maybe that’s hot.”
· My phone rings. I stare in disbelief.
· What does it take, to erase someone completely?
· Back home, touching a screen instead of a person.