I have a story to tell. When it first happened, some ten years ago, it was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me.
Nowadays I guess it’s nothing more than a funny story that my wife tells during dinner parties.
I was sitting in school, university, studying for my finals when this girl walked up to me.
I had seen her before, we had most of our classes together. I always enjoyed looking at her. And by the looks of it, she liked me back.
She wanted to ask me on a date. I happily agreed.
Elated that she had taken the step I never dared to take. I told her that I would pick her up Friday at eight.
She smiled and said that she would be waiting.
I couldn’t study for the next three days until Friday came. I was way too nervous; this was going to be my first date ever.
I drove my old shitty car over to her dorm. She was waiting for me outside.
We drove to the restaurant I had chosen, and I parked around to corner so the valet wouldn’t see what type of car we arrived in.
She didn’t say anything about that.
We got our table, and I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to but I just couldn’t.
I felt the sweat start building up on my forehead as she just sat there looking at me. She was waiting for me to say something, I knew that.
The date was about to crash and burn.
We ate our food in silence, every time she tried to start a conversation I failed miserably at keeping it going.
Somehow she didn’t even notice my utter failure to communicate with her and kept talking about new things every time one conversation ended.
She didn’t even break eye contact unless she had to.
I was sweating like a pig the whole time.
Finally, we left the restaurant, and I drove her back to her dorm.
We said goodbye, and when she leaned in to kiss me, I stepped back and shook her hand instead.
She laughed it off, but I felt like such an idiot.
She looked back at me before she entered the dorm.
I waved at her.
Why would I do that instead of kiss her?
That girl called me the next day and wanted to go on a second date, not a dinner date this time, something else.
Today that girl is my wife, and she loves to tell the story of our first date to anyone that will listen. Her version is a lot better than mine.
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Categories: flash fiction