by Lindsay Kaplan
Dear Lord, he thought, sipping his drink, she’s like an upside down Rauschenberg, except uglier and more convoluted, and he wished someone would tell her she was boring or, better yet, that she was stupid, that she seemed to rely solely on expressionless aphorisms and well intentioned pauses, and her naïve confidence had pooled under her tailbone and radiated up her stiff upper back. Ah, but she was an animal in his care. He finished his drink and placed the glass neatly on the cocktail napkin, raised a finger for the check and signed away too much money on poor conversation. He studied her for a moment: she was not thin, but she was not fat. Had he been any younger, he would have made sure of it. But he wasn’t, so he tucked his billfold into his pocket and quietly walked away.
Lindsay Kaplan has been the victim of far too many painful first dates. An occasional writer, she lives in New York.