Why do they call it “goodbye”? I think “badbye” is more appropriate. Or better yet, “suckarsebye” in my case. Because that’s what I do.
Suck arse at saying bye.
My date, Mraz Lover, and I spent an hour at the cafe before getting kicked out. The conversation was slightly more stilted than our prior date; and while he was smart, funny, and interesting, I wasn’t feeling the chemistry. Again.
Plus, there were weird pauses throughout the evening, where he’d just sort of look at me. I recognized that look.
Back when I was fourteen, a boy called Connor asked me out for a movie. I went unsuspectingly along on our first date. At the end of the date, in broad daylight, he cornered me against his car and proceeded to give me mouth-to-mouth. Considering I was perfectly healthy, this manoeuvre frightened me.
Ever since then, I have developed a radar for recognising when a guy thinks you need assistance breathing ... with their mouth on yours. And from the way Mraz Lover was looking at me last night, you’d think I was on the precipice of death.
By the end of the evening, I was almost near the precipice of death, hyperventilating in anxiety. I did not want his mouth on mine. As we walked slowly out of the café, Mraz Lover offered to walk me to my car.
“Oh, that’s er, really not necessary,” I said, waving vaguely in the other direction. “I’m erm … I’m parked a block over that way.”
Complete lie. My car was at the kerb right in front of us.
“Oh great, because my car’s just around there,” he said enthusiastically.
Shit.
“Um … I … er …” I managed to gasp, only to find he’d already started walking ahead. Part of me wanted to unlock my car, that was waiting about two feet away from me, and run him down home.
Inspiration struck.
“Actually,” I called after him. “I just realised, I think I left my car keys back at the café.”
Mraz Lover turned and came back to stand right in front of me. “Oh, I’ll come back with-,” he began.
“No!” I screamed, causing the nearby pedestrian to turn and glare suspiciously at my date. “I mean … I’ll just go back and get them,” I garbled. “You go ahead.”
That was when I noticed Mraz Lover was discreetly rubbing his eye.
“Oh my god!” I exclaimed, mortified. During my panic, I had launched a spray of spit into his left eye. Hastily, I opened my handbag wide and pulled out a pack of tissues.
“Hey, your car keys are there,” Mraz Lover said, pointing into my open bag as he squinted through his good eye.
Shit. I should have spat in both his eyes.
“Oh … oh, cool. I thought I’d left them back there …” I mumbled, inwardly cursing. We continued walking around the block, me dawdling as much as possible.
“So, which car’s yours?” He asked politely.
“Er … the one up there,” I said, pointing towards the car at the end of the road. I mean, what were the chances that particular one would be his?
One-hundred percent apparently.
“Um … are you sure? Because that’s my car,” he said, looking perplexed.
Shit. I should have spat in my own eyes and claimed impaired sight.
“Oh … You’re right. It’s just that your car looks exactly like mine. Exactly. Like. Mine. Isn’t that weird? They could be car twins. We could breed them or something. Except that would be incestuous. Or would it be? Actually you know what? I must be losing my mind, my car’s actually back around at the front of the café. God I’m such an idiot,” I said, my voice hitting a fever-high pitch.
“Oh.” He looked a bit crestfallen for a moment. But before he could say anything more, I jumped in.
