Think of me. I went out with a dreamy guy. Human rights and saving refugees from HIV/AIDs kind of ambitions, Master's in something, settled in the career, resume chock full of betterment of humanity-type of activities. Wine connoisseur, jazz-aficionado, city-life lover, jacked good looking blue eyed fella.
Date: sumptuous dinner chasing raw jalapenos sprinkled with crushed pepper down with infused vodkas, along with the two margaritas, and then two Haitian rums, a clear brandy, and Delirium Tremens late (I wasn't even trying to keep up) ... his German blood started failing him.
We were daring each other at the bar to create mischief on our unwary nearby patrons (although I think the bartenders suspected), and then we started to test each other's reflexes. Stepping outside the bar with many Friday night revelers on the well-lit street turned-party before us, I threw a playful kick to test his reflexes. Before I realized, his shadow rushed at me from the corner of my eye, and I was flat on my back on a sidewalk on 8th St.
The boy had tackled me.
"Whoa!!! Whoa! What the???!!!" Were the exclamations I heard vaguely through my alcohol fogged ears. He was laughing, I laughed along, not drunk enough to hide my nervousness or how freaked out I really was. He helped me up. I pretended to brush myself off for the next three blocks.
"So what do you want to do next?" he asked laughing not looking me in the eye.
"I think the metro's about to close. Ciao!"
2 comments:
oh, it could've been much worse. give him a sober second chance! :)
oh, it could've been much worse. give him a sober second chance! :)
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