The last sane bloke in Chicago

Was it a fig, or a date? Part I

I met a cute server ("waitress") last week and broke a major rule: I asked for her number. She gave it to me.

Mind you, I discovered her restaurant after texting some people I know, one who I had recently gone out with. I had no idea this server is friends, or at least friendly with, this other gal who I had certain relations with.

As I said before, when I called her, she answered the phone knowing it was me. I gave her some nights, she re-upped the ante to meet tonight, a day early than I proposed.

I have no idea what our mutual friend told her about my style, but she knew all my first call rules and even called me out on it.

I arrived at her place at 8pm sharp. As Anonymous Blogger #2 will tell you, I am an on-time kind of guy. I walked up to her door and it opened before I could ring or knock. Someone's antsy.

We matched. Ouch. Both wearing identically colored jeans (black), both of us wearing black t-shirts with horizontal pinstripes. Double ouch. My shoes were dark grey, hers were light grey. She had a nice purse, I left my man-bag at home.

"I was going to wear a dress, but it's cold out!" I just smiled. As we turned towards my car, she hooked her arm into mine. Ho-lee crap, a little early for that, but I still fought off my shit-eating grin.

I let her into my car and she smiled at me. I smiled back as I walked to the driver's side. "So, American?" American. Burgers, etc. "Have a place in mind?" Two actually. Different neighborhoods. "I should've guessed."

We talked about our days as we drove. Her restaurant was quiet, as was the one I ate at today. Nice, easy, conservative conversation.

We get to the restaurant that she picked, on the outskirts of town. "I've never been here before." Few have. The food is fantastic. "Looks like it." The restaurant is packed for 8:30, but the secret handshake to the hostess gets us a quiet table for 2, away from the kitchen. Bonus.

She sits, facing the restaurant, me facing the wall. I prefer it this way, lessens the distractions. Our hostess leaves us with the menus and some glasses of water.

"So. You probably want to know everything she told me, right?" Not at all. "You're kidding." I'm not. If it's good things, she's stretching the truth; bad things she's still being too nice.

She laughs. I'd say she's an 8 in looks, which is a pretty high mark from me. I'd put most people at a 6 because they overdo it and lose their best assets. She's a size 4 and everything sits properly. On her, I'd almost say she's TOO skinny, but it suits her face, her haircut.

I mention htat she's cut her hair since I met her. "Wow. Most of my friends and co-workers didn't even notice." I shrug and she laughs about it. Everything's comical to her, which is a MAJOR turn-on for me when women can laugh.

She's not too into sports but loves basketball live. She doesn't get drunk very often. She sees her family a few times a month and even joins them for church. She belts out a cackle when I tell her I go to an assembly of faith every Sunday.

She quizzes me: "Favorite book of the bible?" Malachi. "Favorite verse?" Malachi 2:3. "I'm not familiar." No one is. Churches skip that book. "Second favorite?" Amos. "Didn't read that, either." I smile.

We talk about activities: she rock climbs (huge bonus points), swims, likes the ponies (for riding on, not gambling on), does some scrapbooking with her sister, prefers books over TV but is a semi-addict to some show I've never heard of. Overall, a very nice gal.

"How about you?" Old fashioned entertainment. Shooting guns, riding colts, cooking, traveling. "Where have you been?" Here and there. I try to visit Europe at least once a year.

She touches my knee here and there, which really gets my motor going. "Your job?" A writer by day, a writer by night. "Publish anything?" Nothing exciting but it pays the bills.

She's done with school and looking for work but is picky. She declined two job offers due to needing to drive to the suburbs. Her restaurant gig pays well, so she's comfortable waiting it out.

We both order massive burgers, identical without planning on it. She went first: cheddar, mushrooms, bacon. Exactly what I intended. Weird. I double the order, substituting cole slaw instead of fries. "Oh, make mine the same" she backs up my substitution.

She's fun. Lots of little jokes, a decent understanding of my wordplays, and talks well. She's obviously smart but still has a lot of life to learn from.

We don't talk about exes, no innuendo pops up, and she doesn't even say "hell," nor anything stronger. I'm drinking what she's drinking: diet Coke. I asked if she wanted a beer or a cocktail, but she admits to being a lightweight if she hasn't eaten. "Maybe after dinner." It's pushing 9:30 and both of us are stuffed -- no dessert.

I ask if she'd like a beer and she says "Yes, but not here." An eyebrow goes up on my face. "Let's go somewhere closer to my place. I'm not going to get smashed, but I can get pretty tipsy. I can trust you, right?" I nod my head. She smiles.

As we walk to my car, her arm is in my again and she's smiling. She is really cute, but the good girl thing is eerie. So few of them left, and I'm not the kind of guy to prevert someone's moral compass. "I'm having fun. You need to talk more, thought."

We get in my car and zip off towards her neighborhood, her watching me peripherally, and my mind spinning over my options.

For those of you who skip to the bottom first: To be continued in the next part, later.

Posted by ChicagoSane at 12:58 AM